The Vardhan Mansion had received news of victories before.
Military victories.
Political victories.
Scientific breakthroughs.
Generations of the Vardhan family had returned through those enormous gates carrying medals, promotions and honors earned in service to the Eastern Federation.
Yet that evening, the news that silenced the entire family had nothing to do with war.
It came from the entertainment industry.
The enormous television in the family hall showed Krishna Li Vardhan standing beside Shen Lihua and several representatives of the Federal Cultural and Entertainment Commission.
The headline beneath them was impossible to ignore.
FEDERATION APPROVES RAMAYANA AND MAHABHARATA CINEMATIC PROJECTS
The news anchor continued excitedly.
“The Federal Cultural and Entertainment Commission has officially approved the proposed cinematic restoration projects based upon the Ramayana and Mahabharata.
According to official sources, the productions will receive access to national historians, linguistic scholars, traditional-art experts, military historians, architects, costume researchers and nationally recognized writers.”
Images of concept designs appeared.
Ayodhya.
Ancient forests.
Mithila.
Lanka.
Then another image.
A preliminary concept bearing a single word:
BHISHMA
Kavya slowly lowered the cup in her hand.
“They approved both?”
Ishani nodded.
“Apparently within two days of Shen Lihua submitting the proposal.”
Arjun stared at the television.
“Two days?”
Ananya immediately understood his surprise.
“For the federal government?”
“Exactly.”
Kavya smiled.
“Our brother somehow made government officials move quickly.
Perhaps that is his greatest achievement.”
Yuerou laughed softly.
Even Aditya’s lips twitched.
But unlike everyone else—
Rudraveer Vardhan had not moved.
The old patriarch sat at the head of the hall.
His eyes were fixed upon the television.
The reporter continued.
“The Ramayana has been selected as the first production to enter full development.
The proposed Bhishma film, expected to begin the larger Mahabharata cinematic saga, has reportedly been scheduled for a later production phase following the release of Ramayana.”
Then Krishna appeared again.
He was discussing something with Shen Lihua and national director Nitesh Tiwari.
The reporter’s voice faded in Rudraveer’s ears.
His fingers began trembling.
Aditya noticed.
“Father?”
Rudraveer did not respond.
Yuerou’s smile disappeared.
“Father?”
Aditya stood.
Rudraveer’s eyes had become red.
That shocked everyone.
Rudraveer Vardhan had endured wars.
He had buried comrades.
He had carried the responsibilities of one of the Federation’s most powerful families for decades.
His children had rarely seen him cry.
Yet now a tear slowly descended his cheek.
“Father, are you all right?”
Rudraveer raised one hand.
“I’m fine.”
His voice was rough.
He stared at Krishna’s image.
Then whispered,
“So you were right.”
Aditya frowned.
“Who was right?”
Rudraveer closed his eyes.
And suddenly— the old man was no longer sitting inside Vardhan Mansion.
He was decades in the past.
Beside another old man.
On the final evening of Ramchandra Vardhan’s life.
The setting sun had painted the room orange.
The smell of medicine mixed with sandalwood.
Ramchandra Vardhan lay upon his bed.
The man who had once commanded soldiers, negotiated with nations and helped establish the Eastern Federation now struggled simply to breathe.
Time had reduced the strength of his body.
It had done nothing to diminish his eyes.
Rudraveer sat beside him.
“Rudra.”
“I’m here, Father.”
A faint smile appeared.
“You still answer like a soldier.”
“You raised me like one.”
Ramchandra chuckled.
“Perhaps that was one of my mistakes.”
Rudraveer frowned.
“Father?”
Ramchandra looked toward the sunset.
“Do you know what people will remember me for?”
“The Federation.”
“Naturally.”
“Your military service.”
“Hmm.”
“Your reforms.”
“Perhaps.”
Rudraveer’s throat tightened.
“Why are you asking this?”
Ramchandra remained quiet.
Then he said,
“People remember what a man accomplished.”
His eyes became distant.
“But only that man remembers what he failed to accomplish.”
Rudraveer stared at him.
Ramchandra slowly continued.
“We built a Federation.”
“India.”
“China.”
“Korea.”
“Japan.”
“Pakistan.”
“Civilizations that had looked across borders at one another for generations were brought beneath a common federal structure.”
His breathing became heavier.
“We gave them institutions.”
“Common infrastructure.”
