YAATRA

By the time he reached the cliffs,his feet were blistered.His mind — still. No questions.No prayers.Only breath. The air smelled of iron, incense, and something ancient. A small shrine stood at the edge —walls soaked in vermilion, skulls hung like garlands,and flames that did not flicker. She sat inside. Not waiting.Not watching.Burning. Her eyes were open.Not black. Not red.Just… awake—in a way that made time itself uneasy. The Saadhak knelt. But she laughed. “Why kneel, when I’ve already seen you naked from the inside?” He didn’t reply. She stepped forward. Each footfall sounded like a heartbeat breaking—and being reborn. She circled him.Like a lioness.Like a mother who remembers your karma better than you do. “You left your voice in the mirror,” she said.“Bring it back.” He opened his mouth to speak.No sound. She pressed her thumb to his throat. “Say it.” Still silence. Then… tears. Not of sadness.Of pressure. Like something locked deep inside, behind generations, was rising. He gasped. “I want to be free,” he whispered. She smiled. Not sweet. Not cruel.Real. “Then burn.” She placed her hand on his chest,and chanted— “Kreem Bhairaviye Swaha…” He screamed. Not in pain.In truth. All his guilt, all his rage held down for so long—caught fire like dry leaves. He convulsed.Fell. Then—stillness. A long, long stillness. When he opened his eyes, she was gone. But something remained. His breath sounded different. Like it belonged to a man who had died… and come back honest. Behind him, the cliff cracked. A path opened—stone steps leading downward,into the underground river where the final gate waited. A whisper rode the wind. “Now you meet the Guardian.The Rakshak.The one who decides if you walk out… or dissolve forever.”

He walked till the forest thinned, till the ground grew cold again.Then, a structure.Not a temple.Not a ruin.Just… a square stone room with no roof.Inside, the walls shimmered faintly — like they had been polished with ash and tears.At the center:A slab of obsidian.Not a mirror.Not a window.But something in between. The Saadhak stepped closer.No idols.No chants.Only silence that weighed.He leaned in, expecting a reflection.But the stone did not return to his face.It showed others. A version of him that chose marriage over meditation.A version that became a corporate success, sipping wine but haunted at night.A version that died young, never speaking the truth.A version that never existed — pure, luminous, terrifying in stillness. He stepped back. The stone followed. Now, it reflects his current self.But the face was blurred.Melted.Featureless.A voice, deep and neutral, echoed from the walls: “You are afraid not of demons… but of decisions.“You seek freedom, yet mourn the paths you didn’t walk.”“You wear pain like a badge and call it destiny.” The Saadhak trembled.“Who are you?” he whispered.No answer.Only an image—Of him shaving his head, giving away all books, and walking naked into a city.Then another—Of him weeping at his mother’s funeral, refusing to light the pyre.Then another—Of him hugging a beggar and realizing they were once lovers in another birth.He dropped to his knees.Not in prayer.But because the weight of who he was could’ve crushed him. The voice returned.“You will not cross until you forgive them all.”“All the ‘you’s you abandoned.”The Saadhak, for the first time, did not chant.Did not resist.He simply said:“I’m sorry. I tried the best I knew.” The mirror cracked.Not broken.Just… real.Now it showed only one thing:His eyes.Still blurred, but slowly clearing.A shadow appeared behind him.No face.Just breathe.“Ready?” it asked.He turned.And nodded. As he stepped out of the shrine,the sun returned.Warm. Real.But not blinding.A dog followed him now.Black, silent, walking at his pace.Ahead —a crimson smoke rising from the cliffs. Where Bhairavi waited.

The Saadhak walked for what felt like days without sun.Kapali’s cave vanished behind him — a dream swallowed by dawn. Ahead:A river winding like a whispered secret.A village with no name, no map.And music… drifting in the air like colored smoke. Not devotional.Not classical.Raw. Broken. Beautiful. He followed it. Through trees wrapped in red cloth —scarlet ribbons fluttering like prayers.Past women washing clothes, their laughter echoing like goddesses’ songs.Past children painting crooked birds on mud walls,their eyes alive with mischief and wonder. And there —in the heart of the village —a girl sat beneath a neem tree. Eyes closed.Fingers dancing over a veena strung with silence itself. The Saadhak stopped.Something inside him began to tremble. She wasn’t old.She wasn’t young.She wasn’t trying. And yet— He forgot hunger.Forgot questions.Forgot even why he had come. Then she sang. No words. Just sound.And in that sound, he heard: The first time he was kissed and felt nothing.The day his poem was mocked and he burned it.The night he wanted to die—and didn’t.The silence between his name being called… and him not answering. She opened her eyes. Green.Like moss. Like memory.Like magic cloaked in the ordinary. “You’ve arrived late,” she said.“But your pain got here before you.” The Saadhak tried to speak. He couldn’t. “You still think surrender is kneeling,” she said.“It’s not. It’s bleeding art without flinching.” She offered him her veena. He touched it. And was thrown back —to a memory of himself as a child,dancing alone in a dark roomwhile the adults fought outside. He was smiling.Free.Unaware he would one day lock that dancer away. She sang again. This time — a name. “Viraag.” It was his. But not from this life.The name of the one who never bowed to tradition,and yet became truth. “Wear it,” she said.“Not like a crown. Like a scar.” Then she rose, walked to him,and painted his forehead with a smear of green neem ash. A blessing?A wound?He did not ask. Because he was no longer seeking answers. He was becoming the song. Before she vanished into the trees, she whispered: “Next, you will meet the Mirrorless One.He will show you what you refuse to see.”

