The story of Dhira and his five followers spread like monsoon wind—wild, warm, and impossible to ignore.
It traveled through forests, across rivers, and into the hearts of those who had once doubted him.
It reached the ridgelands of the Varha tribe, where goats bleated louder than usual and mangoes were passed around like sacred offerings.
The Celebration in Varha
When the villagers heard of Dhira's deeds—the rebuilding of the discarded village, the founding of the Goat School, the defense against the Ash Claw—they didn't just smile.
They danced.
They sang.
They threw a feast that lasted three days.
Children reenacted the bear fight using painted sticks and mangoes.
Elders told stories of Dhira's childhood—how he once tried to teach a goat to read, how he declared himself the "Storm of the South" at age seven, how he once convinced Bhaira to spar blindfolded while riding a buffalo.
Bhaira himself stood quietly at the edge of the celebration, arms crossed, eyes unreadable.
But when Kalyani placed a garland around his neck and whispered, "He's doing it," Bhaira nodded.
"He's walking the storm," he said. "And the world is listening."
The Ashram of Maharishi Durvasa
Far to the north, in the sacred groves of Durvasa's Ashram, the story reached another listener.
Shakthi, now eighteen, sat beneath a fig tree, reciting verses when a wandering bard arrived.
He spoke of a boy named Dhira.
Of a school where goats were equal.
Of a bear defeated with a single strike.
Of a stick named Adolita.
Shakthi listened.
Her heart swelled.
Her fists clenched.
"He didn't even say goodbye," she muttered.
Durvasa raised an eyebrow.
"Storms don't ask permission," he said. "They just move."
"He's my brother."
Shakthi said.
The Southernmost Point
Meanwhile, Dhira and his team had reached the edge of the land—the sacred shores of Rameshwaram.
The sea stretched endlessly before them.
The air was thick with salt and legend.
The people spoke a tongue Dhira didn't understand.
But he didn't need words.
He used gestures.
He used Sanskrit, the language of prayer and poetry, still known to many.
He bowed to elders.
He helped repair a fishing net.
He taught a child how to balance on a log.
And they welcomed him.
The Temple and the Prayer
One evening, Dhira stood before the great temple of Lord Shiva.
He remembered his mother's stories—how Lord Ram, before crossing to Lanka, had prayed here for strength, for victory, for clarity.
Dhira didn't ask for victory.
He asked for direction.
He placed a mango at the shrine.
He whispered:
"Let me walk where I'm needed."
"Let me stir what's forgotten."
"Let me be the storm that heals."
The wind shifted.
And Dhira turned north.