“An army.”
“Universities.”
“Industry.”
“Laws.”
“Representation.”
He paused.
“But civilization is not merely government.”
Rudraveer listened.
“It is memory.”
Ramchandra’s weakened fingers closed around his son’s hand.
“Our lands inherited civilizations thousands of years old.”
His eyes carried an unmistakable sadness.
“And yet so much has been lost.”
Wars.
Foreign rule.
Destroyed manuscripts.
Political upheaval.
Broken archives.
Fragmented traditions.
Stories remained.
Names remained.
But pieces had disappeared.
Ramchandra looked toward his son.
“Our children know Rama.”
“They know Krishna.”
“They know Hanuman.”
“Arjuna.”
“Bhishma.”
“Karna.”
“But knowing someone’s name is not the same as understanding what that name once meant.”
Rudraveer remained silent.
Ramchandra’s eyes grew brighter despite his failing body.
“I wanted to restore them.”
Rudraveer leaned closer.
“Then we will.”
“No.”
Ramchandra smiled.
“I don’t mean reconstructing manuscripts and locking them inside museums.”
His voice became stronger.
“I wanted them alive.”
Rudraveer froze.
“I wanted a child born in Beijing to cry when Sita is taken.”
“I wanted a child in Seoul to cheer when Hanuman crosses the ocean.”
“I wanted someone in Tokyo to understand why Bhishma’s vow was magnificent…”
His expression became sorrowful.
“…and terrible.”
“I wanted people to feel Karna’s humiliation before judging his choices.”
His voice softened.
“And when Krishna speaks upon Kurukshetra…”
Ramchandra smiled.
“…I wanted an entire generation to become silent.”
Rudraveer’s eyes burned.
“We can still accomplish it.”
Ramchandra shook his head.
“You are a soldier.”
“So were you.”
“Yes.”
The old founder laughed weakly.
“And perhaps that is why I failed.”
Rudraveer stared at him.
Ramchandra squeezed his hand.
“A soldier can protect civilization, Rudra.”
His breathing became shallow.
“But sometimes…”
“…it takes an artist to make people fall in love with it again.”
Those words remained suspended between them.
Then unexpectedly—
Ramchandra said,
“Aditya.”
Rudraveer blinked.
“My son?”
“Your son.”
“What about him?”
“He will marry someday.”
Despite his grief, Rudraveer nearly laughed.
“You are arranging your great-grandchildren from your deathbed?”
A flicker of the legendary strategist returned to Ramchandra’s eyes.
“A Vardhan should plan several moves ahead.”
Rudraveer smiled through his tears.
“What are you planning now?”
Ramchandra looked toward him.
“If Aditya someday has a son…”
His breathing faltered.
Rudraveer leaned closer.
“Name him Krishna.”
Rudraveer stared.
“Krishna?”
“Krishna.”
“Why?”
Ramchandra’s lips curved upward.
For perhaps the final time, Rudraveer saw mischief in his father’s eyes.
“Perhaps…”
The old man’s voice became a whisper.
“…he will perform some divine play.”
Rudraveer’s eyes filled.
“And perhaps…”
Ramchandra looked toward the setting sun.
“…he can bring back the glory that once belonged to us.”
He immediately clarified,
“Not the Vardhans.”
His grip weakened.
“All of us.”
“Father…”
Ramchandra smiled peacefully.
“Wouldn’t that be something?”
His eyes slowly closed.
“Krishna…”
One final breath escaped him.
And Ramchandra Vardhan— soldier, statesman,
Founder of the Eastern Federation, and a man who had spent his final years carrying one unfinished dream— was gone.
“Father?”
Aditya’s voice returned Rudraveer to the present.
Rudraveer opened his eyes.
Krishna was still visible upon the television.
For several seconds he simply stared at his grandson.
Then he laughed.
It was filled with grief and joy simultaneously.
“Father was right.”
Aditya sat beside him.
“What are you talking about?”
Rudraveer looked at his son.
“Do you know why your son’s name is Krishna?”
Aditya frowned.
“You insisted upon it.”
“I did.”
“You never explained why.”
Yuerou became curious.
Neither had she ever been given the complete explanation.
Rudraveer looked around.
Ishani.
Kavya.
Arjun.
Ananya.
Yuerou.
Aditya.
All were listening.
“It wasn’t my decision.”
Aditya’s expression changed.
