Before the sacrifice.
Before Janamejaya's fire.
Before the curse had reached him — there was a gathering, deep in the forest of Naimisha.
Far from cities and kings, far from war and desire, a place had been chosen by sages for its purity. The forest was sacred — its very air heavy with silence, knowledge, and the hum of unseen mantras.
Here, the greatest rishis of the age had assembled.
They came not for ritual, but for truth.
At the center of them all sat Shaunaka, chief of the sages. He was ancient, his beard white as ash, his eyes calm as a still lake. Around him sat hundreds — young seekers, old ascetics, wandering scholars. They had come to perform a great sacrifice of their own: a yajna of knowledge.
And during one of those sacred days, a traveler arrived.
He was not a king. Not a priest. But a storyteller.
Ugrasrava Sauti — son of Lomaharshana, disciple of Vyasa's disciples. A man who had spent his life collecting stories from across the land. Myths, lineages, battles, births, curses. But there was one tale that ruled over all others.
The Mahabharata.
When he entered the assembly, the sages welcomed him. Shaunaka offered him a seat and water.
"O Sauti," said Shaunaka, "you have wandered through many lands, and heard many tales. Tell us — what is the greatest story you know?"
Sauti bowed with humility.
"There is none greater than the story of the Bharatas," he said. "Composed by Vyasa, written by Ganesha. It contains the essence of every truth — of dharma, artha, kama, and moksha. It is the Mahabharata."
The sages leaned in.
Shaunaka asked, "Tell us how it came to be. From where does this tale begin?"
And so, surrounded by sacred fire, in the heart of a forest untouched by time, Sauti began.
He spoke not his own words, but those passed down from Vyasa — through Vaishampayana, through tradition, through the breath of time itself.
He told them of kings and sages. Of gods who walked as men. Of choices that tore nations apart. Of silence, of honor, of fate.
And as he spoke, the world of the Mahabharata unfolded once again — not in war, not in fire, not in books —
But in memory.
In the hearts of those who listened.
In the stillness of the forest.
Where all stories begin.