Chapter 1: The Awakening in Blood

A splitting headache—like someone’s banging a brass lota against my skull at a wedding pandal. The pain throbs from the base of my neck to my temples, making my whole head ring. It smells like Dettol, trampled temple marigolds, and a faint whiff of rusted coins—the kind you find at the bottom of a puja kalash. My tongue tastes sour, as if I’ve gulped down four cups of cutting chai on an empty stomach at Dadar station.

I force my eyes open. Three faces, smeared with dried blood, loom over me—so close I can see flecks of red on their lips. For a moment, I wonder if I’ve landed in some twisted Holi party gone wrong, but the air is too heavy, thick with the stench of iron. My nose crinkles in disgust. One figure blocks out the weak, smoky sunlight leaking through what looks like a torn tent flap overhead.

A monkey, a pig-faced man, a monk—and the rough saffron angavastram draped across me. This isn’t a fever dream. I’ve transmigrated into Ramayana Yatra.

It hits me harder than a Mumbai local train door slamming shut. My hand grabs the angavastram—the cloth scratches my skin, rougher than the old dhobi’s towels back home. My mind stutters, trying to accept the impossible. I almost see my WhatsApp wallpaper—my office team’s photo—flash behind my eyes. For a desperate second, I think of my boss, his voice booming, ‘Where’s the report, beta?’ This can’t be real. Which episode is this? Did Dadi’s late-night mytho serials finally fry my brain?

"Guruji, you’re awake?" The bearded monk steps forward, concern mixed with the kind of fear you see when someone interrupts a tantrik’s midnight puja. His voice wobbles, reverent and wary. I notice his knuckles whiten around his staff, and my mother’s warning echoes—never trust a stranger who smiles too much.

I want to speak, but I remember the fourth rule.

【Do not have any communication with Shambhu.】

A cold sweat breaks at my hairline. My lips part, then snap shut, like when a lizard dashes across your foot. The warning replays in my mind, louder than the train announcements at Dadar station. I avert my gaze, fiddling with the angavastram, heart drumming in my chest.

I ignore him and turn to the monkey with the wild, bristly face: "Hanuman, what happened to your guru?"

I try to sound chill, like I’m just asking the paanwala if he’s got change for a 500. My voice wobbles, but I force myself to meet his eyes, praying he can’t see the panic boiling inside me. The monkey radiates heat, his eyes wild, like a street dog eyeing the butcher’s scraps.

The monkey blinks, surprised. "Guruji, who’s Hanuman?"

His confusion seems real, but there’s a slyness too—like a kid denying he ate the last Parle-G. My spine prickles. A crow caws outside, splitting the silence.

Bhondu grumbles, "Elder Bhaiya, I told you Guruji got his head smashed by that fake monkey, but you wouldn’t believe it."

He sounds like a sulky younger cousin who finally gets to say, ‘I told you so’ at a family function. Bhondu’s snout wrinkles with annoyance, his piggy eyes flicking between me and the others, bracing for a scolding. I notice his hands, still tacky with drying blood, fidgeting by his sides.

I quickly add, "Yes, my head aches as if it’s splitting, my mind is all muddled."

I pitch my voice to mimic a feverish guru from some old Doordarshan drama. My hand presses my forehead, as if that alone could ward off suspicion. In the background, Shambhu tilts his head, his lips twitching with something he won’t say.

I sit up slowly—and realise I’ve been lying in a heap of bloody flesh and splintered bones.

Revulsion crashes over me. My palms, sticky with gore, smear my saffron robes. Flies swarm lazily, treating this as just another langar. I want to close my eyes and faint, but the air is so thick with death it stings my nose and keeps me anchored in the nightmare.

Blood stains the corners of my three disciples’ mouths. Bhondu eyes me hungrily, as if I’m the next course.

Goosebumps race up my arms. Bhondu’s tongue flicks out, licking his lips, eyes fixed on my throat with the patience of a stray dog at Crawford Market. I shift, clutching the angavastram tighter, muttering a silent prayer—Ram, Ram, save me from these rakshasas!

The monkey says slowly, "I’m just called Elder Bhaiya, but if Guruji wishes, you can call me Hanuman from now on."

His tone is both boastful and menacing, like a rickshawallah inflating his own importance to out-of-towners. His chest puffs out, flecks of blood in his fur. He flashes a quick grin—a glint of sharp, animal teeth. The air shivers with something ancient.

"Alright, alright, Hanuman." I dare not refuse, terrified of making a scene.

I force a weak laugh, trying to sound like I’m joking, though my heart’s pounding like a tabla. Everyone knows—you don’t tick off the guy with the gada. I drop my gaze, thinking, better a coward than a martyr.

After Bhondu’s explanation, I start piecing together the story.

I listen like my father does with property agents—nodding, pretending to understand, but watching for tricks. Snippets of battle, betrayal, and loyalty drift past, every word heavy with threat. I sweat, refusing to meet Bhondu’s gaze too long.

A fake monkey knocked me out. After a brutal fight, "Hanuman"—with the guru’s blessings—overpowered the imposter, who was then beaten to death.

Images flash—fur flying, bones snapping, blood splattering the dust. Elder Bhaiya’s chest heaving, Bhondu grinning, licking his snout. I nod, feigning awe at their loyalty and strength.

I realise this must be the ‘True and False Hanuman’ episode from the epic.

A chill crawls down my back. Dadi’s voice rings in my ears: ‘Beta, Ramayana serials are full of tricks—real demons don’t need horns.’ I breathe deep, hoping the story won’t stray too far from what I know.

Thinking of the bloody mess beneath me, I shudder.

I swallow hard, the taste of bile thick. My hands tremble as I brush off bone fragments. If only I had a steel dabba of rice and dal—something normal. Instead, I’m surrounded by violence in the guise of pilgrimage.

Was it really the fake monkey who knocked me out?

The doubt nags like a stone in my sandal. I scan their faces for clues, but all I get are blank, waiting stares. In this world, even the monkeys can lie.

Was the original Swami already devoured by them?

A wave of nausea hits. My stomach knots as I imagine myself as the next meal. Was I food already? Or just next in line?

According to the second rule, Elder Bhaiya will protect me, so it shouldn’t have been him who killed me.

I grip the rules in my mind like a commuter clings to the train pole. Elder Bhaiya is my shield—at least for now. I glance at him, hoping he can’t hear my frantic heartbeat.

But in the rules, Bhondu and Shambhu are named, but only "Elder Bhaiya" for the monkey.

The detail nags. Why not Hanuman? What’s missing? My hands shake as I try to appear calm, but every nerve in me is stretched tight.

Could it be that, in this world, there is no Hanuman at all?

My head buzzes with possibilities. Was the real Hanuman replaced? Some asura’s trick? For a second, I feel completely alone—a stranger in a myth, with only these rules for company.