Chapter 2: Mortal Melas and Fox Sadhana

Before I ascended, I once had what you’d call a fleeting romance in the mortal world!

To call it fleeting—what a joke! It was the kind of joke you’d hear at open mic night at Prithvi Theatre. Decades slipped by as easily as monsoon clouds over the Ghats. Love didn’t knock politely—it barged in, made itself comfortable, and took over the house.

Hmm... if you call several decades ‘fleeting’!

Time on earth is slippery. What mortals call long, immortals call a blink. Still, the days stacked up—chai on cold mornings, laughter in sunlit courtyards, long nights telling stories under mosquito nets. Those became the threads of my sadhana.

Rohan was a fox spirit with talent in every possible sense!

He was that rare mix of mischief and brilliance, the kind who made neighbors gossip and the local pundit shake his head. Even the bazaar parrot would squawk his name if you lingered near the paan shop too long.

I accidentally saved him once, and after that, he stuck to me like fevicol!

They say good deeds are always rewarded, but mine came with a tail. He clung to me as faithfully as the childhood friend who never left your side. If I ever forgot my umbrella, he’d pop up, grinning, holding it out like a prize.

At the time, I didn’t think much of it, just treated him as one more friend!

After all, what’s one more companion in the circus of daily life? He blended into my crowd—sometimes a headache, sometimes a delight, always there, like the soft drone of a tanpura in the background.

I can’t even remember after which drunken night, Rohan suggested trying his clan’s secret dual sadhana—said it would rocket my progress!

That night, after too many bhang-lassi shots and a wild round of antakshari, he leaned in, eyes shining. His voice, low and full of mischief, promised miracles—a sadhana so potent, even the gods would gossip. My curiosity, always my downfall, got the better of me.

He stood there, gulmohar branch in hand, looking like a devata atop his altar, yet his smile was so wicked!

I still remember—the moonlight painted his hair silver, a gulmohar blossom glowed in his hand. For a second, he looked like a painting from Ajanta—half god, half trouble. His smile made me forget all my mantras.

I can’t say who moved first. By the time I blinked, the bed was already a disaster!

Sarees tangled, pillows on the floor, even my sacred rudraksha mala caught in the mess. Our laughter echoed long after, blending with the distant temple bell.

Three days later, I finally crawled out of bed, holding my waist, and Rohan wrapped his tail around my leg, asking if I liked him!

My body ached in that sweet, festival-afterglow way. Rohan, as shameless as ever, nuzzled my calf, eyes bright. The air smelled of sandalwood and something more daring.

I thought for a moment and said yes!

If honesty is the best policy, then mine was blunt. I liked his cleverness, his wild laughter, and yes—the way sadhana now felt like a monsoon downpour instead of a desert. There was no hiding it; my smile gave me away.

I liked his looks, his enthusiasm, and especially the sadhana progress—three nights with him was like three months of tapasya!

You’d have to be a fool not to like him. Who wouldn’t? The burdens of tapasya lifted as if the gods themselves were cheering us on.

How could that not be liking?

It was the kind of feeling that grew quietly, like tulsi in a forgotten corner—unassuming, but stubbornly strong. Each day, it crept deeper into my routine.

Rohan got his answer and was absolutely thrilled—became even more passionate!

He whooped with joy, tail flicking. For days, he stuck to me like glue, trailing me from river to rooftop, whispering promises in my ear as if the world would never change.

Thanks to Rohan’s efforts, my sadhana soared in those years!

I glowed—literally. Elders at the ashram wondered about my new shine, aunties speculated about my diet, and kids chased after me, calling me “magic aunty with stars in her eyes.”

It was, truly, a happy time.

The kind of happiness you tuck away, never daring to say out loud. Even the birds sang sweeter, and the sunsets burned more golden.

Unfortunately, just as I was about to touch moksha, we learned the real rules of the heavens!

Of course, nothing golden lasts. Just as I tasted freedom, fate dropped a bitter neem leaf into my mouth. News from the heavens—rules written on palm leaves, delivered by stern-faced messengers.

Demonic bloodlines are impure and can’t ascend!

The news hit like a thali crashing to the ground. No matter how hard you tried, birth trumped karma. Foxes, no matter how clever, were forever tainted by law.

Only humans who are heartless can attain moksha!

There it was: cold as chandan stick, sharp as a slap. To rise, you had to snuff out every attachment. The irony stung—love made you strong, but only coldness could set you free.

The path to moksha was nearly blocked. If you wanted to go up, you had to play by those rules!

My dreams shrank, folding in on themselves. There was no room for both passion and freedom. I had to choose, or be left behind.

So, under Rohan’s shocked gaze, I cut off my own threads of affection and ascended on the spot as a heartless sadhak!

His eyes pleaded with me—betrayed, desperate. But my resolve, brittle and cold, didn’t break. I severed the ties. I told myself it was for the greater good, but the echo of my choice haunted the shadows.

After years of sleeping beside me, Rohan only learned that day I was cultivating the heartless path!

He looked like the ground had disappeared beneath him. His tail, usually lively, drooped lifeless.

He wiped the blood at the corner of his mouth, voice still as pleasant as always:

“Then what do all these years count for? What do I mean to you?”

He waited, eyes shining with hope and hurt. I looked away, pretending to study the cracks in the stone floor, unable to meet his gaze.

Without turning back, I walked the path of ascension:

“Let’s just say we both got what we needed. Good friend, thank you!”

Even now, I remember how empty those words tasted. My footsteps echoed on the stone, drowning out the sound of his heartbreak—or maybe it was my own.