Chapter 3: The Anand Lok Mandir Trap

I wipe the sweat from my brow, hand still trembling from the earlier horror. The monkey doesn’t attack—yet.

After a few more kilometres, a magnificent mandir rises before us.

It’s like something from an Amar Chitra Katha: domes glittering in the sun, outer walls carved with stories—Rama, Sita, Lakshman, Hanuman—but the faces seem to shift and mock in the sunlight. A breeze carries the scent of agarbatti and marigold.

Birds sing in the trees, temple bells clang, a distant conch blares, and the air is thick with the drone of a priest chanting over a crackling loudspeaker. Incense and jasmine waft over the stone, mingling with old ghee and dust. For a fleeting moment, I’m home—hearing my mother’s bangles as she lights the diya at dusk. But peace is thin, easily torn.

Above the gate, three painted letters: Anand Lok Mandir.

Bold, red and gold, they stare down at us. My heart hammers—this is no ordinary temple.

My disciples’ faces light up with joy, their happiness almost childlike.

Bhondu claps, the monk bows, Elder Bhaiya’s tail flicks. Yet beneath their glee, I sense hunger—longing for something not entirely holy.

Only I feel dread. This is Chhota Anand Lok Mandir—the Yellow Brows Swami’s domain. One of the deadliest checkpoints in Ramayana Yatra.

A chill runs down my spine. Stories from my grandfather rush back—warnings muttered over late-night chai. This is where even heroes stumble. I grip the reins, knuckles white.

Even Hanuman was once trapped in a golden kalash here, nearly dying.

The memory stings—Hanuman, the hero, undone by trickery. If he could fall, what hope do I have?

As we approach, I say, "Hanuman, your guru sees this mandir rising suddenly in the wilds. We must not enter rashly, lest we fall into a trap."

I keep my voice low, hoping to sound wise. My hands shake as I gesture at the gates. The words hang heavy in the air.

The monkey counters, "Guruji, look at this Anand Lok—how could it not be Swarg Parvat? If we don’t sincerely worship Bhagwan, how can we get the true scriptures?"

His words have a sharp edge. He joins his hands, eyes shining with zeal. I see impatience—he wants to go in, to claim whatever lies inside.

"Your heart is not sincere!" the monkey shouts, and black blood spurts from his eyes, ears, mouth, nose all at once.

The transformation is sudden and violent. His face contorts, black blood splattering the dust, the air thick with its metallic stench. I step back, heart pounding. The others freeze, a collective panic—Shambhu whispers a shaky prayer, the horse stamps nervously.

I’m about to make another excuse when the second rule shouts in my head—louder than the temple loudspeaker.

【Elder Bhaiya will protect you; do not refuse his requests.】

The warning is as clear as my mother’s call from the kitchen. My mouth dries, my eyes dart from Elder Bhaiya to the temple doors.

What if I refuse? Will I vanish, or be torn apart?

Both fates seem close. I glance at Elder Bhaiya, feeling the heat of his gaze.

Hanuman, oh Hanuman—where is your Tejasvi Drishti now?

A pang of grief. The hero I loved, reduced to this—rage, blood, and blind obedience. I sigh, mourning something lost.

I dismount, sighing deeply, and walk in.

Each step is heavy. The angavastram slips; I pause, adjusting it, buying seconds. The temple doors gape open like a waiting maw.

Inside, the Sabha glows with eerie golden light. Lamps flicker on the marble floor, casting long shadows. The air is thick with camphor and burnt butter. My skin tingles with dread.

On the dais, eight Rishis, five hundred Munis, and a crowd of devas and devis stand in ranks. The rishis’ beards glisten with oil, the munis’ malas click softly as they wait.

In the centre, a massive lump of flesh and blood writhes, slowly shaping itself into Bhagwan—dignified and solemn.

It’s a grotesque sight—bones snapping, skin bubbling, features forming. A low chant fills the hall. I feel the hairs on my arms rise.

As I cross the threshold, a voice thunders in my mind.

【Scripture-seeker enters Chhota Anand Lok Mandir. The following rules are added.】

【Bhagwan is not a lump of flesh. Bhagwan is not a lump of flesh. Bhagwan is not a lump of flesh.】

【My Bhagwan is merciful; scripture-seekers are forbidden to kneel.】

The words ring like temple bells in my skull, each repetition hammering the warning home. I stagger, gripping a marble pillar. My mouth is dry, my heart loud in my ears.

Before I can process this, the monkey’s voice slithers behind me.

"Guruji, why aren’t you kneeling yet?"

His tone is soft but sharp. The hall dims, shadows creeping along the marble. I know, with sudden clarity, this is a test I may not survive.