Kali Yuga: War of Worlds

20 hours prior to the incident in America, in a secluded hamlet in the southern forests of India, an old monk lay on his deathbed. His breaths were short and gruff and he was visibly in pain.

"Guruji's departure is near." a senior monk announced. He was not a doctor but somewhat knowledgeable about Ayurveda.

"I have read his pulse. The energies are beyond repair."

"Senior Brother, what is the nature of his ailment?" another monk asked, looking grim. He was the second oldest among all the disciples present at the settlement then.

It was dawn and most of the disciples were out gathering herbs, edibles and fire wood, preparing for the day. Only the youngest of the disciples remained along with two other senior disciples.

"I am not really sure. It doesn't seem to be anything known to man." the senior monk said. "I did suspect throat cancer, with how the symptoms presented themselves, but that doesn't seem to be the case."

"Guruji was not suffering from any disease, was he?"

The senior monk nodded a no. "He suddenly caught it a couple of days ago and it worsened overnight, with him coughing blood, unable to speak or even breathe or walk properly."

There was a moment's silence. The situation was grim. They were surrounded by the vast nature. Greenery was everywhere, so much so that their settlement appeared to the black spot in this untouched green of nature.

The newborn sun was still red and rising. There was no heat nor sound. The birds had not awoken yet. There was a strange silence.

The burnt wood of the dying fire that had burnt the entire night, crackled softly sometimes and the sound of the water gushing in the stream behind their settlement were the only sounds that they could hear.

There was no breeze and not a single leaf moved as if waiting for something to happen with bated breath.

The young disciples were starting to wake up and it was then that suddenly, Guruji walked out of his open hut. His gait firm, devoid of any weakness. He smiled brightly as he walked out, his hands behind him. It was as if his health had been completely restored.

He was old and his white frisky beard had reached his chest. His white hair, which would otherwise be tied in a top knot, fell freely down his back. He wore a yellow gown that covered his feet.

The disciples stood up to greet him. Raising his hand in blessing he spoke.

"Not long is left in this mortal shell of mine."

The two senior disciples looked at each other, worried but not surprised.

The old monk continued, "I shall die, shortly hence but shall leave with you a message."

They bowed in acceptance of his terms.

"The end is nigh as a tragedy approaches. Not one but a never ending series of such atrocities.

When Hell ascends and the Heavens descend, a war begins.

Defenders of Dharma shall rise and so will their adversaries.

Within many lies will lie a truth, search it and salvation is yours."

The old man's parted lips closed and he fell to the ground. The disciples rushed to aid him, but he had already attained peace.