The battlefield was silent, save for the faint crackle of lingering fire and the echo of collapsing stones. The demonic woman turned away, her silhouette melting into the crimson haze like a phantom retreating into its lair. Behind her, Nidhi stood broken, her body fading into motes of light, her breath shallow and ragged. Her vision blurred, and the metallic scent of blood mingled with the bitter taste of defeat.
From the shattered hairpin near her hand, a glimmer of blue burst forth. It spiralled upward, feathers shimmering like fragments of a lost sky. A peacock, radiant, otherworldly, unfolded its wings and perched beside her. Seeing it, Nidhi's lips curved into a weak smile. Her voice trembled, barely louder than a whisper, yet heavy with desperate hope.
"Survi… I never asked for your help before," she murmured, each word a struggle against the pull of darkness. "But this time… please… will you help me?"
Her chest rose and fell in sharp, shallow pants. Then, a voice bloomed in her mind, a voice warm and sorrowful, like an echo of an old friend.
"Help?" Survi replied softly. "Yes… tell me, Nidhi. Tell me what you need, and I will give everything—even if it costs me my last breath.
Do you want me to use my remaining energy to destroy her? Or wipe out the rest of the demons?
Do you want to escape this place? Or… should I give you what remains of my life instead?
Tell me. I am here for you."
For a heartbeat, silence hung heavy. Then Nidhi spoke, her tone breaking like glass. "Can you… change his fate?"
Survi froze. "What… what did you say? Say that again."
"Please," Nidhi pleaded, her fading voice trembling with urgency. "Change his fate."
"No…" Survi's tone quivered. "No, I can't. I… I am not allowed. Even with my power—"
"Please!" Nidhi's cry pierced the weight of the dying world. "Help me. It's the only way to save him. Without him… my living is only suffering."
A long pause. Then, softly, "And mine… is the same. So why do you fade while I remain?"
"You still have work," Nidhi whispered. "For him."
Survi's voice broke into shards of anguish. "Did your star-counting fail me this time?"
"Have my calculations ever been wrong?" Nidhi asked weakly.
"…Never."
"Then do it," Nidhi said, her tone resolute despite her crumbling body. "Use everything. Change his fate."
The peacock spread its wings wide, its feathers glowing like molten sapphire. "Then goodbye, my friend," Survi whispered. "If we are reborn, let us meet again."
Light consumed Nidhi's form as she smiled one last time, fading into the wind.
Far away, a boy drifted downstream, unconscious, lost in dreams where he sang and laughed with his parents. Above him hovered the shattered hairpin. From it, Nidhi's voice trembled: "I'm sorry, little Arnab, Live well."
Then the river erupted in white blossoms. A lotus cocoon enveloped him, and glowing veins pulsed through his hands as his lifelines twisted and rewrote themselves. The sky roared with thunder. Fate had been broken.
A voice cleaved through the silence like the strike of a divine bell:
"Stop. Do not tamper with the fate-lines. They are not yours to weave. Each thread is earned through previous lifetimes or this life time of virtue and sin. To unmake them is to defy the primal law. Beware… or Heaven's wrath will claim you."
The woman tilted her head toward the heavens, her lips curling into a cold smile.
"It does not matter. I gave my word. To my friend… to the one who trusted me. I will honour it, even if the sky itself tears me apart. Heaven is nothing but an illusion chained to fear. I will break it. I will rewrite him—completely. If happiness is a lie, then I will forge that lie into truth."
A lotus of burning light unfurled around the man's still body, cocooning him in petals of gold and shadow. Within, his fate-line writhed, resisting, its luminous current splitting like a bleeding river. Her power poured into him—yet halted. Something ancient stirred.
From that fracture emerged a seal: a tiger's head, carved in flames and ink, its roar shaking the void.
A voice—deep, guttural—echoed through her mind.
"What are you doing here?"
"Changing his fate," she whispered. "She commanded me. She wants him to live… a simple life."
The roar became laughter. "But I am already merging with him. What now?"
"Seal yourself," she said, her breath trembling. "Hide in the darkest chamber of his soul—the place he fears most. I will strip his memories clean. He must never know."
"And when truth hunts him?"
"It won't. We will bury it. Forever."
The tiger's presence hesitated… then faded into silence. "So be it."
But as their wills intertwined, their essence sinking into his deepest layers, the world fell away. Space twisted. Time fractured. They crossed into an unnamed domain, one that should not exist.
It was not darkness. It was something worse.
They felt it before they saw it: a pressure older than light, a breath that tasted of eternity. Their steps faltered, yet curiosity dragged them forward. And then—
A voice broke them, raw and desperate, shattering every echo.
"Come back! Both of you, leave that place. Do NOT enter. COME BACK!"
