Two years had passed.
The winds of Bharatvarsha carried more than dust and monsoon breath—they carried stories.
Stories of a boy named Dhira.
Of a gang called the Chappel of Goats.
Of mangoes, bears, and a school where goats were equal.
The tale had grown wild, embroidered by bards, exaggerated by travelers, and sung by children who didn't know whether to laugh or believe.
The Hymn Reaches Hastinapur
In the marble halls of Hastinapur, where princes trained and politics brewed, the story arrived like a gust of absurdity.
A bard sang it in the market square:
"He fought a bear with a mango stick!"
"He built a school where anyone can learn and teach each other!"
"He named his weapon Adolita and his followers called it elder brother!"
Children laughed.
Merchants chuckled.
Even the palace guards smirked.
But in the royal courtyard, Karna, now a teenager, heard the tale and scoffed.
"A hunter boy playing hero," he said. "Let him chase goats. We chase destiny."
He was surrounded by nobles, warriors, and tutors who nodded.
"What can a forest-born do against a Kshatriya?"
"Let him build goat schools. We build empires."
Karna didn't know it yet.
But the storm was walking toward him.
The Hymn Reaches Dwarka
Far to the west, in the golden city of Dwarka, the story reached the ears of Sri Krishna.
He was seated in his garden, surrounded by his wives, listening to a bard who recited the tale with dramatic flair.
Krishna laughed.
Not mockingly.
But warmly.
"The Chappel of Goats," he said. "What a name."
"Is it real?" asked Rukmini.
"Real enough to be remembered," Krishna replied.
"He sounds strange," said Satyabhama.
"Strange is good," Krishna said. "Strange changes things."
He closed his eyes.
And smiled.
"Let the storm walk. I'll meet it when it's ready."
The Storm Moves East
Dhira and his gang had left Madurai behind.
The mango groves, the bee ambushes, the temple prayers—they were now stories of their own.
They traveled east, crossing rivers, forests, and tribal lands.
They helped a village repair its irrigation system.
They taught children how to build slingshots from banana stems.
They fought off a rogue bull using mango pits and goat mimicry.
And finally, they reached the warrior lands of Kalinga.
The Bee Incident
It began innocently.
Dhira spotted a perfect mango—golden, ripe, dangling from a high branch.
He climbed.
His followers cheered from below.
"Boss, that one's glowing!"
"It's the chosen mango!"
"It's probably blessed!"
Dhira plucked it.
And disturbed a hive.
The bees emerged like a divine army.
Buzzing.
Angry.
Unforgiving.
"Retreat!" shouted the first follower.
"It's a bee ambush!" yelled the second.
"They're organized!" cried the third.
"They're flying in formation!" screamed the fourth.
"They're chanting something!" sobbed the fifth.
Dhira leapt down.
"Run."
They ran.
Through bushes.
Over rocks.
Into a pond.
Out of the pond.
Across a muddy trail.
And straight into a village.
The Village Dash
The village of Kalinga-Kottai was quiet that morning.
Children played with clay toys.
Elders sat under neem trees, sipping herbal tea.
Then came the storm.
Six figures sprinted through the main street—arms flailing, robes flying, mango juice dripping, and bees in hot pursuit.
The children froze.
Then burst into laughter.
"Look! Flying mango men!"
"They're being chased by music!"
"One of them has a bee in his turban!"
The elders chuckled.
"That's goat gang, isn't it?"
"The Chappel of Goats?"
"They're more chaotic than the monsoon."
One old man raised his cup.
"May the bees bless their training."
The Escape
Dhira and his gang dove behind a haystack.
The bees hovered.
Buzzed.
Then, as if satisfied with their vengeance, dispersed into the trees.
The six lay panting.
Sticky.
Scratched.
One follower had a mango seed stuck to his cheek.
Another had a bee leg in his sandal.
Dhira bit into the mango.
"Worth it," he said.
His followers groaned.
"Boss, we almost died."
"Boss, I saw my ancestors."
"Boss, I think one bee cursed me in Sanskrit."
The children peeked from behind the haystack.
One offered a leaf fan.
Another handed a cup of water.
The elders nodded.
And the storm walked on—still buzzing, still laughing, still unforgettable.