“It was my father’s.”
Silence.
“Grandfather Ramchandra?”
“Yes.”
And Rudraveer told them everything.
He told them about that sunset.
Ramchandra’s regret.
His belief that military power could preserve a civilization but could not alone make future generations love it.
His dream of seeing the Ramayana and Mahabharata live again.
And finally— his dying request.
If Aditya has a son, name him Krishna.
Perhaps he will perform some divine play.
Perhaps he can bring back the glory that once belonged to us.
When Rudraveer finished, nobody spoke.
Yuerou’s eyes were wet.
Ananya looked toward the television in disbelief.
Arjun slowly sat down.
Kavya’s playful expression had completely disappeared.
Even Ishani, normally the most composed among the siblings, stared at Krishna’s image with unmistakable pride.
Aditya was perhaps the most shaken.
His grandfather had spoken those words years before Krishna’s birth.
And Krishna— without ever knowing about them— had somehow begun doing precisely what Ramchandra dreamed of.
Rudraveer looked toward his son.
“I spent decades believing Father’s last wish was simply the regret of a dying man.”
He smiled.
“Now I understand.”
Aditya remained silent.
Rudraveer continued.
“We taught Krishna that serving the Federation meant protecting it.”
“We taught him strategy.”
“Combat.”
“Leadership.”
“Discipline.”
“We taught him to carry the responsibilities of the Vardhan bloodline.”
His gaze returned to the screen.
“But perhaps we forgot something.”
“What?” Arjun asked.
Rudraveer smiled.
“Service does not always wear a uniform.”
Those words struck Aditya directly.
He remembered Krishna standing before him years earlier.
I want to become an actor.
He remembered his anger.
His disappointment.
His belief that such talent was being wasted.
He remembered forbidding Krishna from using the family’s wealth until he proved his chosen path.
Krishna had bowed.
Returned everything.
And walked away.
Aditya had thought acting was his son’s rejection of responsibility.
Yet somehow that same path was now carrying forward Ramchandra Vardhan’s unfinished dream.
Yuerou looked at her husband.
She saw the conflict upon his face.
For once she did not tease him.
Rudraveer looked toward Krishna.
“Your son became a Major General.”
Aditya said nothing.
“He broke Father’s military record.”
Still nothing.
“And now…”
Rudraveer smiled.
“…he is attempting to fulfill the one dream Father couldn’t.”
Kavya whispered,
“That brat…”
Her eyes glistened.
“…really doesn’t know how to do anything small.”
Ananya laughed through her tears.
Arjun smiled proudly.
Ishani continued watching the broadcast.
“No.”
Everyone looked at her.
She shook her head.
“He hasn’t fulfilled it.”
Rudraveer raised an eyebrow.
Ishani looked toward the words RAMAYANA — PRE-PRODUCTION.
“He has only begun.”
The room became silent again.
And suddenly they understood the scale of what Krishna had started.
He had no idea that several members of his family were becoming emotional because of him.
His current concern was considerably simpler.
“Why does every candidate for a king have the same beard?”
Nitesh Tiwari looked at him.
“What?”
Krishna pointed toward several photographs.
“Look.”
Nitesh looked.
“Majestic beard.”
Another.
“Majestic beard.”
Another.
“Different majestic beard.”
Shen Lihua covered her mouth.
Krishna sighed.
“If we cast all of them, we’ll need subtitles explaining which king the audience is looking at.”
A laugh came from beside Nitesh.
Krishna turned.
Vicky Kaushal was seated with them.
Krishna and Nitesh had personally invited him to participate in that day’s discussion because one particular character had already been proposed for him.
Parashurama.
The room around them looked less like a film office and more like a strategic headquarters.
Maps covered one wall.
Ayodhya.
Mithila.
Dandaka.
Kishkindha.
Lanka.
Another wall contained architectural concepts.
Costume references.
Weapons.
Ancient scripts.
Forest environments.
Military formations.
The Federation’s national creative team occupied adjoining rooms, studying everything from language and philosophy to music, architecture and warfare.
The production schedule had already been settled.
Ramayana first.
Only after Ramayana released would Bhishma move into its principal production stage.
Krishna had deliberately refused to rush the Mahabharata cinematic universe.
First, audiences needed to understand what this new generation of mythological cinema could become.
Then they could enter the far more morally complicated world of the Kuru dynasty.
