Chapter 2: Prison Shadows and Broken Bonds

The day Hanuman was crushed beneath the Five Peaks Mountain, I was squatting on the dusty floor of my cell in the Yamuna-side prison, watching the sun crawl across the cracked wall, chewing on my thumbnail and mulling over life’s unfairness. In that thick, musty air, I flicked a dead mosquito off my knee and spat into the corner, the way every jailbird in Delhi seems to do. Finally, I said to Arjun, “No, I have to go find Hanuman. I owe him—kuch bhi ho, he stood by me.”

Arjun was sprawled outside on a charpai, a bottle of cheap rum at his elbow. His left eye, calm as Narmada water; right eye, sharp as a broken bottle; the third eye on his brow just rolling up to the sky, like a parent exasperated by a child’s drama. “Yeah, all Three Worlds know Kartikeya is the gold standard for loyalty and righteousness. But, bhai, at least get out of jail first. Devraj sent me to interrogate you—just confess, say sorry to your father, sab theek ho jayega.”

I bristled at that. “Arjun Bhaiya, tu bhi na. Sochta hai main maar nahi sakta?” My hand twitched for the spear, just to show I meant business.

Arjun just rolled his eyes. “Chakra—just go apologise to your chakra-dad. That’s all.”

Me: “Oh.”

Honestly, if I’m being fair—though who’s ever fair in Swarglok—this mess was Hanuman’s fault. If he hadn’t gone berserk and turned Swarglok upside down, Colonel Sharma, that chamcha of a man, wouldn’t have gone ballistic. Speaking of Sharma—doesn’t he know when to shut up? Always acting like he’s the real King of Heaven, chest puffed out, orders flying, tail wagging. The way he bows to Devraj, you’d think he’s polishing the floor with his backside. Just watching him made my blood boil—so I did what any self-respecting, thoroughly fed-up son would do. My ears burned. I remembered every time Sharma called me “demon” in front of the others. I kicked him, right there, in front of everyone.

Colonel Sharma went tumbling, his gold-plated armour clanking like a tiffin dropped in the street. The devas in the hall laughed, the kind of stifled laughter you hear at a shaadi when the groom trips on his own pagdi. Sharma tried to laugh along, but when he looked back at me, his eyes were pure murder. The chakra—my so-called chakra-dad—glowed in his grip, menacing as a red-hot belan in Maa’s hand.

I just whistled, hands deep in my kurta pockets, pretending nothing had happened, like a brat after breaking the neighbour’s window with a cricket ball.

Later, I found out the truth. In this world, muscle isn’t enough. You need backing—real power, family, connections, jugaad. Sharma’s backing was my father, and his connection was—unfortunately—me. Sab kuch rishton ka khel hai, yaar.

That mutt calmly raised the chakra, all righteous and cool. I, being me, charged out to fight Hanuman—three heads, six arms, fighting like it was the last over of the match, life and death on the line.

Hanuman sneered, “Aye, isn’t this chota Kartikeya, the one who pulled naga tendons and made a mess of the East Sea? What, your old man’s killed you twice already, still you dance to his tune?”

My face went cold, lip curled. “Dead Monkey, you’re finished.”

Three heads, six arms, weapons spinning: Agni-tipped Spear, Vasuki Ribbon, Universe Ring—crashing down like Mumbai rain. Hanuman didn’t have half as many divine toys as me, nor my footwork, nor my Three-Flavoured True Fire. I thought, even if I can’t finish him, at least I’ll smack the arrogance out of his monkey face.

But that Hanuman—besharam—he cheated! His fur stood on end, and as he plucked each hair, it shimmered, multiplying into a thousand Hanumans—each one grinning like a langur after stealing prasad. I wasn’t scared, six arms can block from all sides, but yeh kya baat hai—why does his gada multiply too?

That day, I was flat on my back from the very first exchange. No fakes, all real. My pride was stinging more than my arms.

Four, five rounds in, my six arms had gone numb, Vasuki Ribbon and golden bricks scattered like mithai at Holi, still couldn’t land a hit on the real Hanuman. So I stopped chucking things and just spun Universe Ring and Agni-tipped Spear, fighting eighty-one thousand golden gadas head-on.

I fought till my lips bled, eyes like burning coals, teeth clenched so hard I tasted blood. Sweat stung my eyes, blood dripped onto my bare feet, sizzling on the prison stones. My blood rained down outside the Ninth Heaven, setting wildfires for nine thousand miles, every spear stroke burning Hanuman’s hairs as they floated up, cloudward.