Her master's command. His master's command. Too late.
..........
From the unseen realm, two voices drifted like echoes through eternity.
One murmured, calm yet grave:
"His fate line is changing…"
Another voice, sharper, asked:
"So what should we do?"
The first one chuckled softly, a sound like ripples disturbing still water.
"No worry… fate will change again and again. Just like time, it cannot be bound. It flows until it reaches the bank of one side. Everything must end someday. His fate will wander like this river, but in the end… it will find its shore."
The second voice lingered in silence, then whispered:
"I will wait for it. And what about them?"
The first replied,
"Don't worry. They will play their part. But they cannot… not fully."
The conversation faded like mist, and that dimension folded upon itself. The heavenly peacock, once radiant, could no longer sense the tiger's presence. The bond that had tied them together—shattered like brittle glass.
She lifted her fading gaze toward the horizon. The sun was rising, and its light struck her golden feathers with a final brilliance. Her body trembled, melting as the last threads of energy unraveled from her soul.
"Our journey ends here…" Her voice was a whisper of wind.
"Live well, little boy… live a simple life, a happy life. Goodbye, my young friend. I will always be your elder sister, watching from beyond."
With that, her essence scattered like sparks in the morning sky.
The lotus that had once traveled with them drifted silently to the riverbank. There, in the quiet where no footsteps tread, it bloomed one final time and surrendered to nature's embrace.
Darkness broke.
When he opened his eyes, he found himself tangled in roots at the edge of a riverbank. His head throbbed; the world swayed like a dream. Voices pierced the ringing in his ears, grannies calling, boys shouting.
"He's alive! Quick, pull him up! Jump!"
Before he could comprehend, the roots gave way. He plunged downward, water swallowing him whole. Just as his lungs began to burn, strong arms seized him. Two boys had leaped from the bank, clutching his shoulders, dragging him toward the surface. Hands reached down from above, tugging, pulling—until at last, he felt solid earth beneath him.
He tried to speak—"Where…?"—but the words collapsed in his throat. Pain scorched his chest. His vision blurred, and darkness claimed him once more.
The next time he woke, the smell of burning herbs filled the air. A low, crackling fire warmed the small hut. Beside him, an old woman knelt, her face wrinkled like ancient bark. She dipped her fingers into a bowl of medicine, coating his arms with thick paste. Leaves, roots, and bark steamed nearby in clay pots.
She chanted softly while passing her hands over him, palm hovering inches from his skin, tracing from head to toe. When he tried to speak, agony stabbed his throat. He gasped.
"My boy," the granny said, pressing a finger to his lips.
"You've not healed yet. Don't talk. It's a blessing you still breathe."
Sleep stole him again.
By noon, the hut buzzed with murmurs. He stirred, blinking against shafts of sunlight. A group had gathered, their faces etched with curiosity. A wiry man stepped forward—his eyes keen, his fingers steady as he inserted pins into precise points along the boy's arm and neck.
Minutes later, he nodded.
"He's stable now. Can you sit up?"
The boy nodded weakly. Pain lanced through his body as he rose, trembling like a new-born calf.
"Good," the man said, offering his shoulder.
"Now, stand."
He obeyed, legs wobbling. For a heartbeat, he stood upright. Then, like a felled tree, he collapsed.
...........
The doctor stood near the bed, his voice calm yet firm.
"His body is weak. Just let him rest—he'll wake up soon enough."
With that, the man in white slipped away through the creaking door, leaving behind the faint scent of herbs and the dull glow of an oil lamp. The boy's eyelids grew heavy, and before he could form a single thought, darkness claimed him again.
When he woke, the sun had shifted. Afternoon light spilled through the wooden shutters, painting dusty beams across the floor. He blinked like a child who had slept too long, sat up slowly, and stretched his arms and legs as if they belonged to someone else. His bones cracked in protest.
He rose to his feet, uncertain, and opened his mouth to call out—only to find an old woman standing in the doorway. Her presence was quiet but commanding, like a tree rooted for centuries.
"Don't speak," she murmured, her voice dry as brittle leaves. "Better for you if you don't for lifetime."
He froze, then gave a faint nod. His fingers trembled as he gestured, pointing toward the open world beyond the gate. "Where… is this?" His voice barely left his throat.
"Small village," she said after a pause. "Pipotal."
The name sounded foreign, like a stone thrown into a deep well, echoing endlessly with no answer. He tried to recall it, to tie it to a memory, but his mind was a blank page smeared with fog. Finally, he nodded and raised his hand again, gesturing toward the gate like a prisoner asking for release.
"May I… go outside?"
Her lips curled, almost amused. "Go—if you can."
