In the grand hall of Swarga-loka, the night hummed with laughter, music, and the intoxicating scent of Soma. The gods reclined on their thrones, the gentle strains of celestial music drifting through the air, mingling with the graceful dance of the Apsaras, the celestial nymphs. Lord Purandhara, the heavenly emperor, had retired for the evening, leaving the gods to their revelry. Their radiant forms glowed faintly in the dim light, casting golden reflections on the polished floor.

But in one shadowed corner, Lord Surya, the sun god, sat slouched on his throne, his golden goblet clutched tightly in his hand. His brilliant light had dimmed to a flicker, and the shadows around him grew restless. His fingers traced the rim of the goblet, his eyes half-lidded as he stared into the distance, hearing only the rising tide of bitterness swelling in his chest.

“They laugh... while our shrines burn,” he muttered to himself, too low for anyone to hear. He glanced around the hall, watching the gods lost in their pleasure, the music and Soma dulling their senses. Then louder, with a bitter smile, he said, “Yes, laugh. Enjoy the Soma while you can.”

A few gods turned at the sound of his voice, their eyes narrowing in confusion. The music faltered but did not stop.

Lord Surya took a deep drink, the liquid spilling from the corners of his mouth as he wiped it with the back of his hand. His anger simmered beneath the surface, the words building inside him like a storm ready to break.

“Do you think this is funny?” he sneered, louder now, his voice slurred by the effects of Soma. “Do you think any of this matters anymore?”

Uneasy murmurs spread through the hall, the celestial music continued but softer. Lord Surya’s golden glow flickered erratically as he rose unsteadily to his feet.

“Have you even looked?” His voice rose, trembling with anger. “Our temples—our altars—are being destroyed. Demons roam free, desecrating what’s left of the mortals’ faith in us. And we... we sit here, helpless.”

Lord Vayu, the god of wind, sighed softly and set his goblet aside. He rose gracefully, his cool, calming presence moving through the hall like a breeze. His brow creased slightly, his calm demeanour faltering.

“Surya,” Vayu began in a measured tone, “you know the situation. The barrier between Swarga Loka and Bhu-loka is sealed. Even Lord Purandhara’s Vajra cannot break it. We cannot descend. There is nothing we can do.”

“Nothing?” Surya spat, his eyes flashing with fury. He took a step forward, his hands trembling. “You speak of nothing while the world burns? We are gods—and you tell me we can do nothing?”

Lord Vayu hesitated, his brow furrowing as he glanced toward Lord Agni for support.

“The barrier was put in place to protect the cosmic balance,” Lord Vayu continued, though his voice had lost some of its calm. “If we break it, we risk unleashing more chaos. We cannot act recklessly—”

“Recklessly?” Surya cut him off, his voice trembling with rage. He slammed his goblet onto the floor, the metal clanging loudly. “We sit here while our worshippers die—our worshippers, Vayu! What use are we if they are gone? What good is your balance if no one is left to remember us?”

Lord Agni, the god of fire, stood now, his form crackling with restrained energy. His usual composure was slipping. He stepped forward, his voice firm but conciliatory.

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“Surya, brother, the barrier is beyond even Lord Purandhara’s power to break. His Vajra, the weapon of lightning itself, failed to open it. There is no way for us to descend to Bhu-loka. The demons rage unchecked, yes, but there are cycles of rise and fall. The mortals may have lost faith, but they will return to us in time.”

“In time?” Lord Surya’s eyes burned as he turned on Agni, his voice cracking, rising in intensity. “In time for what? For our temples to turn to dust? For every last soul to forget we even exist?”

He took a staggering step forward, his light flickering like a flame caught in a windstorm.

“You tell me to wait while the last embers of our worship flicker out?”

“Surya,” Lord Agni said calmly, though there was a tremor of unease in his voice as he stepped closer, raising his hands in a gesture of peace. “We must trust the heavenly emperor. He will surely open the barrier in due time. Until then—”

“Enough!” Lord Surya roared, his voice echoing through the hall. “The barrier was meant to protect us, but it has become our prison! What good is immortality if we are forgotten?”

Lord Vayu’s usual serenity was shaken, his voice more urgent now.

“Surya, your light is unbalanced. Your anger will only make things worse.”

Lord Surya shook him off, his hands trembling, his chest heaving with fury. His gaze swept across the room, searching for understanding, but finding only discomfort in the gods’ faces. His thoughts turned inward, the weight of his words gnawing at him. What am I without them? he wondered. Without their prayers, their faith, their light... am I still the sun? Or just a fading flame in an empty sky?

Lord Agni approached cautiously, his voice lower now.

“We all feel the loss, brother, but we must not let despair drive us. You are the sun, the bringer of life. Even now, your light sustains the mortals, though they have turned away. Give it time. Faith will return.”

Lord Surya let out a harsh, bitter laugh, the sound echoing coldly through the hall. “Time? Time is inconsequential to us but time is everything for mortals. What good is everlasting time when they don’t exist? What is a god without worshippers? Without prayers to sustain him? What are we without them?”

The gods fell silent, their faces tight with discomfort. Lord Surya’s light flickered dangerously, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper. “We could have done something. We should have done something. Yet, we just rest and merry leaving everything to the heavenly emperor.”

“We cannot defy the heavenly emperor, Surya. You know that,” said Lord Agni.

Surya’s eyes blazed with contempt as he spun on Lord Agni.

“Do you think I don’t know?” His voice shook, filled with venom. “Do you know why we’re in this mess? Don’t you all know?”

Lord Vayu’s expression shifted from concern to alarm. “Surya, don’t—”

But it was too late. Surya’s chest heaved, his gaze sweeping across the silent gods. His voice, barely above a whisper, cut through the tension like a blade. “Do you want to know why we’re here? Why we’re trapped in this prison?”

The hall froze in that moment.

“It’s because we banished the one god who could have saved us,” Lord Surya said, his lips curling into a sneer. “The one god who would have fought.”

The gods watched in stunned silence, their faces stricken with disbelief. Surya let the moment linger, drawing out their discomfort. Then, in a voice dripping with venom, he spat the name that none of them dared to speak.

“General Atisha.”

The hall seemed to shudder at the name. The music stopped. The Apsaras froze mid-dance, their graceful forms stiffening. The gods, who had been lost in their drunken indulgence moments before, now sat rigid, the weight of the name crashing into them like a storm.

The silence that followed was thick and suffocating. No one dared speak. No one dared breathe.

Lord Surya’s light dimmed further, barely more than a faint, flickering glow. He slumped back onto his throne, his chest still heaving from the fury that now drained out of him.

“We are as good as dead,” he whispered, his voice hollow. “Forgotten gods... useless gods.”

The gods sat in stunned silence, the weight of his words sinking in.