A trail of caravans snails towards Ulkapur like an army of ants marching in a single file. They come with their hands clasped tight, and their heads bowed low.


    "Ma, why are we travelling to Ulkapur?" a tired six-year-old asks her mother.


    "It''s the holiest of pilgrimages."


    "But, why?" Hunger churns her stomach. Her feet are sore. Too resentful, she refuses to walk a step further.


    Her mother reassures her, "You will know, my child. When you see it with your own eyes, you will know."


    "See what?"


    Her mother doesn''t answer. She doesn''t have to.


    The people of Ulkapur like to say that it is not the mortal armies but the divine grace of the heavens that protects their magnificent city. The pandit points to the sky with his chubby finger to prove their claim. "That''s how we know!" he says with utmost certainty.


    The sky is his proof.


    The stone pillars etched with the history of the city only complement his bold assertion. They tell of the time when the rakshasas were vanquished by the people of Ulkapur and were forced to retreat into their treacherous swamps. The sea-bound mercantile priests of Himavanta, decked with gems of ten thousand colours, were no different. They came to Ulkapur with greed under their wings, only to break their bejewelled staves by the shore and bow down in submission. Many have come intending to destroy Ulkapur, yet it stands proud and strong, unscathed by the terrors of nature or man.


    The weary child can finally see the city far on the horizon. It can''t be real she thinks and rubs her eyes once, twice and a third time. Her mother''s words strike true, and she, at once, falls to the ground. Her forehead against the soil, she cries out, "All Hail Lord Vayu!"


    Above the city hangs a meteor, a piece of sky-earth. Roughly two thousand years ago, engulfed in furious red flames, it had come crashing down upon the city and its people. Before it could do any harm, it was held in place by the hands of an invisible god. And there it lies even today as the ''proof'' of their devotion.


    Stolen story; please report.


    It is this anomaly that brings the caravans to the city, that makes the invaders retreat, that wills the outsiders to submit. Over the years, people have congregated in the city, widening its boundary walls to encompass more and more devotees-its bosom is open to all who seek its protection. The people of Ulkapur owe their lives to this miracle. They spend their entire existence in gratitude to the god and his act of mercy.


    Every twelve years, pilgrims from all over the continent flock here to partake in the maha-yagna. They come to celebrate the divine intervention that averted a great calamity. Households are decorated with flags and banners. Monuments are washed, painted and polished anew. Colourful kites dance to the gentle touch of the wind. Lanterns flicker outside homes after sunset. The people march in processions, chanting hymns and blowing conch shells. They end their days with lavish feasts.


    Even the royal family leaves behind its luxurious palace to attend the festival. The governors from their castles join the festival, as do the paupers from the neighbouring settlements. Peddlers set stalls in the open fields outside city gates. Cattle, horses, clothes, jewellery, kitchenware, pottery, musical instruments, weapons, souvenirs, toys every commodity one could think of is put on display, waiting to be purchased. Where there is commerce, there are thieves, pickpockets, and con men too. Even the diseased aren''t left behind. Hoping to get rid of their afflictions, they are brought to the festival by their loved ones. Flooded with people of all ages and from different walks of life, the city becomes a world in itself-a true spectacle to witness!


    Even the faintest hint of exhaustion has left the girl''s face. No more explanation, no more convincing, is needed. She can walk forever. Boundless devotion shines in the tears that roll down her cheeks.


    As the yagna begins, from above the city, above the meteor, above the clouds, there is a god who watches them, the one they call Lord Vayu, the one whose hand guided the miracle they so worship. His eyes follow the caravans. His lips part slightly.


    "What if I tell her the truth?" He imagines her face changing to utter shock and disbelief. Then to embarrassment. "Would she still. . ." He wants to find out, but something within him holds him back. He wants to speak to that little girl, his new devotee, but he smiles instead.


    "Two thousand years and they still haven''t changed, have they?" the apsara by his side sneers. The others in attendance chuckle out of amusement.


    "It is a rather simple misunderstanding," Lord Vayu explains. He watches over the city patiently, waiting for those within to evacuate. In his smile, in his silence, there is hope. "The day will come, sooner or later. Till then, I''ll wait." He tightens his hold over the damn boulder, determined to not let it go hurling down towards the people of Ulkapur.