Suddenly, Hanuman stopped. Just like that, in the flames, staff tucked behind him, staring straight at me—at my bleeding lips, at my stubborn, unbroken eyes.

He said, “Fighting you is pointless.”

I burst out laughing. “Arrey yaar, if my father wasn’t holding me down from above, who’d bother with you?”

Hanuman tilted his chin. “That guy?”

I said, “No, that’s just my father’s chakra seat. My real father is the Shining Chakra.”

Hanuman: “...”

Never mind whose chakra—Vishnu’s, some ancient rishi’s, whatever. From behind my chakra-dad, I could almost see four golden words glowing: Fatherly Kindness, Filial Son. Like those old Bollywood family dramas—doesn’t matter what’s right, beta has to touch feet and obey.

If you’re not filial, Dad will make you be. Kya karein, that’s the rule.

I told this to Hanuman. He bared his teeth, a wild monkey grin. “Aren’t sadhus supposed to let go of all worldly attachments? Why do they care if you’re filial?”

I spun my Agni-tipped Spear, letting the flames cast shadows on the cracked stone. “Who knows, bhai. You want to keep fighting?”

Hanuman laughed, a sharp, wild sound, his cloak billowing in the updraft like a Bollywood hero’s scarf.

He said, “Kartikeya, I’ll go kill your father. You help me finish Colonel Sharma—the Swarglok’s Demon-Subduing Marshal. Deal?”

I froze, like someone had thrown a bucket of ice water on me. Memories rushed back—a thousand years, a thousand lives—straight to the day the Four Seas Nagas drowned Chandanpur. Everyone on their knees, monsoon-black clouds crowding the sky. Colonel Sharma tossed his sword at the city wall, his voice loud for all to hear: “This demon caused the disaster. May the devas bear witness.”

All eyes turned to me. I knew—they were waiting for my blood, my head.

I heard my mother sobbing, trying to climb the wall, but Sharma’s soldiers held her back. I picked up the sword, stone-faced, and met Sharma’s eyes.

For the first time, Colonel Sharma didn’t dare look at me. The same man who used to glare and curse and rage, now unable to meet my gaze.

I smiled, almost kindly. The Four Seas Nagas, black clouds pressing low. I said, “Fine. Today, I take responsibility. Cut bone to father, flesh to mother. My debt ends here.”

After that, I thought Sharma and I were finished. But fate—kya karen, it has its own plans. My mother built a mandir for my soul, and just before I came back to life, Sharma smashed it to pieces again.

My three souls and seven spirits had just formed. In the thick incense smoke, I saw Sharma, eyes red, hands shaking, not wanting me to return. He didn’t even hide it.

My soul trembled with rage. “Colonel Sharma, kis haq se?”

He shouted, “You shouldn’t live! You’re a demon, a calamity, not my son, you shouldn’t exist!”

And in that instant, I understood. That day at Chandanpur, Sharma realised he was wrong—he owed me, and could never repay it. But fathers, especially in our world, can never admit being wrong. So, the only way out? Don’t let me live.

I stared him down, injustice burning in my chest. No, I can’t die. I have to live, live long enough to get revenge, or at least my own kind of justice.

That day, I forced my soul not to shatter, and returned to my guru—head held high, even in the smoke.

But when I was reborn from the lotus, spear in hand, all I heard was reason and more reason—my guru, my mother, that damn Rishi Deepak, and even Swami Vivekananda, all chanting: Even if your father is wrong a thousand times, he’s still your father. You can’t kill him. Rules are rules, beta.

I gripped my Agni-tipped Spear, toes digging into the Peacock Wheels, stared at Colonel Sharma till my eyes bled. But the divine light of the Shining Chakra pressed me down, heavy as guilt. I couldn’t move.

Swami Vivekananda—his saffron robes fluttered, the border stained with old tea, his smile as gentle as the headmaster at my old government school—said, “If you cannot see him as your father, then take God as your father.”

I screamed and roared, divine light shattering and reforming, again and again. My lotus body broke into pieces, but under God’s light, I became the emotionless Kartikeya Kumar.

Who knows how many cycles I suffered beneath the Shining Chakra? No one spoke for me. Even my guru and mother only told me, give up, or you’ll really be destroyed. Just let it go, beta.

I looked at Colonel Sharma’s pale face and grinned, blood trickling down my chin. Sometimes, rage is all you have left.

I said, “Fine, Sharma saab. Our road isn’t finished yet.”