Before Jivavarta became a kingdom, and before there were a thousand petty comforts by which men convinced themselves they are civilized, there was only survival.
Men lived, if living is the word. They woke with hunger and slept with fear, and between those two certainties they committed acts that later generations would call barbaric. But barbarism is a comfortable word invented by those who arrive much later in the story. The men of that age did not think themselves cruel. They killed not from hatred, but from the simple conviction that there was not enough life in the world for all of them. They merely wished to survive.
To survive is sometimes the most violent of desires.
Sarvabhu, the god of gods, watched these men from above. Or from within, the distinction mattered only to mortals, for he was in everything, all things rose from him, and in the end, all would dissolve into him. He had been watching before time began, and he would watch long after time ends. The tragedy of eternity is not loneliness, but repetition and the crushing boredom arising from it. So, he watched them with the patient indifference of one who had already seen everything.
Then came one morning in Rongcha, when Sarvabhu watched a man climbing a mountain. Just the day before, the man had lit the pyres of his wife, son and daughter, and as he climbed he carried neither hope nor ambition nor desire.
He was climbing with two other men, who had lost their families as well, and a boy so young that he might have followed without knowing why.
The four reached the top just as the sun rose in the horizon, and as the first rays of sunlight appeared, the man unsheathed a blade.
One by one, his companions offered themselves to death. The two men succumbed with serenity, laying down a burden that had become too heavy to carry. The boy, too, closed his eyes, and knelt. Witnesses would later swear that even the birds abandoned the sky rather than watch. Last of all, the man turned the blade upon himself.
All four died without bargaining, without even expecting a reward.
Sarvabhu was astonished. He found himself confronted by a situation he had never imagined: Mortals had chosen sacrifice over selfish survival.
The sensation was unfamiliar, boredom was gone. Sarvabhu descended on the mountain. Not in anger, nor in joy, for those belonged to lesser gods, but out of curiosity.
The dead are accustomed to remaining dead, but the four were not given this privilege. Sarvabhu breathed on them, a single breath, and the corpses opened their eyes. The wounds disappeared, and they rose -- not entirely human, not entirely divine.
"You chose sacrifice over survival in this chaos," Sarvabhu said. "You rejected this world. Therefore, I shall give it back to you."
Thus the man, the leader of the four, became the God-King of Rongcha and the lord of all Jivavarta.
Then, using his powers he rewarded his companions.
The second man was given the mountains of Adrika.
The third was given the farmlands of Yashantika.
And the boy, the innocent one who had entered death without resistance, was given the port of Trishala.
Sarvabhu withdrew, leaving the four to rule over the lands of Jivavarta.
Centuries passed. Kingdoms rose. Kingdoms vanished. Languages altered. Rivers changed course. But every year, the people of Rongcha continue to celebrate the Festival of Prahuti.
On the day of Prahuti, at dawn, four figures climb to the temple altar, three men and a child. No chains bind them, no soldiers escort them.
Down below, thousands watch without speaking -- they know that the four climb not because they remember what had happened on that mountain long ago, but because they have no choice.
On reaching the altar, the four kneel and the executioner raises the blade. When it falls, the people in the crowd lower their heads. Not in grief, but in gratitude.
By sunset, actors wearing funeral paint emerge from the temple gates to enact the miracle of the "First Return." Children cheer, adults drink, and bells sound across the city.
Visitors often mistake the festival for a celebration. The people of Rongcha know better, and beneath the celebration lingers a discomfort, for the dead of the morning remain dead. Their peace has been purchased with blood, from a god who was once surprised.
The people know that their very existence is an anomaly. Their ancestors were not saved because humanity proved worthy. Humanity was saved because four people decided that being human was worse than being dead. Every citizen of Rongcha therefore carries a kind of inherited moral injury, a dim but persistent awareness that their world rests upon rejection of life.
When the festival fires turn into ash, the Rongchas sometimes raise their eyes toward the stars and wonder whether somewhere in the infinite night, Sarvabhu continues to observe the world with patient attention, waiting for humanity to astonish him once again. Because surprise, once experienced, becomes a kind of hunger and even gods, perhaps especially gods, hunger for what they do not understand.
To survive is sometimes the most violent of desires.
Sarvabhu, the god of gods, watched these men from above. Or from within, the distinction mattered only to mortals, for he was in everything, all things rose from him, and in the end, all would dissolve into him. He had been watching before time began, and he would watch long after time ends. The tragedy of eternity is not loneliness, but repetition and the crushing boredom arising from it. So, he watched them with the patient indifference of one who had already seen everything.
Then came one morning in Rongcha, when Sarvabhu watched a man climbing a mountain. Just the day before, the man had lit the pyres of his wife, son and daughter, and as he climbed he carried neither hope nor ambition nor desire.
He was climbing with two other men, who had lost their families as well, and a boy so young that he might have followed without knowing why.
The four reached the top just as the sun rose in the horizon, and as the first rays of sunlight appeared, the man unsheathed a blade.
