Chapter 1: The Child on the Summit

I am the Immortal Lord of Mahameru Peak.

The chill bites through my woolen shawl, the silence broken only by the distant clang of a temple bell. The weight of that title sits heavily on my shoulders, more so in the hush of the predawn air, when even the wind dares not disturb the ancient stones. My gaze sweeps the horizon from this sacred summit, as it has for centuries. Below, clouds wrap the mountains like white shawls, and the morning aarti bells echo faintly from distant villages, carried on the breeze. Such moments remind me that, even at this height, the pulse of Bharat beats all around.

My eldest disciple once rescued a small child from a ruined mandir.

That old temple, with its broken shikhara and moss-covered idols, was said to be cursed, avoided even by the bravest villagers from the foothills. But my Arjun, ever fearless, brought back the boy wrapped in a tattered red cloth, the ash of burnt incense still clinging to his hair. The whispers soon began—villagers murmured, "Who is this child who survives ruin and fire?"

He called him the "Child of Naga and Garuda, a prodigy blessed by the gods," a seed of great promise.

Such words are never uttered lightly atop Mahameru. In these halls, filled with echoes of mantras and stories of sadhaks who changed the world, the naming of a child as a divine seed meant destinies were being shaped. Even the birds that circled our peak seemed to pause in midair, as if listening.

I bestowed upon him a rare Amritya Pravesh tablet, personally safeguarding his path of sadhana.

Unlike my previous disciples, who would be overjoyed at such a gift, he stiffened his neck as he swallowed the tablet, his brows furrowing, his face twisting—as if he had just swallowed something foul and slimy, like a living earthworm.

The sight surprised me. My past disciples had danced with joy, their faces lighting up like diyas at Diwali when I gave them such treasures. But this child’s jaw clenched, and for a moment, I thought he might spit it out on the spot. My heart beat an uneasy rhythm—had I misjudged him?

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I noticed his unusual reaction.

You must understand, this spiritual elixir is something even maharajas and ministers could only dream of obtaining in their lifetimes. Anyone who received it should have been overwhelmed with gratitude.

In all these centuries, I've watched men and women prostrate fully, stretching out on the cold marble floor as is tradition before elders, for a taste of what I offered this boy. The tales of sadhaks attaining great power with this tablet have spread from the bazaars of Banaras to the markets of Madurai. Yet here he was, his face as sour as if he'd bitten into a raw amla, and not a trace of thanks in his eyes.

So, after he left, I sent out my astral self to secretly observe him.

Old habits die hard for a guru. With a whispered mantra and a pinch of holy ash, my astral form slipped through the halls like a stray cat after curd. The night was cool, the stars peeking through the mist, and I watched as the boy’s silhouette moved quietly through the stone corridors.

I discovered that as soon as he returned to his quarters, he forced himself to vomit, smashed the regurgitated tablet to bits, and threw the remains into the havan fire to be utterly destroyed.

The fire crackled as the remnants sizzled away. He chanted a short, sharp mantra—not from any script I knew. The room smelled briefly of burnt sugar and something darker, like dried neem leaves. My heart skipped a beat. In all my years, no disciple had ever dared such a thing.

My body trembled slightly.

Could this child have also discovered the truth of the world…?

I realised he was different.

But after so many years, I have seen too many hopes dashed.

You see, though it is called an "Amritya tablet," in truth, it is nothing but a sugar-coated insect egg.

This is the bitterest truth of Mahameru. The outer world, with all its faith in the wisdom of gurus, could never imagine that salvation here grew from deception. The tablets, hailed in legends, are a parasite’s seed dressed up as a miracle.

Even though he spat out the tablet, the hurdle of foundation building is unavoidable. If he swallows the "Amritya tablet," he becomes one of us. If he does not, he has no reason to remain on the peak.

Therefore, I was in no hurry to decide his fate. I wanted to see how he would break this deadlock.

In my heart, a flicker of anticipation burned. Would he run? Would he fight? Or would he, like so many before him, bend under the weight of tradition? Only time would reveal the answer, and atop Mahameru, time was the one thing I had in abundance.