The One Who Offers

In a forest near Panchala Theertham, where the neem trees grow tall and the air hums with the chant of unseen sages, there is a small hut made of leaves and silence.

No door.

No lamp.

No mirror.

Inside, Shabari sits.

Her back is bent.

Her eyes, blind with age.

But her hands — though wrinkled — move with the care of a mother.

Before her, a basket of berries.

Every morning, she picks one.

Tastes it.

If it is bitter, she sets it aside.

If it is sweet, she places it in a small copper bowl.

She has done this for 5,000 years.

Not for fame.

Not for reward.

Because once, a blue-skinned boy with a bow smiled at her and said:

"You offer not food, Mother. You offer love. And that is the rarest bhog of all."

She has not seen him since.

But she has not stopped offering.

That morning, she picked a neem berry.

Not sweet.

Not sour.

But warm.

She placed it on her tongue.

And the moment she did —

the forest stopped breathing.

Birds froze mid-flight.

Leaves hung still.

Even the wind forgot to move.

And then —

memory returned.

Not in pieces.

Not in dreams.

In flood.

A young Rama, Sita, and Lakshmana walking into her ashram.Her offering the berries, one by one.Rama saying, "You are not my devotee. You are my mother."The sky splitting as Krishna stood in Dwaraka, whispering: "The Ark remembers your name."Ashwatthama weeping blood.Hanuman roaring from the mountains.Vyasa throwing palm leaves into the river.Bali stepping through the Chakra Dwar.

And beneath the Jagannath Temple — a sphere of light, pulsing like a heart.

A voice — soft, eternal — whispered:

"The time of offering is over. The time of action has begun. The Ark cannot awaken without the Offering."

Shabari opened her eyes.

Tears fell.

Not from pain.

From recognition.

She had not been waiting for Rama.

She had been preserved for this.

For the final bhog.

Not of berries.

Of soul.

She stood.

Slowly.

Painfully.

But with a lightness she had not felt in millennia.

She walked to the back of the hut.

Pulled aside a cloth.

Behind it, a small wooden idol — not of Rama, not of Krishna —

but of a simple man with a flute, his eyes closed, his hand outstretched.

She lit a lamp.

Offered the neem berry.

And whispered:

"I have waited long, my Lord.

I have tasted every fruit.

I have offered every sweetness.

But this… this is not for taste.

This is for memory."

The lamp flame turned blue.

And from the idol, a single tear rolled down the wood.

She did not pack.

She did not call anyone.

She did not even close the hut.

She walked.

Barefoot.

Bent.

But with a step that carried the weight of ages.

And as she walked, the forest remembered.

Deer bowed.

Birds sang in Vedic tones.

Trees bent their branches to shade her path.

A shepherd boy saw her.

"Dadi, where are you going? It's far to Puri."

She smiled. "Not for me, child. I have walked this path in dreams. The earth knows my feet."

"But you're old. You'll fall."

She touched his cheek.

*"Love does not fall, beta.

It carries."*

And she walked on.

On the third night, she reached the edge of Chilika Lake.

The moon was full.

The water still.

And in the distance — the spires of the Jagannath Temple, glowing faintly.

She sat.

Closed her eyes.

And for the first time, she did not taste a berry.

She remembered one.

The one she had offered to Rama.

Sweet.

Perfect.

Unconsumed.

Because he had said:

"Your love is the offering. The berry is only its form."

And now, she understood.

Her immortality was not a curse.

Not a gift.

It was a vessel.

To hold the essence of devotion —

pure, unconditional, unending —

until the world needed it most.

Until the Ark needed it.

As dawn broke, she stood.

And began to walk toward Puri.

Not fast.

Not slow.

Like a pujari approaching the sanctum.

And as she walked, six figures appeared on a hill —

watching.

Ashwatthama.

Hanuman.

Vyasa.

Parashurama.

Kripacharya.

Bali.

They did not speak.

They only descended.

And when they reached her, they did not bow.

They knelt.

Even Parashurama.

Even Ashwatthama.

Shabari looked at them — blind eyes somehow seeing all.

"Why do you kneel?"

Vyasa whispered, "Because you are the last. The final thread. The one who never stopped offering. The Ark cannot awaken without the Offering."

She smiled.

*"Then let us go.

Not for glory.

Not for power.

For bhakti."*

And together —

the Sapta Chiranjeevi —

walked toward the temple.

Seven immortals.

Seven wounds.

Seven duties.

And one purpose:

To remember.

To awaken.

To offer.