One by one, his companions offered themselves to death. The two men succumbed with serenity, laying down a burden that had become too heavy to carry. The boy, too, closed his eyes, and knelt. Witnesses would later swear that even the birds abandoned the sky rather than watch. Last of all, the man turned the blade upon himself.
All four died without bargaining, without even expecting a reward.
Sarvabhu was astonished. He found himself confronted by a situation he had never imagined: Mortals had chosen sacrifice over selfish survival.
The sensation was unfamiliar, boredom was gone. Sarvabhu descended on the mountain. Not in anger, nor in joy, for those belonged to lesser gods, but out of curiosity.
The dead are accustomed to remaining dead, but the four were not given this privilege. Sarvabhu breathed on them, a single breath, and the corpses opened their eyes. The wounds disappeared, and they rose -- not entirely human, not entirely divine.
"You chose sacrifice over survival in this chaos," Sarvabhu said. "You rejected this world. Therefore, I shall give it back to you."
Thus the man, the leader of the four, became the God-King of Rongcha and the lord of all Jivavarta.
Then, using his powers he rewarded his companions.
The second man was given the mountains of Adrika.
The third was given the farmlands of Yashantika.
And the boy, the innocent one who had entered death without resistance, was given the port of Trishala.
Sarvabhu withdrew, leaving the four to rule over the lands of Jivavarta.
Centuries passed. Kingdoms rose. Kingdoms vanished. Languages altered. Rivers changed course. But every year, the people of Rongcha continue to celebrate the Festival of Prahuti.
On the day of Prahuti, at dawn, four figures climb to the temple altar, three men and a child. No chains bind them, no soldiers escort them.
Down below, thousands watch without speaking -- they know that the four climb not because they remember what had happened on that mountain long ago, but because they have no choice.
On reaching the altar, the four kneel and the executioner raises the blade. When it falls, the people in the crowd lower their heads. Not in grief, but in gratitude.
By sunset, actors wearing funeral paint emerge from the temple gates to enact the miracle of the "First Return." Children cheer, adults drink, and bells sound across the city.
Visitors often mistake the festival for a celebration. The people of Rongcha know better, and beneath the celebration lingers a discomfort, for the dead of the morning remain dead. Their peace has been purchased with blood, from a god who was once surprised.
The people know that their very existence is an anomaly. Their ancestors were not saved because humanity proved worthy. Humanity was saved because four people decided that being human was worse than being dead. Every citizen of Rongcha therefore carries a kind of inherited moral injury, a dim but persistent awareness that their world rests upon rejection of life.
When the festival fires turn into ash, the Rongchas sometimes raise their eyes toward the stars and wonder whether somewhere in the infinite night, Sarvabhu continues to observe the world with patient attention, waiting for humanity to astonish him once again. Because surprise, once experienced, becomes a kind of hunger and even gods, perhaps especially gods, hunger for what they do not understand.
-———
We the Rongchas
We are the people of Rongcha's hill,
The God King's blood is with us still!
Four chose the void and when they bled,
Sarvabhu raised them from the dead!
Raise the weapon and sound the cry,
We do not fear, we do not die!
Kingdoms rise, kingdoms fall,
We the Rongchas outlive them all!
Rongcha was first introduced in The Timingila.
———
Shon Mehta is an author and philosopher, creator of the Jivavarta Universe—a grounded sociopolitical world exploring human resilience, social dynamics, and moral philosophy through systems thinking. Her novels (The Timingila, Lair of the Monster), poems, aphorisms, parables, and stories are used in academic curricula internationally and featured by Oxford University Press.
At the core of her work is the Jivavarta Framework, which includes tools such as the Jivavarta Systems Equation: Outcomes = Choice×Structure×Constraint, and the "Survive, Thrive, Strive" Jivavarta hierarchy. Together, her writing and framework form a literary and philosophical system recognized for its clarity, depth, and enduring relevance.
Well written.
ReplyDeleteRonghas are such a cry baby, Jarodha people are a love.
ReplyDeleteI always appreciate writers who respect their readers’ time and intelligence. You do both. Great write-up.
ReplyDeleteWhat is the story of the first man, who became the GodKing? What made him take his drastic step?
ReplyDeleteSarvabhu is the source of everything, but there’s one thing he doesn’t naturally have—surprise.
ReplyDeleteWhen mortals do something he can’t predict, it creates a kind of gap in him: for the first time, he experiences not knowing. And that feeling doesn’t just pass—it draws him in. The unknown starts to matter to him.
So when humans go beyond pure instinct, especially when they choose sacrifice over survival, they’re not just defying biology—they’re actually creating new experiences for the creator himself. It applies human psychological crises (existential dread and the search for novelty) to an infinite entity
The ultimate twist in Shon Mehta’s work is how humanity responds. Instead of leaving the miracle beautifully unpredictable, Rongcha turn it into a rigid yearly ritual: The Festival of Prahuti. By trying to schedule the surprise, they make it predictable again—leaving the god unfulfilled and humanity stuck in a hollow cycle.
ReplyDelete