It was a bright spring morning in Delhi. The sun was warm but gentle, and the sweet smell of roses from the garden drifted through the open veranda. The Sharma–Yadav homes were alive with laughter, music, and the sound of running footsteps. It was my fifth birthday.
I still remember that day clearly—the excitement, the laughter, and the feeling that nothing could ever go wrong in this world.
Both my grandfathers were in the kitchen that morning, helping our grandmothers make sweets. Imagine that—two of the most powerful men in the country, one a general and the other a political leader, standing side by side kneading dough like two mischievous schoolboys. My grandmothers kept laughing and scolding them gently whenever they tried to steal pieces of jaggery.
My elder brother, Anand, and sister, Kavya, had decorated the veranda with balloons and streamers. From every corner, there was color. Our cousins from both families had arrived early. The two houses looked like they were competing over who could have more laughter inside their walls.
I sat on the swing near the veranda, my sketchbook on my lap. While other kids drew cars, animals, and funny faces, I always drew the same thing—seven stars in a circle. No one taught me to draw them. I didn't even know why I did. But every page of my notebook had those same stars shining back at me.
When my mother noticed, she smiled softly and stroked my hair. "You always draw these stars, Mukul. Do you know what they mean?" she asked.
I shook my head, smiling shyly. "They make me feel safe."
She kissed my forehead but didn't say anything more.
Just before noon, the entire household started preparing for the arrival of our most respected guest—Acharya Raghunandan Sharma. To most of the world, he was a world-famous astrologer, palmist, and spiritual guide. But for our family, he was more than that. To my grandfathers, he was an old friend—someone whose words had shaped their lives and decisions for decades.
When the clock struck twelve, the sound of conch shells echoed. The Acharya arrived in a white car surrounded by silence. As soon as he stepped out, it felt like the wind itself had paused. He wore simple white robes, his long silver beard resting over his chest. His eyes were calm, deep, and full of something I still can't describe—peace, maybe, or knowledge that went beyond this world.
Everyone from both families gathered in the large veranda that joined our two homes. For the first time in the day, the laughter quieted. Even the younger children stood still. There was something about him that drew respect from every soul.
Acharya smiled kindly and blessed everyone, placing a hand on each head. When he reached me, he paused.
He looked at me long and silent. Then, suddenly, he smiled—but it wasn't like other smiles. It was deeper, sadder, and yet proud. "So this is the child," he murmured softly.
My parents looked at each other, unsure of what he meant.
After sitting in the hall, both my grandfathers turned to him almost at once. "Acharyaji," General Raghav said, "today, we are not asking for predictions. We just want your blessings for our little one."
But Acharya shook his head slowly. "A blessing is easy to give. Destiny, however, must be seen."
He called me closer. My mother placed me gently before him, holding my shoulder as if afraid of something unseen.
The Acharya took my tiny hand in his palm. His touch was warm and strange, as if life itself hummed in his fingers. Then he closed his eyes.
For a moment, nothing happened. Everyone was silent.
Then his eyes opened suddenly, sharper now, glowing faintly like stars in the night. His gaze travelled to my neck, and his hand reached slowly toward my collar. My mother looked worried, but she didn't stop him. He shifted my shirt slightly, and a faint gasp echoed through the hall.
There, on the back of my neck, was the strange mark—seven faintly glowing dots forming a perfect circle. My birthmark.
Acharya's body went still. His eyes closed again, and he began whispering words no one could understand. His fingers moved in the air as if tracing symbols of light.
Time seemed to stop.
Then his voice echoed—low and firm.
"This child," he said, "is marked by the Seven Stars."
Everyone froze.
He continued, "His kundalini burns brighter than most humans ever achieve. His destiny is not bound to this world alone. Before he turns six, fate will tear him away from all of you. Not by choice—but by destiny itself."
A wave of panic filled the room. My mother clutched me tightly, while my grandmothers looked at each other in disbelief. My father stood silent, fists clenched but eyes steady. Only my grandfathers kept their calm—but even they looked heavy-hearted.
The Acharya raised his hand gently. "Do not be afraid. Separation will not be his end—it will be his beginning."
He looked up toward the ceiling, voice turning distant, as if he saw something we couldn't. "Across the seven continents," he continued, "destiny will bind him to seven souls. Seven companions… seven wives. Each woman, born of this world yet touched by the divine, will carry a fragment of his fate. And through them, he shall become the guardian of this world."
The room was silent. Only the faint rustle of wind through the veranda curtains could be heard.
Then Acharya looked at me again, eyes soft with both pity and pride. "He will walk through pain and glory. He will fight not for fame, but for balance. When the world trembles, the Seven Stars shall rise again through him."
After that, he stood quietly and placed his hand on my head. The warmth of his touch was comforting, like sunlight breaking through clouds.
He whispered in my ear, "Remember, Mukul, destiny may take you away, but it will never take away your family's blessings. Wherever you go, they will live in your heart."
Then the light breeze returned, the sounds of birds resumed, and everything seemed normal again. But no one in that house would ever forget what he said.
That night, the house looked the same—decorated, glowing, and full of relatives smiling for pictures. Yet, behind every smile, there was a question, a quiet fear.
At that age, I barely understood what the Acharya had said. I simply blew out my candle and made a wish—to always stay with my family.
I didn't know then that fate was already moving, preparing to take me away from everything I knew… and leading me toward that mysterious island, where my twenty masters awaited me.