[Location: Eastern Forest, beneath the Banyan Tree]
He had glimpsed the cosmos through the Ajna — visions vast and incomprehensible. He had stood tall at the Temple of Throats… and fallen in silence and shame. The Trial of Svadhisthana had left him raw, scattered beside the River Duhkhagraha. He had spoken with deer and with silence alike, wandered beneath sun and storm.
And now — here — he sat beneath a tree that asked nothing of him. No trials. No visions. No voice.
Only breath.
Only shadow.
Only stillness.
"यदा ते मोहकलिलं बुद्धिर्व्यतितरिष्यति।
तदा गन्तासि निर्वेदं श्रोतव्यस्य श्रुतस्य च॥"
— Bhagavad Gita 2.52
("When your intellect crosses the mire of delusion, you shall become indifferent to what has been heard and what is yet to be heard.")
The forest was hushed under a pale veil of morning mist.
Ashes from last night's fire still glowed faintly, their warmth mingling with the cold breath of dawn. Aarav sat cross-legged near the fire pit, slowly chewing a root he had roasted earlier — bland, but nourishing enough.
Across from him, under the arching roots of the ancient banyan, the stranger lay unmoving. His breath was steady now, no longer ragged, but shallow and slow — like that of someone used to suffering in silence.
Aarav studied him again.
The man's skin was dusky and weather-worn, his body cloaked in torn fabric and blood-stained rags. But what caught Aarav's attention most were the marks — strange, faded symbols etched across his chest and a faint, almost burned-in sigil on his forehead. It looked like a variation of the Bindu, a dot surrounded by waves.
Not tribal. Not random. Intentional.
"Who are you?" Aarav whispered aloud, though not expecting a reply.
The deer cubs from the previous day had long vanished into the woods. But their memory lingered in Aarav's mind — especially the way they had gazed at him. As if they knew something he didn't.
A breeze passed through the banyan leaves above, and a dry twig snapped.
The man stirred.
Eyes opened — slowly, like two doors creaking after ages of disuse. Deep, grey, and old. They didn't search. They recognized.
For a few moments, neither spoke.
Then, with a voice dry as gravel but laced with stillness, the stranger said:
"You build fires… but do not sit long enough to see what they burn away."
Aarav blinked, stunned.
"What… did you say?"
The man didn't answer. Instead, his gaze lowered to the fire's embers, then back to Aarav's face — as if weighing something unseen.
"You ran from the mirror," he said softly. "That river didn't pull you under. Shame did."
Aarav stood abruptly.
"Who are you?" he asked again, but this time his voice trembled. "How do you know about that?"
No response. The man closed his eyes.
Aarav's fists clenched. The memory of the Gate of Shame flashed through his mind — the scorn, the echo of his past, the weight of the trial.
"You don't know anything about me," he muttered. "You weren't there."
A pause. Then, barely audible:
"I've been where you're going."
The words struck like a gong deep inside him. Aarav took a step back, unsure whether to flee or fall.
He turned away, walking to the edge of the clearing. The trees whispered. The mist moved.
He waited, expecting more… but the stranger had drifted again into stillness — eyes closed, breathing steady.
✨ End of Chapter 13 ✨
Some silences are louder than speech. Some strangers know the roads we've never dared to walk.
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