" 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...
The desolate expanse of the field stretched endlessly, a barren witness to the mourners who had gathered in solemn unity. The air was thick with grief, the faint rustle of the surrounding woods and the soft murmur of prayers the only sounds breaking the oppressive silence. It was a funeral—a sacred ritual where the departed were entrusted to the purifying flames.
Amidst the mourners stood Ashwath, his figure resolute against the backdrop of the somber scene. Dressed in a pristine white dhoti, his upper body draped with a simple shalya, he bore the weight of the moment with quiet dignity. The breeze played with his unruly hair, carrying with it the scent of sandalwood and the acrid undertone of burning ghee. His expression was carved from stone, his face a mask of stoic control, yet his eyes betrayed him—smoldering with a fire of their own, a mix of sorrow and unquenched rage.
Beside him, Ahalya stood as a mirror to his grief, her presence a silent testimony to their shared loss. She was dressed in an unadorned white kurta, her face stripped of color, her usual vibrancy replaced by the pallor of mourning. Her trembling hand clutched Ashwath’s arm as though it were the only anchor keeping her from being swept away by the storm of emotions that threatened to engulf her. Tears streamed down her cheeks, unchecked and unashamed, each one a silent lament for the void left by Anand's departure.
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Ashwath’s grip tightened around the stout wooden staff he held in his hand. Its tip, wrapped in white cloth and ignited with fire, glowed brightly—a flickering beacon of the solemn duty he was about to fulfill. The staff was more than a tool; it was a symbol of his role as the bearer of his father’s final rites, a responsibility laden with tradition, reverence, and unspeakable sorrow.
The mourners around him wailed openly, their cries a discordant symphony of grief. Yet Ashwath stood motionless, his pain locked deep within. His jaw clenched, his knuckles whitened around the staff, but he refused to let the emotions overpower him. To weep now, in front of so many, felt like a weakness he could not afford—his father would not have wanted that.
The crackle of the fire seemed deafening as Ashwath took a determined step forward, his bare feet crunching against the dry earth. Each step was heavy, each movement deliberate. He reached the pyre where his father’s body lay, carefully prepared and shrouded in layers of sacred wood, flowers, and the white cloth of finality. Anand's face was barely visible, but to Ashwath, it was etched into his mind—every wrinkle, every expression, every memory of their time together.
As Ashwath lowered the flaming staff toward the pyre, the fire leaped greedily to meet the offerings. The flames roared to life, consuming the wood and cloth with ferocious intensity. The golden-orange light cast haunting shadows across the mourners, illuminating their tear-streaked faces. But Ashwath’s gaze remained fixed on the fire.
The blaze was not just consuming his father’s body; it felt as though it were devouring a part of his soul, a part he would never reclaim. And yet, within the flames, another fire burned brighter—an unrelenting fury that had taken root in Ashwath's heart. His father’s death was not natural, not just. It was a tragedy born of betrayal, loss, and despair.
