Chapter 1- Saadhak

They said the forest had a mouth — and once you stepped in, it would chew away your name.

He didn’t care.
Names were for those who planned to return.
He hadn’t come back to return.

Just after sunset, his dusty boots reached the cracked stone steps of an old temple — lost on maps, but still remembered by the soul.
The villagers had warned him:
“रात में वो जागते हैं… जो तुम्हारी बात नहीं, बस आत्मा सुनते हैं।”
(At night, those awaken… who don’t hear your words — only your soul.)

There was no priest.
No idol.
Only a blackened yoni, smeared with ash and oil, resting quietly beneath a banyan tree whose roots looked more like limbs.

He knelt — not in prayer — but to wait.

He was not a devotee.
He was a seeker.

A Saadhak.

In his satchel were just a few things:
A rudraksh mala,
a worn-out diary once owned by his grandfather (whom people called an exorcist),
and a small silver trishul, wrapped in red cloth.

As night deepened, the jungle sounds thickened — owls, rustling leaves, and a distant laugh that didn’t sound human.
He lit a single diya.
The flame danced once. Then stood steady.

And then — he heard it.

A voice.
Low. Rough.
Like fire speaking through a throat.

“तू लौटा है…?”
(Have you returned…?)

He turned quickly.
No one.

But something had changed in the air.
It was warmer now.
Heavier.
Each breath felt like he was inhaling someone else’s presence.

He pulled out the diary and opened it.

The first line had always been unreadable — faded over time.

But now, under the temple’s dark breath, the ink glowed faintly.

“Where the seeker kneels, the demon stirs. Do not seek the truth unless you’re ready to burn.”

There was a rustle behind him.

He didn’t turn.

He smiled.

“Let’s begin.”