Nitesh tapped the table.
“Core cast.”
Krishna nodded.
“Let’s finish it.”
The first photograph went up.
Rama — Krishna Li Vardhan
Shen Lihua smiled.
“Any objections?”
Krishna raised his hand.
She stared at him.
“You cannot object to yourself.”
“I feel that violates democratic procedure.”
Nitesh ignored him.
Rama required something Krishna understood would be far harder than physical performance.
Restraint.
Rama could not behave like a conventional cinematic hero constantly demonstrating dominance.
His greatness needed to emerge through choices.
Sacrifice.
Composure.
Compassion.
And the ability to uphold dharma even when dharma demanded something personally painful.
Nitesh had been the one who ultimately insisted Krishna play him.
The second photograph appeared.
Sita — Dilraba Dilmurat
Krishna stared at it.
Shen Lihua immediately noticed.
“You’ve been examining that photograph for quite some time.”
Krishna remained completely serious.
“Professional analysis.”
“Naturally.”
Vicky looked between them with amusement.
Krishna ignored him.
Dilraba possessed what their Sita needed.
Grace without fragility.
Gentleness without weakness.
Beauty without reducing the character to beauty.
Their Sita needed to stand inside Ravana’s Lanka without weapons or armies and still make the audience believe she had not been conquered.
Krishna nodded.
“Dilraba.”
Confirmed.
Lakshmana — John Abraham
Vicky looked interested.
“John?”
Krishna nodded.
“Physical presence isn’t the reason.”
“Then?”
“Loyalty.”
Krishna explained that Lakshmana’s relationship with Rama could not resemble obedience between commander and soldier.
He followed Rama into exile because he could not accept allowing his brother to suffer alone.
But there was also fire within Lakshmana.
Nitesh smiled.
“Considerably more fire than Rama.”
Krishna nodded solemnly.
“Lakshmana spends a surprising amount of the epic approximately one insult away from violence.”
Vicky laughed.
John remained.
Confirmed.
Hanuman — Sunny Deol
Krishna became serious.
“Strength is the easiest part.”
Nitesh nodded.
“Bhakti.”
“Exactly.”
Krishna looked toward Sunny’s photograph.
“If audiences remember his muscles but don’t believe he would kneel before Rama with tears in his eyes, we’ve failed.”
Hanuman had to embody an extraordinary contradiction.
A warrior capable of terrifying Lanka.
A being who could carry mountains.
And yet before Rama— humility.
Devotion.
Joy.
“Sunny.”
Confirmed.
Ravana — Yash
Nitesh folded his arms.
“This one will create discussion.”
“Good.”
Krishna looked at Yash’s photograph.
“Ravana should not enter looking like a villain.”
Vicky became interested.
Krishna continued.
“He’s an emperor.”
“A scholar.”
“A warrior.”
“A musician.”
“A devotee of Mahadev.”
“A ruler capable of inspiring loyalty.”
“And…”
Nitesh waited.
Krishna smiled faintly.
“…a man with enough arrogance to destroy everything extraordinary about himself.”
That was their Ravana.
Not evil stripped of humanity.
Not secretly righteous either.
A great man whose knowledge and accomplishments could not save him from his own ego and adharma.
Yash had the presence necessary to make Lanka’s emperor feel dangerous even while seated upon a throne.
Confirmed.
Then Krishna looked toward Vicky.
“Now you.”
Vicky straightened.
Nitesh slid a concept illustration across the table.
An ascetic stood beneath a stormy sky.
Matted hair.
Simple robes.
A massive axe.
But the body beneath those robes belonged unmistakably to a warrior.
Vicky stared.
“Parashurama.”
Krishna nodded.
Parashurama — Vicky Kaushal
Vicky studied the artwork.
“It’s not a very long role.”
Krishna smiled.
“Screen time and importance aren’t the same thing.”
Nitesh leaned forward.
“When you enter Mithila, the atmosphere changes.”
Krishna nodded.
“Until then, Rama breaking Shiva’s bow feels like the climax of that portion of the story.”
He tapped the concept art.
“Then Parashurama arrives.”
Krishna’s playful expression disappeared.
“I don’t want him screaming from the moment he enters.”
Vicky looked toward him.
“Controlled anger?”
“Exactly.”
Krishna leaned back.
“Parashurama shouldn’t look like a sage pretending to be a warrior.”
