Chapter 2: The Whip and the Wheel

"A rakshasa’s face, a sadhu’s heart—you are destined to eat prasad of both worlds in this life."

When I was twelve, I once saved a mad old man who had fallen into a ditch. Those were his words to me. Then he handed me an eleven-section soul-beating whip made of neem wood.

Even then, his eyes were cloudy like a monsoon sky, his beard tangled, and the smell of unwashed clothes strong in the humid air. He pressed the neem whip into my hands, saying, "Beta, yeh cheez sambhal ke rakh. Kabhi kaam aayega." At twelve, I thought it was some kind of joke—village madman talk. I hid the whip under the straw mat near my bed, more as a lark than anything else.

I didn’t believe him. At eighteen, I left the village to drive big trucks. By the time I was in my thirties, I had my own company and a family. Life seemed almost perfect.

You know how it is, na? When you get your first truck, your name painted in bright red on the bumper, family photo stuck on the dashboard, and a garland of marigolds hanging from the rearview. My wife would sometimes pack extra aloo parathas in my tiffin, and my daughter would scribble little notes for me to find on the road. I was proud—owner of four trucks, well-respected among drivers, and the kind of man who could drink chai with the local police inspector without any fear.

But in the blink of an eye, my parents passed away, my wife died of illness, and my brother betrayed me. I was left with huge debts, and only my son and daughter remained by my side.

It was like waking up one morning and finding the whole world shifted. The neighbours stopped coming by with tea, the phone stopped ringing. Even the TV's volume seemed lower in the empty house. My children would look at me with worried eyes, and I would have to force a smile, saying, "Sab theek hai, beta."

With nowhere else to turn, I found that soul-beating whip again at the bottom of a Godrej almirah.

That Godrej almirah, old and dented, stood in the corner like a silent sentinel. I was searching for my daughter’s birth certificate when my hand brushed against something rough. Pulling it out, I saw the neem whip—still coiled, still smelling faintly of bitter leaves. For a moment, I just stared at it, heart heavy, as if the old madman’s words were echoing back across all those lost years.