10-11-2026, 09:18 PM
The dust from the unpaved road still clung to the hem of my mother’s cotton saree as we followed the narrow footpath into the trees. The town of Anantapur was already behind us, its familiar sounds—the tea-stall radio, the clatter of bicycle bells—muffled by the thickening forest. Ma walked ahead of me, her silhouette neat and compact against the dappled shade, the red sindur in her parting a precise line of vermillion against the grey-streaked black of her hair. She had not spoken much since leaving the house. Only the jingle of her bangles punctuated the silence, a nervous rhythm she couldn’t control.
“Keep up, Rohan,” she said without turning around. “We must reach there before the sun goes down.”
I was eighteen then, old enough to feel a quiet pride in being the man accompanying her, young enough to be afraid of the forest. The camp came into view suddenly. Three makeshift huts with walls of woven palm fronds and roofs of blue tarpaulin. Smoke curled from a fire pit in the clearing. A few villagers from neighboring areas sat on a log bench— and old man wearing lungi and gamcha(towel), a woman I recognized from the nearby market, some others who seemed accustomed to the eccentricities of this place. Few of them looked up when we arrived, their expressions holding that particular mix of hope and fear that brings people to places like this.
A young man emerged from the largest hut. He wore a white dhoti, his torso bare except for a thin sacred thread that crossed his chest diagonally. Long hair tied back in a knot. Arms like thick branches of the banyan tree near our temple. The muscles shifted under his skin as he gestured for us to sit.
“Gurudev will see you one by one,” he said. His voice was soft, almost gentle. “Please wait.”
My mother folded her hands. “When will it be our turn?”
“He knows who has come. He will call.”
The disciple’s eyes lingered on my mother for a moment longer than necessary. I noticed it then, a flicker of something that made my stomach tighten. Ma didn’t see it. She was already sitting on the log bench, her pallu pulled forward over her head, lips moving in a silent prayer. The afternoon sun filtered through the canopy, painting shifting patterns on the ground. We waited. Two hours passed. The woman from the nearby market went in, came out wiping her eyes. The old man went in, emerged with a small pouch of ash clutched in his fist. One by one, the supplicants departed, until only we remained.
The disciple appeared again. “Come.”
The hut’s interior was dim and fragrant. Dhoop smoke hung in layers near the thatched ceiling. A fire altar dominated the center of the space, its flames throwing dancing shadows against the walls. Behind it sat the tantrik—a man whose age was impossible to determine. His face was lined but not elderly, his eyes sharp, his body lean under an ochre robe. A thick rudraksha mala hung around his neck, the beads dark with years of oil and sweat. He did not smile. He gestured to the bare earth before him.
“Sit.”
My mother folded herself down gracefully, arranging her saree. I sat a few feet behind her, near the wall where the shadows gathered thickest. The tantrik’s gaze moved over us both with a quality that felt like being undressed—not sexually, but something worse. The feeling that every secret we carried was being read from our bones.
He didn’t ask why we had come. He already knew.
“There is a shadow on your household,” he said. His voice was deep, each word deliberate. “Something has followed your husband’s line for two generations. It has grown patient. It has grown hungry.” He leaned forward, the firelight catching the whites of his eyes. “Soon, very soon, it will take everything. Your son’s future. Your husband’s treatment will wipe out every rupee he has saved for your future and in the end….” his pause left little room for ambiguity.
My mother’s breath caught. Her back stiffened. “How—how do you know about my husband?”
“I know the shape of a wife’s grief. I can see it sitting on your shoulders like a vulture.” He paused. “Do you want to hear what must be done?”
“Please,” she whispered. “Please, I’ll do anything.”
The word hung in the smoky air. Anything.
The tantrik settled back on his haunches. “The ritual is delicate. It requires a vessel for the spirit—a living body that can receive it, absorb its hunger, and release it safely. My disciple has been prepared for this. He is pure. He has undergone the necessary fasts and disciplines.” A beat of silence. “But the vessel cannot contain the spirit alone. There must be… an offering. An exchange. The spirit’s appetite must be met before it can be neutralized.”
My mother’s fingers tightened around the edge of her pallu. “What kind of offering?”
“You will know when the time comes. You must do everything I instruct, without hesitation. Once the ritual begins, it cannot be stopped. To stop midway would leave the spirit trapped and enraged. The consequences would be immediate.” His eyes moved to me. “Your son has an important role to play as well. His presence is necessary—the spirit must see the bond it threatens. It strengthens the ritual’s pull.”
I wanted to speak, to object, to demand explanations. But the air in the hut had grown thick, pressing against my lungs. Words wouldn’t come. My mother turned to look at me, her face a map of conflict. Fear. Shame. Desperate love.
“Rohan,” she began.
“Think about what I said” the tantrik repeated. “Or you leave now and accept what comes.”
She turned back to him. Her shoulders dropped. “We are ready.”
“Good. The ritual must be performed at the hour of maximum darkness—between two and three in the morning when the spirits are most active. You may wait here or return. The choice is yours.”
“We’ll wait,” my mother said. Her voice had gone flat, resolved. She had made her decision. Whatever was required, she would do it. For me. For dad.
The hours that followed stretched like taffy. The disciple brought us tea—a strange sweet, spiced with cardamom—and a plate of rice and dal. My mother ate mechanically. I had to struggle to swallow each bite. The daylight faded outside, the gaps in the palm-frond walls turning from gold to grey to black. The disciple lit oil lamps and added wood to the fire altar. The tantrik sat in a corner, eyes half-closed, chanting under his breath. Mantras I couldn’t recognize, syllables that seemed to slither and coil in the air.