Nitesh smiled.
Krishna continued.
“He should look like a warrior who became a sage.”
That sentence caught Vicky’s attention.
“The audience should look at you and immediately understand that the axe isn’t ceremonial.”
Krishna pointed toward the artwork.
“This man has fought wars.”
“He has confronted kings.”
“He has carried rage for years.”
“He possesses spiritual power, martial ability and the weight of an older age.”
Vicky nodded slowly.
“And Rama defeats him?”
Krishna shook his head immediately.
“No.”
Vicky raised an eyebrow.
Krishna’s expression became thoughtful.
“That’s exactly what I don’t want.”
Nitesh already knew where he was going.
Krishna continued.
“We are not bringing Parashurama into the film so Rama can humiliate another legendary figure.”
“The scene is recognition.”
Vicky remained silent.
“Parashurama arrives furious.”
“Rama remains calm.”
“One represents an older age shaped heavily through divine wrath and violent correction.”
Krishna touched Rama’s concept art.
“The other represents disciplined dharma.”
Vicky looked between the two images.
Krishna smiled.
“One era recognizing another.”
Understanding appeared in Vicky’s eyes.
“And when Parashurama realizes?”
“No humiliation.”
Krishna shook his head.
“Respect.”
“Rama respects him.”
“Parashurama recognizes Rama.”
“And audiences should leave respecting both.”
Vicky looked at the concept art again.
A role that might have appeared to be an extended cameo suddenly possessed tremendous dramatic weight.
He smiled.
“When do we start?”
Krishna extended his hand.
“That sounds like a yes.”
Vicky shook it.
“Definitely.”
“Welcome to Ramayana.”
Nitesh smiled.
Shen Lihua wrote upon the board:
Vicky Kaushal — Parashurama
CONFIRMED
Krishna looked at Vicky.
“You may not have the most minutes.”
Vicky nodded.
“But if we do it properly…”
Krishna smiled.
“…you won’t need them.”
Vicky laughed.
“Now you’ve made it impossible for me to refuse.”
The casting continued.
Dasharatha — Jackie Shroff
Krishna wanted a king who could also convincingly become a broken father.
Dasharatha’s greatest scenes would not involve warfare.
They would involve helplessness.
A king capable of commanding armies yet unable to stop his beloved son from walking into exile because of his own promise.
Jackie possessed the necessary gravitas.
Confirmed.
Kaushalya — Tabu
Krishna looked at Tabu’s photograph.
“She can make silence hurt.”
Nitesh stared at him.
“That’s your entire argument?”
“Do I need another?”
No one disagreed.
Confirmed.
Kaikeyi — Madhuri Dixit
Shen Lihua initially questioned the choice.
“People naturally associate her with warmth.”
“That’s why she works.”
Krishna became serious.
“If viewers dislike Kaikeyi from her first appearance, her tragedy disappears.”
Kaikeyi had loved Rama.
That needed to be visible.
The audience needed to like her before Manthara’s manipulation awakened insecurity and fear within her.
Then, when she demanded Rama’s exile, viewers would not merely hate her.
They would desperately wish she would stop herself.
Madhuri was confirmed.
Bharata — Shahid Kapoor
Krishna refused to treat Bharata as secondary.
His discovery of Rama’s exile.
His horror at Kaikeyi’s actions.
His rejection of the throne.
His journey to find Rama.
And finally his decision to place Rama’s sandals upon the throne and govern only as custodian— all needed emotional weight.
“Give Shahid enough room to perform,” Krishna told Nitesh.
Confirmed.
Janaka — Anupam Kher
A philosopher-king.
A father.
A ruler possessing warmth without losing dignity.
Confirmed.
Vishwamitra — Naseeruddin Shah
Krishna smiled when the photograph appeared.
“When he enters Dasharatha’s court, nobody should need to explain why the king takes him seriously.”
Nitesh nodded.
Authority without theatrical exaggeration.
Confirmed.
Vicky looked toward Naseeruddin’s photograph and smiled.
“Those scenes are going to be intimidating.”
Krishna nodded.
“For the characters or the actors?”
“Both.”
Everyone laughed.
Then came Lanka.
Mandodari — Aishwarya Rai Bachchan
Krishna wanted Mandodari to possess dignity equal to the court surrounding her.
She would not simply stand behind Ravana.
She would challenge him.
Warn him.
Love him.
