Chapter 2: Divine Child of Shantipur

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I was born in the era of the Great Wilderness, with eyes that could see through things. I helped the villagers dig up underground wells.

Even as a child, running barefoot on the hot mud roads of Shantipur, people would point at me and whisper, “That’s the one! He can see water under the ground, just like a Rishi!” My Amma would scold me, but pride shimmered in her eyes as she packed my tiffin with an extra roti.

They thought I could predict the future and called me the Divine Child.

This reputation spread, eventually drawing the attention of the sadhus of Kaveripur Hill.

So, Guru Venerable Ishwarananda descended from the ashram overnight and brought me back to the Kaveripur Ashram,

saying he would take me as his disciple.

I remember his arrival—lanterns flickering in the pre-dawn mist, his feet bare yet unsoiled, chanting softly under his breath. The villagers folded their hands, murmuring, “Ram Ram, Guruji.”

Guruji, the old man, even produced an elixir. He said, “Take it. It will increase your spiritual energy and help you reach the next stage more quickly.”

His voice was honeyed, persuasive, like the Pandit ji reciting the Ramayana during Navratri, everyone hanging on every word. He pressed the vati into my palm, its weight unnatural, the way a gold coin feels heavy to a beggar.

“Once you establish your foundation, you can begin cultivating to become a siddha.”

I could sense the eyes of the other sadhaks boring into my back, their hopes and jealousy mixing in the silent courtyard. For a moment, I almost believed in miracles.

I pressed my hands together, whispered a shaky “Dhanyavaad, Guruji,” and slipped the vati beneath my tongue, just as Amma used to hide tamarind seeds during Ram Navami fasts.

A bitter aftertaste rose in my throat, but I forced my expression calm. The ashram air was thick with incense and the clanging of the evening ghanti. I made sure everyone saw the act, nodded with fake reverence, and shuffled away with my hands folded in namaste.

After returning to my room in the ashram’s dormitory, I could no longer hold back. I spat the pill into a crumpled page of the ashram’s old prayer book, the Om symbol smudging as the bitter juice spread.

Sweat beaded on my brow as I heard distant laughter from the boys’ wing. I closed the door softly, heart pounding so loud I thought someone would hear.

The outer sugar coating had already broken,

revealing a golden-brown insect egg inside.

A not-yet-formed larva was wrapped in a transparent membrane.

It squirmed, struggled, its eight compound eyes tightly shut—

it only needed a host to provide nutrients,

then it could rapidly grow and strengthen.

The sight twisted my stomach. I felt a wave of nausea, remembering the stories my nani used to tell about rakshasas that hide inside people and drink their soul.

I pulled out the small sickle Amma gave me for cutting holy tulsi, and drove it into the creature’s heart.

Juice splattered everywhere.

Then I threw its shriveled skin into the chulha

and burned it to ashes.

I watched the flames curl around the remains, hissing as if something alive was protesting. I waited till there was nothing left but grey-black ash, then doused the chulha with water from my brass lota, whispering a silent apology to whatever gods might be listening.