" 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...
Robert stood frozen at the edge of the lake, the stillness of the moment shattered by the sound of water sloshing, heavy and slow. The sun hung low, casting a molten glow across the rippling surface. The lake, once a place of peace, now reflected only tragedy.
From the shimmering waters emerged four of his comrades-shoulders heaving, faces ashen, each step they took echoing the weight of grief. Two of them, soaked to the bone, trudged forward with grim resolve, each with a leg hooked over their shoulders. Between them, resting limply like a broken offering to the gods, was Ashwath.
His body dripped water and blood in equal measure. Crimson streaks painted rivulets down his arms, his chest marred by deep wounds, his head tilted unnaturally to one side. His face-once stern, unshakable-now hung slack, a ghost of the man he had been. His soaked coat clung to his body, torn in places, revealing the rawness of battle.
Behind the first two, the other two men supported Ashwath's upper frame, each gripping a shoulder with reverence and desperation. Their jaws clenched, eyes burning with disbelief. The water, up to their waists, parted with resistance, as though even the lake grieved his fall.
Robert's breath caught. He couldn't move. The sight rooted him to the earth. The golden sunlight caught the blood trailing down Ashwath's fingers, making it look like liquid fire. A low wind stirred the reeds at the shore, as if whispering prayers too late.
The silence was deafening-no birds, no breeze, just the soft dripping from Ashwath's broken body and the anguished breathing of those who bore him. They ascended from the water like mournful warriors, carrying not just their leader, but the weight of something far heavier: the end of an era, the collapse of an unshakable man.
And as the men reached the shore, the world seemed to pause-the lake behind them shimmering like glass, the sun bleeding into the horizon, and Ashwath, the indestructible, now cradled like a fallen titan.
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As soon as Ashwath's battered body was laid on the gravel-strewn earth beside the van, Robert dropped to his knees. Rain mixed with blood on Ashwath's skin, his chest unmoving, his face a mask of ruin.
Robert pressed trembling fingers to Ashwath's wrist, feeling nothing at first-just the cold. Then, a flicker. A fragile throb beneath the skin.
His breath caught.
He seized Ashwath's limp hand and brought it to his ear, his voice cracking with disbelief.
"He's got a pulse! He's still alive!"
The others froze as if time itself had hiccupped. In the deafening quiet, only the wind and Robert's hope dared move.
Then it was chaos-orderly, desperate chaos. "Get him in the van. Now!" Robert shouted, urgency replacing shock.
They hoisted Ashwath again, more reverently now, as if cradling a flame that could still burn. Blood soaked through their shirts as they eased him onto the stretcher in the back of the grey van.