And gradually watch his arrogance destroy the kingdom she had tried to protect.
Aishwarya was confirmed.
Vibhishana — R.
Madhavan
This role mattered enormously to Krishna.
“Don’t portray him as someone waiting for the winning side.”
Nitesh nodded.
Vibhishana would repeatedly attempt to convince Ravana to return Sita.
His eventual departure needed to feel painful.
The audience should understand the difference between betraying family and refusing to participate in a family member’s adharma.
Madhavan could carry that conflict.
Confirmed.
Kumbhakarna — Rana Daggubati
Nitesh looked toward Krishna.
“Physical presence.”
Krishna shook his head.
“We also require an extremely large bed.”
Silence.
Vicky burst out laughing.
Shen Lihua closed her eyes.
“For authenticity,” Krishna added solemnly.
“Of course,” Nitesh replied.
But Krishna’s intentions for Kumbhakarna were serious.
He did not want him reduced to a sleeping joke.
Kumbhakarna knew Ravana was wrong.
He warned him.
Yet when the final battle arrived, he chose loyalty to his brother despite knowing where that road ended.
That made him tragic.
Rana was confirmed.
Indrajit — Sonu Sood
Warrior.
Prince.
Son.
A man who had grown beneath Ravana’s enormous shadow yet possessed accomplishments of his own.
Sonu’s physical presence and intensity suited the role.
Confirmed.
Several spaces remained blank.
Shatrughna.
Sugriva.
Vali.
Tara.
Angada.
Jambavan.
Manthara.
Other sages, kings, warriors and members of Lanka’s court.
Shen Lihua looked at Krishna.
“More stars?”
Krishna shook his head.
“Not necessarily.”
He looked at the empty photographs.
He tapped an empty position.
“If the best actor is someone nobody has heard of…”
A smile appeared.
“…then make people hear of them.”
Vicky nodded appreciatively.
Nitesh smiled.
“That should become our casting rule.”
“It already is.”
Krishna’s thoughts briefly moved toward another actor.
Gautam Rode.
And another character.
Karna.
That film was still far away.
But Krishna already knew what a single role could do for the right actor.
Mythology should not merely gather stars.
It should create them.
By evening, the main casting board looked formidable.
Krishna Li Vardhan — Rama
Dilraba Dilmurat — Sita
John Abraham — Lakshmana
Sunny Deol — Hanuman
Yash — Ravana
Vicky Kaushal — Parashurama
Jackie Shroff — Dasharatha
Tabu — Kaushalya
Madhuri Dixit — Kaikeyi
Shahid Kapoor — Bharata
Naseeruddin Shah — Vishwamitra
Anupam Kher — Janaka
Aishwarya Rai Bachchan — Mandodari
R.
Madhavan — Vibhishana
Rana Daggubati — Kumbhakarna
Sonu Sood — Indrajit
Nitesh stared at the board.
“This is becoming enormous.”
Shen Lihua nodded.
Krishna shook his head.
“No.”
They looked toward him.
“It was always enormous.”
Nitesh smiled.
“The question is whether we can actually film it.”
Krishna turned toward the maps covering the wall.
Ayodhya.
Mithila.
Forests.
Kishkindha.
Lanka.
War.
Divinity.
Sacrifice.
Devotion.
“We don’t begin with Lanka.”
Nitesh listened.
“We don’t begin with Ravana.”
Krishna touched Dasharatha’s photograph.
“We begin with a father.”
Kaushalya.
“A mother.”
Kaikeyi.
“A woman who makes a terrible decision.”
Bharata.
“Brothers.”
Lakshmana.
“A brother who refuses to let another brother walk alone.”
Sita.
“A wife who chooses exile over separation.”
Then Hanuman.
“And eventually…”
Krishna smiled.
“…a devotee.”
He turned toward Nitesh.
“If audiences love these people, then Lanka matters.”
“If they don’t…”
He shrugged.
“…we could spend enough money to build an actual golden city and nobody would care when it burned.”
Nitesh remained silent for several seconds.
Then nodded.
“That’s our film.”
Late that night, Rudraveer stood before an old portrait.
Ramchandra Vardhan.
The Founder wore his military uniform.
Decorations covered his chest.
History remembered that man.
But Rudraveer remembered another.
An exhausted old father watching his final sunset.
A soldier can protect civilization.
But sometimes it takes an artist to make people fall in love with it again.