At some point, my mother reached back and touched my knee. “Whatever happens,” she said quietly, “just keep praying and obey what the tantrik says. But don’t interfere. Promise me.”
“Ma—”
“Promise me, Rohan”, she knew that I had little respect for any kind of authority, the least for the religious type. She just wanted my silent acquiescence.
I promised. The words tasted wrong in my mouth.
“Keep up, Rohan,” she said without turning around. “We must reach there before the sun goes down.”
I was eighteen then, old enough to feel a quiet pride in being the man accompanying her, young enough to be afraid of the forest. The camp came into view suddenly. Three makeshift huts with walls of woven palm fronds and roofs of blue tarpaulin. Smoke curled from a fire pit in the clearing. A few villagers from neighboring areas sat on a log bench— and old man wearing lungi and gamcha(towel), a woman I recognized from the nearby market, some others who seemed accustomed to the eccentricities of this place. Few of them looked up when we arrived, their expressions holding that particular mix of hope and fear that brings people to places like this.
A young man emerged from the largest hut. He wore a white dhoti, his torso bare except for a thin sacred thread that crossed his chest diagonally. Long hair tied back in a knot. Arms like thick branches of the banyan tree near our temple. The muscles shifted under his skin as he gestured for us to sit.
“Gurudev will see you one by one,” he said. His voice was soft, almost gentle. “Please wait.”
My mother folded her hands. “When will it be our turn?”
“He knows who has come. He will call.”
The disciple’s eyes lingered on my mother for a moment longer than necessary. I noticed it then, a flicker of something that made my stomach tighten. Ma didn’t see it. She was already sitting on the log bench, her pallu pulled forward over her head, lips moving in a silent prayer. The afternoon sun filtered through the canopy, painting shifting patterns on the ground. We waited. Two hours passed. The woman from the nearby market went in, came out wiping her eyes. The old man went in, emerged with a small pouch of ash clutched in his fist. One by one, the supplicants departed, until only we remained.
The disciple appeared again. “Come.”
The hut’s interior was dim and fragrant. Dhoop smoke hung in layers near the thatched ceiling. A fire altar dominated the center of the space, its flames throwing dancing shadows against the walls. Behind it sat the tantrik—a man whose age was impossible to determine. His face was lined but not elderly, his eyes sharp, his body lean under an ochre robe. A thick rudraksha mala hung around his neck, the beads dark with years of oil and sweat. He did not smile. He gestured to the bare earth before him.
“Sit.”
My mother folded herself down gracefully, arranging her saree. I sat a few feet behind her, near the wall where the shadows gathered thickest. The tantrik’s gaze moved over us both with a quality that felt like being undressed—not sexually, but something worse. The feeling that every secret we carried was being read from our bones.
He didn’t ask why we had come. He already knew.
“There is a shadow on your household,” he said. His voice was deep, each word deliberate. “Something has followed your husband’s line for two generations. It has grown patient. It has grown hungry.” He leaned forward, the firelight catching the whites of his eyes. “Soon, very soon, it will take everything. Your son’s future. Your husband’s treatment will wipe out every rupee he has saved for your future and in the end….” his pause left little room for ambiguity.
My mother’s breath caught. Her back stiffened. “How—how do you know about my husband?”
“I know the shape of a wife’s grief. I can see it sitting on your shoulders like a vulture.” He paused. “Do you want to hear what must be done?”
“Please,” she whispered. “Please, I’ll do anything.”
The word hung in the smoky air. Anything.
The tantrik settled back on his haunches. “The ritual is delicate. It requires a vessel for the spirit—a living body that can receive it, absorb its hunger, and release it safely. My disciple has been prepared for this. He is pure. He has undergone the necessary fasts and disciplines.” A beat of silence. “But the vessel cannot contain the spirit alone. There must be… an offering. An exchange. The spirit’s appetite must be met before it can be neutralized.”
My mother’s fingers tightened around the edge of her pallu. “What kind of offering?”
“You will know when the time comes. You must do everything I instruct, without hesitation. Once the ritual begins, it cannot be stopped. To stop midway would leave the spirit trapped and enraged. The consequences would be immediate.” His eyes moved to me. “Your son has an important role to play as well. His presence is necessary—the spirit must see the bond it threatens. It strengthens the ritual’s pull.”
I wanted to speak, to object, to demand explanations. But the air in the hut had grown thick, pressing against my lungs. Words wouldn’t come. My mother turned to look at me, her face a map of conflict. Fear. Shame. Desperate love.
“Rohan,” she began.
“Think about what I said” the tantrik repeated. “Or you leave now and accept what comes.”
She turned back to him. Her shoulders dropped. “We are ready.”
“Good. The ritual must be performed at the hour of maximum darkness—between two and three in the morning when the spirits are most active. You may wait here or return. The choice is yours.”
“We’ll wait,” my mother said. Her voice had gone flat, resolved. She had made her decision. Whatever was required, she would do it. For me. For dad.
The hours that followed stretched like taffy. The disciple brought us tea—a strange sweet, spiced with cardamom—and a plate of rice and dal. My mother ate mechanically. I had to struggle to swallow each bite. The daylight faded outside, the gaps in the palm-frond walls turning from gold to grey to black. The disciple lit oil lamps and added wood to the fire altar. The tantrik sat in a corner, eyes half-closed, chanting under his breath. Mantras I couldn’t recognize, syllables that seemed to slither and coil in the air.
At some point, my mother reached back and touched my knee. “Whatever happens,” she said quietly, “just keep praying and obey what the tantrik says. But don’t interfere. Promise me.”
“Ma—”
“Promise me, Rohan”, she knew that I had little respect for any kind of authority, the least for the religious type. She just wanted my silent acquiescence.
I promised. The words tasted wrong in my mouth.
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