Twinn Swan

When I began writing The Prophetess of Dharma, I knew the story would demand more than doctrinal familiarity or borrowed archetypes. Dharma, for me, was never a static law—it is a force that courses through time, shaping destinies and demanding recognition from the human consciousness. To write the character of a prophetess–based on the Goddess Saraswati–is to shoulder the trembling solitude of one entrusted with a dangerous, sacred knowledge: that justice, restoration, and the burden of consequence are woven into every ripple of existence.

In creating my prophetess protagonist, the narrative became a struggle between what is written and what needs to be rewritten. Her pronouncements—delivered with both power and hesitation—embody mercy, but warn of unforeseeable consequences. Each revelation is threaded with the knowledge that dharma requires sacrifice and that prophecy is a trial more than a gift.

I wanted to show the tension between the immutable and the transitory: how dharma moves as the river goddess moves, shaping, breaking, and reweaving creation. My prophetess stands as witness to endings and beginnings. Hers is not the comfort of eternal law, but the risk of necessary change. The lore she safeguards is a living record, encoded in loss, hope, and the private cries of both Divinity and humanity.

The book is an inquiry into whether the burden of knowing—of seeing suffering and the cycles that perpetuate it—can ever produce true justice or lasting peace. I found myself haunted by the question: Does prophecy liberate or isolate? Does dharma restore or only remind us of mortality and the limits of even divine law?

The Prophetess of Dharma is my testament to the ache of solitude. In her song for mercy, her invocation for balance, and her longing to see the world remade, one self-realises the silence that follows the flood.