In the beginning, there was silence.
Then came the sneeze.
A sneeze so violent, it cracked open the very fabric of the celestial membrane that cocooned Akānta Loka, the realm where light had not yet decided which way to shine.
From the sneeze sprang forth two things: the sacred law known as Ṛta Nirṇaya, and a moderately confused deity named Pravira, who was sneezing because someone had misplaced the Divine Dust Registry.
"Where in the astral ash is the Vedamātra Volume I?!" Pravira roared, wiping his nose with a silk scroll that was definitely not designed for such use.
The Divya Aksara—a luminous realm floating atop golden equations—shook with laughter. Or perhaps it was a tremor caused by Mahadivanta, the trickster god, who'd installed vibrating seats in the Celestial Assembly as a prank.
"It's under your chair, Pravira," said Sanyuktara, the Unifier of Threads, her six fingers swirling through the air as she juggled timelines like ribbon dancers.
Sure enough, wedged beneath Pravira's throne was Vedamātra Volume I: How Not to Accidentally Collapse a Star System. Dusty. Scribbled upon. Smelling faintly of divine incense and extremely mortal mistakes.
And so the Ṛta Nirṇaya, the sacred decree of cosmic balance, was recited again—this time correctly, without hiccups or sneezes. It dictated that Deva Saṃkalpa, the pantheon of celestial powers, would no longer meddle directly with the Mortal Domain, Prithviṁ. Instead, they would incarnate through fragments—Pratibhā Hantāra—bound by law, emotion, and (most unfortunately) paperwork.
Thus began the Era of Indirect Divine Intervention™.
Centuries later, far below the floating spires of Divya Aksara, in the humid dust-choked lanes of Somaṭāra, a goat screamed.
It wasn't the scream of pain.
It was the scream of philosophical disagreement.
"Ba-a-a-a-a!" the goat cried, refusing to move despite the pleas of a harried priest dragging it toward the Yajñashāla.
"Move, O beast of ignorance! Today is the Mahā-Humora, the festival of divine comedy!" the priest begged, sweat streaking down his brow. "Your participation is mandated by law and superstition!"
A crowd had gathered. Some out of reverence, most out of boredom. Among them stood a tall young man dressed in faded orange robes, balancing a clay pot of ghee on his head while chewing thoughtfully on sugarcane.
His name was Nikāma, orphaned at birth, raised by temple scribes, and once famously mistaken for a sacred relic because of the birthmark on his navel that resembled the glyph for "pending approval."
He was 21. He'd never left Somaṭāra. And yet, in his eyes danced the unfulfilled curiosity of a man who'd seen none of the world and suspected the world was deliberately hiding something funny from him.
"Don't you think," he muttered, watching the goat dig its heels, "that if the gods are so mighty, they could just manifest and carry their own goats?"
"Blasphemy!" someone whispered.
"Logical," someone else whispered back.
The goat bleated louder, triumphant.
Nikāma sighed, placing the ghee pot carefully beside his feet. "Very well. If the gods won't carry the goat, I will."
He walked up, patted the goat's head, and whispered something incomprehensible in a tongue that had not been heard since the Age of Sneezing Stars.
The goat blinked.
Then calmly stood, walked to the altar, and laid down with the dignity of a sage awaiting liberation.
The crowd gasped. The priest fainted. A pigeon above muttered, "Show-off."
Nikāma turned to the stunned assembly and said, "I was kidding. It probably had gas."
But across the sky, the clouds parted. A single thread of golden light pierced the air and landed—undramatically—on Nikāma's left sandal.
And far above, in Divya Aksara, an alarm went off in the Karma Registry Department.
Sanyuktara dropped her timeline threads.
"Mahadivanta," she whispered.
"Yes?" came the casual voice of the trickster, lounging on a cloud that looked suspiciously like a reclining yak.
"Someone activated the Vedamātra Signature."
Mahadivanta sat up, eyes wide.
"That's not due for another 4,000 years."
Sanyuktara's voice was grave. "Nikāma is not just a joke."
Mahadivanta smirked. "Oh, he's a divine joke. A mistake made by the universe itself. A punchline waiting to detonate."
Sanyuktara narrowed her eyes. "He just pacified a goat."
"That's how it always begins."