The climb was sharp. Stone dug into skin.The Saadhak’s feet bled, but he didn’t slow.He was pulled now — not by logic, not by map —but by a voice only silence could carry. By dusk, he stood at the cave’s mouth. Inside, skulls.Hundreds. Lined like ancient manuscripts on forgotten shelves. Some cracked, worn by time.Some painted with fading vermilion.Some still moist — fresh, as if the breath of the departed lingered. At the center sat a figure —half-man, half-shadow, draped in bones. Kapali. He did not greet.He did not blink. He simply picked up a skull,held it close to his ear,and laughed. Not cruel. Not mad.Just… timeless. “This one,” he chuckled,“claimed he found God in a spreadsheet.”“That one,” he mused,“thought lust was love until silence became her name.”“And this one prayed for heaven — yet missed the miracle of breath.” He tossed the skull aside like a fallen leaf, then picked up another. The Saadhak stepped forward, heart tightening. Kapali finally looked up.Eyes like dying moons — pale, waning, holding secrets. “You think I collect death?” he asked, voice low.“No. I collect unfinished thoughts.” He pointed to the Saadhak’s chest. “You brought one. I can smell its weight.” The Saadhak hesitated. What thought?What death? Kapali stood slowly.Reached behind his back, pulling out a small skull —childlike, glowing faintly blue in the dim light. The Saadhak gasped. He remembered.That dream. That voice. “Why didn’t you come back for me?” The boy he once was.The questions left unanswered.The grief buried deep. “Every seeker must return for the child they abandoned,” Kapali said.“Otherwise, even God will feel like a stranger.” He placed the glowing skull in the Saadhak’s hands. It was warm. Alive.Then—It crumbled to ash. The Saadhak wept. But not from sorrow.From release. Kapali’s lips curved into a knowing grin. “Good. You’ve spilled something sacred.Now you can carry nothing.” Around them, the skulls began to whisper.One word, rising and falling like a chant: “Vairaag…”“Vairaag…”“Vairaag…” Not mere detachment. True freedom. Kapali turned away. “Go now, Saadhak. To the one who wears green and storms.”“She waits with her back to the moon.”“Her name is Maatangi.”

The run had no end. Feet bleeding. Lungs tearing. But he didn’t stop. Not until he collapsed at the steps of an old shrine — forgotten by time, untouched by prayers for centuries. Three doors stood before him. No handles. No locks. Only symbols carved into wood: 🌑 A child curled in sleep. 🔥 A man burning in silence. 🌕 A figure without a face, stepping into light. He didn’t choose. They opened together. And time spilled out. PAST — BhootkaalHe saw himself — a boy in school uniform, staring out a classroom window, hearing chants no one else could hear.His teacher slapped him for writing ॐ कालाय नमः instead of his name on the exam.That was the day he buried his voice. He blinked. Now a young man in a college hostel, sitting under a flickering bulb, reading Tantra Rahasya hidden inside an economics textbook. His roommate laughed.He laughed too.But his hands trembled. He blinked. Now he stood beside his grandfather’s body, cold but untouched by flame. The priest said,“Before he died, he whispered your name.” He had never asked what. PRESENT — VartamaanHe was still at the temple. Or maybe not. Time folded inward like wet cloth. He watched himself sitting in the fire pit again.Then standing in the forest.Then bowing to the Rakshak.Then running. All at once. All now. FUTURE — BhavishyaA vision opened like thunder behind clouds. He stood alone in a cave, hair long, eyes glowing.Not mad. Not holy.Just… empty.Still. Someone crawled to him — injured, afraid.He whispered something in their ear. The person stood, healed. Not by magic. Because truth, finally, had a voice. And it was his. Back in the temple, the three doors closed. And on his chest, where once burned a flame, now rested a symbol— 🕉️ inside a triangle, wrapped by a snake, resting on a skull. He had crossed the Trikala. And heard, at last, his grandfather’s voice: “Now you’re ready, beta. Now… go to the Kapali.”