Footsteps approached.
Aditya stopped beside him.
Neither spoke for a while.
Finally Aditya said,
“I thought I was protecting his legacy.”
Rudraveer nodded.
“You were.”
“I tried to force Krishna away from the path Grandfather wanted someone to follow.”
Rudraveer looked toward him.
“No.”
Aditya frowned.
“You forced him to prove whether that path truly belonged to him.”
Silence.
“If Krishna had failed once and returned immediately…”
Rudraveer continued,
“…perhaps you would have been right.”
A faint smile appeared.
“But unfortunately for you, your son inherited the Vardhan stubbornness.”
Aditya looked toward him.
“From you.”
Rudraveer looked offended.
“From me?”
“Obviously.”
“I taught him discipline.”
“You taught him to question commanders when their strategy was wrong.”
“That is different.”
“Not to Krishna.”
For a moment both men almost smiled.
Then Rudraveer looked again at Ramchandra.
“Do you know what makes this special?”
Aditya waited.
“Krishna doesn’t know.”
Aditya understood.
“About Grandfather?”
Rudraveer nodded.
“Nobody told him he was fulfilling some prophecy.”
“Nobody told him this was Father’s unfinished dream.”
“He simply chose his own road.”
Rudraveer’s eyes became wet again.
“And somehow…”
“…that road led him here.”
Aditya stared at Krishna’s childhood photograph resting near Ramchandra’s portrait.
He remembered the boy.
Then the cadet.
Then SKYFANG.
Then the young Major General who had broken Ramchandra’s military record.
Then the son who had surrendered his family’s wealth and walked away to become an actor.
And finally— the man now preparing to bring Rama, Sita, Hanuman, Ravana, Bhishma, Karna and eventually the entire Mahabharata back to the screen.
Aditya’s expression softened.
“I’m proud of him.”
Rudraveer slowly smiled.
“I know.”
Aditya immediately looked at him.
“Don’t tell him.”
Rudraveer’s smile disappeared.
“Why?”
“His ego is already unbearable.”
A voice came from behind them.
“I heard that.”
Aditya froze.
Yuerou stood at the doorway.
Rudraveer immediately took one step backward.
Yuerou narrowed her eyes.
“If my son’s ego is unbearable, perhaps we should investigate where he inherited it.”
Aditya looked toward his father.
Rudraveer immediately raised both hands.
“This is between husband and wife.”
“You raised him,” Aditya said.
“Traitor.”
Rudraveer turned to leave.
For a man of his age, he moved surprisingly quickly.
Yuerou shook her head.
Then she looked toward Ramchandra’s portrait.
Her expression softened.
“Your great-grandson is troublesome.”
Aditya sighed.
Yuerou smiled.
“But apparently you expected that.”
She turned toward her husband.
“When Ramayana releases, we’re going.”
Aditya looked at her.
“All of us.”
He was silent.
Then nodded.
“All of us.”
Yuerou smiled.
“And perhaps by then you’ll have learned how to tell your own son you’re proud of him.”
Aditya’s expression immediately became complicated.
Facing armed enemies had apparently been easier.
Elsewhere, Krishna remained trapped inside the production office.
Vicky had already left after formally accepting Parashurama.
Nitesh was preparing to leave.
Krishna looked toward him hopefully.
“You’re leaving?”
“Yes.”
“Take me with you.”
Nitesh looked toward Shen Lihua.
She was approaching with several enormous folders.
“Absolutely not.”
Krishna stared at him in betrayal.
“Nitesh.”
“My duty is to the Federation.”
“Your duty apparently doesn’t include rescuing Rama from paperwork.”
Nitesh walked faster.
“Traitor.”
Shen placed the folders before Krishna.
“Budget approvals.”
Krishna looked toward the door.
“Costume approvals.”
He looked toward the window.
“We are seven floors above the ground.”
“I’ve survived worse.”
“Sit.”
Krishna sighed and sat.
Shen opened the first document.
But Krishna’s attention briefly moved toward a smaller folder resting at the corner of his desk.
BHISHMA
He pulled it toward himself.
Two photographs rested inside.
Abhishek Bachchan — Devavrata
Amitabh Bachchan — Bhishma
Below them were preliminary notes.
A prince.
A terrible vow.
A father’s happiness purchased through a son’s sacrifice.
