The day Dhira left the Varha lands, the goats bleated louder than usual.
The wind carried mango petals into the training yard.
And the tribe gathered—not in silence, but in a noisy, chaotic, tearful celebration.
The Farewell
Kalyani packed his satchel with dried fruits, herbs, and a folded tunic she stitched herself.
Bhaira, his father and the tribe's leader, stood beside the ceremonial fire, arms crossed, eyes unreadable but proud.
The elders brought turmeric, rice, and a garland made of wild basil.
The children brought jokes.
The warriors brought nods and shoulder slaps.
Dhira stood in the center, wearing his travel cloak and his goat-tooth necklace.
"You're really going?" someone asked.
"I'm not leaving," Dhira said. "I'm expanding."
The crowd laughed.
Then cried.
Then laughed again.
The Storm's Legacy
Dhira had flipped the tribe's daily rhythm.
He taught goats to respond to whistles.
He convinced warriors to spar with sticks dipped in paint.
He once held a mango-eating contest during a thunderstorm.
He was chaos.
He was joy.
He was theirs.
And now, he was walking away.
"We're happy," said one elder. "The storm is finally leaving."
"We're sad," said another. "The storm made us dance."
"We're proud," said Bhaira. "The storm learned to walk."
Dhira hugged his mother.
He saluted his father.
He turned to the path leading south.
And he walked.
The Gift of Understanding
As they walked together one last time, Bhaira spoke.
"There's something about you, Dhira. Something I've never seen."
"My goat jokes?"
"No. Your gift."
Dhira tilted his head.
"You don't just mimic animals. You feel them. You understand their emotions—their fear, their joy, their warnings."
"I just listen."
"It's rare. In all my years, I've only heard of one other who could do this."
"Who?"
"Sri Krishna. In Dwarka. They say he could speak to cows, birds, even serpents. You're not him. But you carry something… ancient."
Dhira shrugged.
"I'm just me."
"That's enough."
The Journey Begins
The forests of Dakshin Bharath were thick with monsoon breath.
Dhira moved through them like a breeze—helping where he could, learning where he must.
He met the Konda tribe, whose grain stores had been raided.
He helped them rebuild using termite-resistant wood and taught their children how to use slingshots for defense.
He met the Irula, who feared a rogue elephant.
He used goat mimicry to lure it away, but more than that—he felt its panic, its confusion, its hunger.
He calmed it not with words, but with empathy.
"You're strange," they said.
"You're welcome," he replied.
The Thieves of Tamraparni
One evening, near the Tamraparni river, Dhira was ambushed.
Five men.
Daggers. Ropes. Bad breath.
"Give us your satchel," one growled.
"Give us your cloak," said another.
Dhira blinked.
"You want the mangoes too?"
They lunged.
Dhira moved.
He disarmed two with a spinning staff trick he learned from Bhaira.
He tripped one with a goat-call distraction.
He stared down the last one.
And then… he paused.
He could feel it.
No bloodlust.
No hunger for death.
Just desperation. Small-time theft. Fear.
He lowered his staff.
"Go," he said. "I won't kill you. But don't try this again."
They ran.
The Followers
The next morning, Dhira noticed rustling in the trees.
By evening, he saw shadows trailing him.
By the third day, they walked behind him openly.
Same five thieves.
No daggers.
Just awe.
"Why are you following me?" Dhira asked.
They looked at each other.
One stepped forward.
"You beat us. But you didn't kill us."
"So?"
"So now you're our boss."
"I didn't ask for that."
"Too bad. It's human nature to follow the strong."
"I'm not strong. I just eat a lot of mangoes."
"Exactly. That's boss behavior."
The Boss and the Bond
From that day on, the five ex-thieves followed Dhira everywhere.
They called him Boss.
They carried his satchel.
They sharpened his sticks.
They glared at anyone who told Dhira what to do.
Once, a village elder asked Dhira to fetch water.
The five turned in unison.
Their eyes narrowed.
Their hands twitched.
The elder backed away.
"But Boss," one whispered. "No one commands our boss else they die."
"It's okay," Dhira said. "I like fetching water."
"But still," another muttered. "We were ready."
The Family They Never Had
Dhira didn't treat them like servants.
He treated them like family.
He shared food.
He listened to their stories.
He asked about their dreams.
One night, around a fire, he handed each of them a carved token—goat-shaped, mango-scented.
"You're not thieves anymore," he said, grinning. "You're my team, people. Team Dhira: The Chappel of Goats! Hahahaha!"
The five stared at him.
Then, in perfect unison:
"No."
"Absolutely not."
"That name is cursed."
"We'll be laughed out of every forest."
"Please, Boss, anything but that."
They huddled and began shouting over each other:
"Killer Squad!"
"Super Strong Killers!"
"Phantom Thieves of the South!"
"Goatless Reapers!"
"No, wait—Shadow Mango Unit!"
Dhira sighed.
Then—bonk, bonk, bonk, bonk, bonk—he tapped each of them on the head with a mango stick.
They all sat down in a row, hands on their heads, tears welling in the corners of their eyes.
"Ow…"
"He didn't even hesitate…"
"I think I saw stars…"
Dhira stood over them, arms crossed.
"Team Dhira. Chappel of Goats. Final decision."
They looked at each other.
Then nodded.
"Yes, Boss."
"Chappel of Goats it is."
"We'll make it sound cool somehow."
"Maybe if we whisper it…"
"Or growl it."
And just like that, the name stuck.
They weren't just followers.
They were storm-forged.
And now, they had a name.
A ridiculous, glorious, unforgettable name.