" 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...
Many years ago, under the scorching midday sun, Bhairava ran. His breath came in ragged gasps, his chest heaving as he pushed his body forward, his bare feet pounding against the cracked, dry earth. His once-pristine blue shirt, now a tattered mess of fraying threads and dirt-stained fabric, clung to his sweat-drenched torso. The left pocket was torn, barely hanging onto the shirt by a few stubborn stitches. The upper half of the garment was soaked in sweat, darkening the already faded fabric.
His skin, darkened further by the relentless sun and caked with dust, glistened with perspiration. Strands of his long, unkempt hair clung to his damp forehead, while the ends swayed wildly, flinging droplets of sweat into the air with every frantic step. His pants, crudely tailored by a local hand, clung to his legs, stiff with dust and dirt, the fabric worn thin from years of wear. The stitching at the seams had begun to unravel, making them look as if they could split apart at any moment.
All around him, an endless stretch of farmland lay in decay. Dried, withered stalks of wheat crunched beneath his feet, their brittle remains scattering into the air as he tore through them. The field, once golden with life, was now a graveyard of broken stems and parched earth, offering no refuge-only the open expanse of land that betrayed his every move.
Behind him, the rhythmic sound of footfalls echoed through the barren land. The men chasing him did not run in desperation like Bhairava; they pursued him with a steady, deliberate pace, their movements controlled, predatory. Dressed in bright silk shirts and crisp dhotis, their clothes shimmered under the brutal sunlight, a stark contrast to Bhairava's ragged state. They were not mere villagers-they were men of power, men with wealth, and men with vengeance in their eyes.
The gap between them was closing. Bhairava could feel it. His heart pounded, not just from exertion but from the weight of inevitability pressing down on him. He didn't dare look back, but he could hear them-voices murmuring, heavy footsteps crushing the brittle wheat, the swish of fabric as they moved with purpose.
Sweat trickled down his spine, mixing with the dirt that clung to his skin. His lungs burned, his legs screamed for rest, but he couldn't stop. He wouldn't stop.
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As Bhairava ran, the angry shouts behind him grew louder-closer. Then came the stones. One by one, they struck his back, his arms, his shoulders. Sharp, merciless thuds of pain tore through his young body. He staggered, breath ragged, refusing to fall.
But then-a larger stone, jagged and heavy-crashed into the back of his head.
Bhairava crumpled instantly. Dust exploded around him as he hit the ground face-first. His cheek scraped the earth, mixing blood with the mud. His long, tangled hair fanned out behind him, and from the base of his skull, dark red rivulets began to seep, quietly soaking into the soil like an offering no one asked for.
A ring of men closed in. Faces hard, eyes filled with hatred, each one held a long, knotted stick-some stripped branches, others thick stems of trees hardened by sun and sweat.