A kingdom slowly imprisoned by the consequences of that promise.
And eventually— an old warrior lying upon a bed of arrows while the civilization he spent his entire life protecting collapsed around him.
Krishna closed the folder.
Not yet.
Bhishma would come later.
After Ramayana.
After audiences understood what Krishna and Nitesh wanted mythological cinema to become.
Then they would enter a very different world.
The world of the Mahabharata.
Bhishma.
Karna.
Arjuna.
Bhima.
Draupadi.
Duryodhana.
Kunti.
Gandhari.
Shakuni.
And eventually—
Krishna himself.
A universe where dharma would rarely appear without difficult questions.
Where good people would make catastrophic choices.
Where loyalty could become both virtue and weakness.
Where promises could destroy generations.
Where brothers would stand on opposite sides of a battlefield.
Where Karna’s greatness would coexist with his mistakes.
Where Bhishma’s nobility would coexist with his silence.
And where, upon Kurukshetra, Krishna would finally speak.
Shen Lihua snapped her fingers.
Krishna blinked.
“Where did you go?”
“Kurukshetra.”
She stared at him.
“We haven’t even filmed Ayodhya.”
“I was planning ahead.”
“You were avoiding the budget.”
Krishna smiled.
“Both can be true.”
Shen pushed the documents toward him.
“Sign.”
Krishna picked up the pen.
Then suddenly paused.
For reasons he could not explain, his thoughts wandered toward his family.
Toward Vardhan Mansion.
Toward the ancestors whose portraits had watched generations pass beneath them.
And toward Ramchandra Vardhan.
Krishna knew him primarily through history.
Founder.
Soldier.
Statesman.
The man whose record Krishna had unknowingly spent his youth chasing.
Krishna had no idea that decades earlier, as Ramchandra’s life faded with the setting sun, the old Founder had spoken his name before Krishna had even been born.
He had no idea why Rudraveer had insisted upon naming him Krishna.
He had no idea that the mythology projects covering his office walls represented the fulfillment of an old man’s deepest regret.
Krishna simply looked down at the Ramayana script.
Then smiled.
“Something funny?” Shen asked.
“No.”
He turned the first page.
“I was just thinking…”
“About?”
Krishna looked toward the casting board.
Rama.
Sita.
Lakshmana.
Hanuman.
Ravana.
Parashurama.
Dasharatha.
Bharata.
Vishwamitra.
An entire forgotten world slowly taking shape again.
“…this is going to be beautiful.”
Shen looked at him.
This time she did not tease him.
She smiled.
“Yes.”
Far away, inside Vardhan Mansion, Rudraveer stood once more before his father’s portrait.
His hand touched the old wooden frame.
“Father.”
His voice was barely audible.
“You wanted a child in Beijing to cry for Sita.”
A smile appeared.
“You wanted Seoul to cheer for Hanuman.”
His eyes became wet.
“You wanted Tokyo to understand Bhishma.”
He remembered those final words.
If Aditya has a son…
Name him Krishna.
Perhaps he will perform some divine play.
Rudraveer looked toward the television, where the entertainment report was replaying Krishna’s announcement.
He laughed softly.
“You old fox.”
A tear rolled down his cheek.
“You planned even this before leaving.”
Of course, Ramchandra had not truly known what would happen.
He had merely hoped.
A dying man’s impossible wish had travelled across decades.
Through his son.
Through his grandson.
And finally— into his great-grandson.
Ramchandra Vardhan had spent his life protecting a civilization.
Krishna Li Vardhan had unknowingly begun teaching that civilization how to dream about itself again.
The cameras had not started rolling.
Ayodhya had not been built.
Ravana had not entered Lanka.
Hanuman had not crossed the ocean.
Parashurama had not raised his axe.
Bhishma had not taken his terrible vow.
Karna had not drawn his bow.
Kurukshetra remained years away.
Yet somewhere between an old man’s final wish and a young actor’s impossible ambition— the stories had begun living again.
And perhaps Ramchandra had been right after all.
Sometimes a civilization needed soldiers to defend its borders.
Sometimes it needed statesmen to hold its people together.
And sometimes— it needed a storyteller to remind those people who they were.
Rudraveer looked at Krishna’s face one final time.
“Your divine play has begun, Krishna.”
And in another city, completely unaware of those words, Krishna Li Vardhan picked up his pen— and signed the first production approval for Ramayan.