Happy Onam ! - The Return Of Mahabali
#Onam #Return #SelflessSacrifice #GreaterGood
In a time long before records were kept, there was a king named Mahabali. His empire stretched across the land, and it was said that no man, woman, or child ever went hungry. Under his rule, justice was not a concept; it was a reality, woven into the fabric of everyday life. People spoke of him as a ruler unlike any other—one whose kindness was so vast, it made the gods uneasy.
But the gods are fickle beings, bound to their hierarchies and balances. They saw in Mahabali’s reign not just goodness but disruption—a mortal whose power rivaled their own. The day came when they sent Vamana, a dwarf in form but divine in nature, to restore this cosmic balance. Vamana asked Mahabali for three paces of land, a modest request that masked a deeper intent.
The king, without hesitation, agreed. But as Vamana took his steps, he grew. His first step covered the Earth, his second the heavens. There was no room left for a third. Mahabali, ever humble, knelt before the giant. “Place your foot on my head,” he said, offering himself as the final piece of land.
Vamana’s foot descended, pressing Mahabali into the netherworld. Yet even in exile, his love for his people endured. For his devotion, Vamana granted him a wish: once a year, he could return to his kingdom, to walk among the people who still sang his name. And so it was.
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The story of Mahabali is told and retold each year, but its resonance changes with each retelling. In modern times, in a city not far from anywhere, a man stood by his window, watching the world. His name wasn’t Mahabali, but it could have been.
He was a CEO—a builder, a creator of things, once loved for his ingenuity, his ability to bend markets and technologies to his will. For years, he gave generously, transforming his industry and those around him. People thrived, lives were bettered, and he was a king in all but name. But power, even the most benevolent kind, has a way of unsettling the unseen forces that govern the world.
Over time, whispers turned into headlines, and admiration curdled into envy. He became too much, they said. Too generous, too influential. The invisible hand of balance moved against him. Regulations came. Allies left. The board voted him out.
On the day he signed away his empire, he did so without bitterness. He knew the cost of greatness—he had known it from the start. And yet, as he signed his name for the last time, he made one quiet request. Once a year, just once, he would return. He would walk among the halls of his old company, see the faces of those who had built their lives alongside his vision. And they agreed, because what harm could one visit do?
Now, each year, on a quiet day when the office is unusually still, he walks through the glass doors. No one remembers his name, but they feel a presence. An old king among the people he once led, his legacy invisible but undeniable. He smiles at the familiar hum of machines, the soft glow of screens, and the murmur of progress. For him, it is enough.
And then he leaves, disappearing into the city, content to wait another year.
The world goes on, as it always does. But every now and then, someone pauses, sensing something ancient and profound—a reminder that even in exile, true kings never truly disappear.