" What we call the beginning is often the end. And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from."
-T.S. Eliot
In the enigmatic town of Kshaya lurks a figure shrouded in infamy: SHAITAN, the most wanted criminal whose true id...
Ashwath Pawar found himself in a remote corner of the world, far removed from the bustling city life he was accustomed to. He wandered through an unfamiliar village, its population scarce and its surroundings barren. The landscape stretched out before him like an endless desert, with parched earth as far as the eye could see, interspersed with struggling patches of vegetation.
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Dressed in a simple brown shirt, black pants, and weathered shoes caked with dust, Ashwath cut a rugged figure against the barren backdrop. His hair, a mix of dim black and strands of grey, fell in unkempt waves around his face, complementing his salt-and-pepper beard that added an air of maturity to his appearance. Despite being in his forties, there was a rugged charm to his demeanor, enhanced by the sun reflecting off his full-frame spectacles, which shielded his brown eyes, now marked by dark circles from fatigue.
Walking alongside him was a small girl, a stark contrast to Ashwath's weathered appearance. Clad in a bright, colorful skirt, her short hair framed her delicate features, while her fair complexion and petite stature added to her innocence and charm. Despite the harsh surroundings, her youthful energy and cheerful demeanor provided a glimmer of hope amidst the desolation.
He entered a quaint wooden shop, its weathered facade bearing witness to years of use. Inside, an elderly man dressed in a white dhoti and shirtless greeted him. Despite the presence of a few other customers, all eyes turned to Ashwath as he stepped inside, their gazes lingering on him with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. However, the shopkeeper recognized him immediately.
"You've been gone for quite a while," the shopkeeper remarked, his voice tinged with familiarity.
"Yes, been busy with work," Ashwath replied, his tone matter-of-fact.
"What can I get you today?" the shopkeeper inquired, his wrinkled face.
"I'll need some vegetables, soap, toothpaste, and shampoo," Ashwath requested, his voice steady.
"The usual one's ?" the shopkeeper confirmed, his memory sharp despite his age.
"Yes, and a kilo of apples," Ashwath added.
"That'll be total of 500 rupees," the shopkeeper stated, quoting the price.
Ashwath settled the bill and bid farewell to the shopkeeper before making his way back home. His pace quickened, a sense of unease gnawing at him as he scanned his surroundings with a wary eye. The desolate landscape seemed to stretch on endlessly, amplifying his sense of isolation.
As Ashwath traversed the barren terrain, his young daughter, Nisha, held out her tiny hand, a small toffee wrapper crinkling in her grasp. "Papa, can you open this?" she asked, her innocent voice cutting through the harsh stillness of the landscape.
Before Ashwath could take the toffee from her, he accidentally collided with a man-a lean, disheveled figure reeking of alcohol, his long, unkempt hair matted against his forehead. The man staggered back a step, his bleary eyes narrowing in drunken irritation.
