In the twilight of Kali Yuga, the world groans under its own forgetting. A symphony of discord rises from the gleaming, sterile cities of glass and steel, which stand as hollow monuments, empty of reverence. The sky, once a brilliant canvas of azure and gold at sunrise, is now perpetually veiled in a hazy, leaden grey, the sun a pale, distant disc. The rivers, once the lifeblood of the land, now trickle as sluggish, murky streams, their sanctity lost, their waters no longer echoing the sacred chants of sages. Instead, the air vibrates with the cacophony of hollow noise – the incessant hum of machinery, the jarring blare of sirens, and the meaningless chatter of a populace lost in digital distraction.

Yet, from this decaying world, a circle of thirty six rishis emerges, ancient seers whose voices, like the resonant tolling of temple bells, echo through the collapse of time. Each bears a unique lens, a distinct facet of divine wisdom. There is Vashishtha, his presence as calming as the scent of sandalwood, his foresight as clear as a forest pool reflecting the full moon. In stark contrast is Vishwamitra, a whirlwind of defiant fire, the air around him crackling with the raw energy of his tapasya, smelling of scorched earth and ozone. We hear the trembling quill of Valmiki, the air in his cavernous abode thick with the scent of old parchment, ink, and the salt of his tears, each teardrop a crystallized pearl of compassion. And there are others, a constellation of luminous souls whose vows span the vastness of human experience – from the solitude of exile and the bitterness of forgiveness to the boundless expanse of cosmic remembrance.