The fire didn’t consume him.It marked him. When he opened his eyes, the cremation ground was gone. He lay on the forest floor — soft, breathing, alive.Above him, the sky blinked through a canopy of ancient leaves. But something was wrong. His ears throbbed.His breath came in short, sharp bursts.His tongue tasted blood. He wasn’t alone in his body. He sat up, slowly.His hands were caked with dirt.His nails sharper.His skin pulsing — something stirring within. Then he heard it. A growl. Not from behind. From within. The jungle was humming now.Not with wind, but presence. A rustle. A sudden stillness. Then — eyes. Dozens. Yellow, wet, blinking in the bushes. Wolves? Jackals? No. Dogs. Not pets. Not strays.These were the wild, ash-covered beasts said to follow Bhairava himself. One stepped forward.Scar across its snout.Eyes like dying stars. It didn’t bark.It bowed. The others followed. They formed a circle around him. He should’ve been afraid. Instead, he howled. The sound tore from him like truth — ancient, cracked, primal. The dogs howled back. And in that unholy music, something clicked — a doorway opening, not in space, but inside him. He saw flashes. A young boy feeding a dying pup.A man tying a dog to a tree and walking away.A deity standing naked in a cremation ground, surrounded by canines. And he remembered… Pashupati isn’t worshipped. He is joined.Not with chants.But with the surrender of control. Suddenly, the earth trembled. Not an earthquake. A heartbeat. He turned. And there, emerging from fog and flame— A towering figure. Covered in ash.Garland of skulls.Eyes black as the void between stars.At his feet — silence itself. He held no weapon. He didn’t need one. Because he was the weapon. Bhairava. The Saadhak fell to his knees. But Bhairava didn’t speak. He pointed. To the Saadhak’s chest. A growl erupted from within him.His ribs shook.His vision blurred. And he saw—not God.Not Demon. He saw himself, running on all fours, chasing something he could never name. “To know the divine,” Bhairava finally said,“you must run wild with your ghosts first.” The dogs began to run. And so did he. Into the forest. Howling. Unchained.

Some places welcome death.Some are guarded by it. The Saadhak had walked all night.The path was broken. Disappearing.Mud turned to ash beneath his feet.Trees thinned.Above him, stars vanished into smoke-shaped clouds — like rising funeral fire. Just before dawn, he arrived at the cremation ground. No flames.No bodies.And still… the air smelled like something had ended. In the center stood a lone figure.Tall. Draped in black.A skull-topped staff in one hand. He didn’t move.Didn’t breathe.His eyes were shut.And… he had no shadow. The Saadhak stopped, a few feet away. The wind spoke again — not in words, but in weight.The kind of silence that comes just before truth is revealed. Then the figure’s eyes opened. But they were not eyes.They were mirrors. And in them, the Saadhak saw himself — not as he was,but as he had hidden. A frightened boy.A bleeding man.A sinner.A saint. All layered. Flickering. Shifting like smoke. He tried to speak. The Rakshak raised one finger. “श्मशान सत्य माँगता है, शोर नहीं।”“The cremation ground asks for truth, not noise.” The Saadhak stepped closer, heart pounding like a warning drum. The Rakshak pointed to a mound of ash. Something beneath it moved—barely. He knelt. Reached in.His hands touched red cloth, edges burned. Wrapped in it — a severed hand holding a small bell.On the wrist: a rudraksh thread. Like his own. Then — the bell rang. Not from wind.From remembrance. And the world around him cracked. He was no longer in the cremation ground.He stood before his childhood home. His mother lit incense.His father chanted.And in the center — his younger self, holding that same bell. Time bent inward. Ash drifted down like snow. The Rakshak’s voice sliced through: “The one you buried is still waiting. You must die… before you can go ahead.” The bell stopped. So did his breath. He knelt by the mound, the severed hand still warm with a memory that did not belong to this life alone. The bell in its grasp—tiny, bronze, rim cracked—had a sound that didn’t echo outward.It sank inward. Into his bones. Each ring brought back something buried: The time he lied to save himself.The time he walked away from love.The time he ignored the call.The time he laughed when he should’ve listened.The time he watched the flames and felt… nothing. The Rakshak stood motionless, like a sculpture cast in ancient grief. And then came a faint child’s voice.Not in the air—but inside him. “Why didn’t you come back for me?” He dropped the bell. Breath hitched.Vision blurred. Because he knew that voice. It was his own.Not from this age.From one long past—or maybe from a lifetime he hadn’t finished living. Tears didn’t fall.In this place, even sorrow burned before it touched the ground. The Rakshak finally spoke: “You wear the beads, but you haven’t earned them.”“You carry fire, but never sat inside it.”“You seek God, but run from your ghost.” Then, a question: “Will you walk into your pyre, if I light it?” The Saadhak didn’t answer. He stood. Picked up the bell again. Held it to his chest. He nodded. The Rakshak turned and walked toward a square of black stone—the cremation pit, unused for years.He poured oil from a clay pot that hadn’t been there before. The Saadhak stepped in.Sat cross-legged. Not resisting.Not praying. Just being. The Rakshak lifted his hand—fingers snapped. The flames rose. Bright.Then blue.Then black. But he didn’t burn.He bloomed. From ash, came a new name whispered by the wind: “Pashupati awaits.” The bell rang once more.This time, from inside his chest.

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.” Chapter 1 – Saadhak They said the forest had a mouth — and once you stepped in, it would chew away your name. 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.