Chapter 5: The Massacre at Shantipur

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Originally, I only wanted to escape,

even if it meant hiding my name.

But that day, I heard news that the entire village had been wiped out.

My parents died when I was young, and I grew up eating from every household.

To me, the villagers of Shantipur were no different from my own parents.

So, the words “Was Shantipur wiped out?”—

left me frozen in place.

My whole body stiffened. I hid behind the bushes, not daring to move.

My knees buckled, and I pressed my forehead to the cool earth, the way we do at the temple when grief is too much to bear.

I remember clearly, it was the third month after I arrived at Kaveripur Hill.

I was holding my newly issued disciple’s white marble token, excitedly going to find second senior brother Kabir, wanting to ask him which town at the foot of the hill had the best mithai,

using the chance to learn about the surrounding terrain.

Just outside the Ashram kitchens, the smell of boiling dal wafted over, reminding me of Shantipur’s evening meals. My fingers fiddled with the token, its smoothness oddly reassuring.

But at that moment, in my eyes, the elegant and unrestrained Kabir was lightly laughing as he wiped his long sword.

He said slowly, “Wiped out, not a single one left. Including Uncle Shyam’s wife and her unborn child.”

Kabir tutted, “Over a hundred people, it was exhausting, so in the end I just used ice spikes.”

His words dropped into the air like stones into a pond—rippling out, sending a chill through my bones. The sword in his hand gleamed, its hilt stained.

The gentle eldest senior brother Rohan spoke in a cold, unfamiliar tone. “Are you sure they’re all dead?”

Kabir glanced at him sideways. “Of course, I never leave loose ends.”

He wiped the blood from his sword, sheathed it with satisfaction, and said with a grin, “Just don’t let little Aryan know. I don’t want my precious junior brother to hate me. If he dislikes me, no one will sneak out to eat jalebis with me anymore.”

Rohan replied, “No problem, keep it from him for now. Tell him after he reaches the next stage.”

“Yes, by then he’ll understand us. Sadhaks don’t need emotions, nor mortal weaknesses—ah, it’s a pity junior brother is so slow at sadhana, otherwise he could have killed his kin himself to prove his path.”

My teeth were chattering.

I covered my mouth tightly, not daring to make a sound.

But tears of panic and despair still streamed down my face.

The footsteps faded away.

I gripped the white marble token in my other hand so tightly my knuckles turned white.

The word “Kaveripur” on it was bitterly ironic.

Is this a spiritual hill for sadhana?

Do they act for the people?

Why kill innocent people?

Uncle Shyam was the village pradhan, also my chacha ji. Before I left, he held my hand with a smile, saying our village would produce someone great, and that when his child was born, he wanted me, the ‘immortal elder,’ to name it.

At that time, he looked happily at his wife’s six-month pregnant belly.

He probably never thought he’d die three months later, with his child not yet born.

Why did they have to die by your hands!

Why say it was for my sake!

Did you ask me? Did I agree?

Absurd and laughable—

And also:

When I reach the next stage, I’ll understand you?

What does that mean?

A chill crept up my back.

It seems that “the next stage” means I will become a monster I cannot comprehend or accept myself.

I let go of my mouth, forcing down the urge to vomit.

Word by word, through gritted teeth, I said:

“I will never agree.”

I whispered it like a vow, the words burning my tongue, knowing that if any god or spirit was listening, they would know I had chosen my side.