He stepped through the wooden frame into a world that felt borrowed from someone else's dream. The air was thick with damp earth and smoke, scented with spices and unfamiliar flowers. Children's laughter drifted from far away, yet it sounded hollow to him, like echoes from another life.
Something was wrong, he could feel it, but every time he reached for the thought, it slipped away like water through his fingers.
Then came the sound from the near road
A boy's voice, light and innocent:
"Mom, where are we going?"
The words slammed into him like lightning. His knees weakened. His breath caught. He turned, searching for the source, but all he saw was emptiness and the weight of a memory he could not hold. His mind split open with longing and fear.
"Why are you standing in a daze?" The old woman's hands gripped his shoulders, shaking him back to the present.
He whispered the only word that mattered:
"Mother…"
Then he collapsed.
Voices swarmed around him, hands lifting him, carrying him back inside.
Night fell before he woke again, heart pounding, eyes wet.
"Mother… where are you? Why aren't you beside me? Why aren't you here? Where did you hide?"
Arms wrapped around him from behind, cold as river stones. A soft voice broke the silence.
"It's okay, little boy. Don't cry. Your mother will come next week. She went to gather roots for medicine, with your father. They left you in our care."
He turned his head. A girl stared back, a little older than him, her face half-lit, half-swallowed by shadow.
"Who… are you?" he asked.
"My name is Mala."
"Why… why did she leave for medicine?"
"Does your throat hurt?" she countered.
He touched his neck, confused. "No…"
"It's okay, little one. Don't cry." The voice was almost kind, almost human. "Your mother will come next week. She went to gather roots with your father. They left you with us."
..................
The flickering glow of a single oil lamp cast long shadows across the room. Its light swayed gently with the draft, brushing over the boy's pale face as he stirred awake. A dull ache pulsed through his arm when he tried to move. Only then did he notice the bandages—thick wrappings on his head and hand.
He stared at them with furrowed brows, confusion lacing his expression. Why were his arms bound like this? He slowly rotated his wrist, wincing as pain shot through his nerves. The sharp sting forced him to lower his hand back onto the cot, his breath trembling.
"Hey! What are you doing?"
The old woman's voice cracked the silence like a whip. She stood near the clay stove, her frail hands clutching a wooden ladle. "Lie down properly! And drink this soup," she scolded, hobbling closer.
Before he could answer, a warm bowl was pressed into his hands. He hesitated, bringing the edge to his lips for a cautious sip. The moment the liquid touched his tongue, his face twisted. "Blahhh… ahhhnnn—bitter!" he cried, gagging dramatically.
The granny smacked her lips. "Oh, what a fuss! Listen here, boy—medicine is always bitter. Good things often taste bitter but feel great after. Now drink it silently before I lose my patience."
From the corner, mala burst into giggles. She leaned against the doorway, her arms folded. "Drink it, or she'll use the feeder spoon. You know what that means?" Her grin widened as she continued, voice dropping into a mock whisper.
"She'll grab your head, pinch both your nose holes, hold down your legs and hands, and force your mouth open. Then—" she gestured dramatically, mimicking the motion of pouring—"straight down your throat! And if you even think of spitting it out…" Her tone turned wickedly playful. "She'll clamp your lips shut so tight you'll cry for air. Even one drop wasted? She'll make you lick the floor clean."
She pushed her sleeve up and flashed a faint scar on her forearm. "See this mark? That's from when I refused. She beat me with that stick over there!"
The boy's eyes darted to the corner where a wooden stick leaned against the wall. His throat bobbed nervously.
"Drink it quickly," the girl chirped before darting out with a laugh that trailed down the hall.
He sat frozen, bowl trembling in his hands. What was happening here? His thoughts were cut short by a sudden thwack, the stick landed near his cot, tossed from the doorway. A voice, calm yet sharp, followed. "Drink it."
He didn't wait another second. Clamping his eyes shut, he gulped down the bitter brew in one breath, even holding back his gag reflex out of sheer terror.
Laughter erupted as the girl reappeared, pointing gleefully. "Granny, he drank it! All of it—in fear!"
The boy barely caught his breath when she appeared again, this time with a mud cup of water. She held it up. "Drink this now," she said sweetly.
He reached for it, but before his fingers touched the rim, she tilted it sharply toward his face. "Quick, or I'll tell you another story."
........................
"Enhh…" He grumbled softly, snatching the cup from her hands and gulping the water down. She grinned, plucking the empty glass away and flipping it onto the pitcher with a quick twist.
"Good boy," she said, her eyes gleaming with mischief. Then, tilting her head, she asked, "Are you angry?"
He gave a stiff nod.
In response, she scrunched up her face into the silliest expressions she could muster—puffed cheeks, crossed eyes—but he just stared blankly. Finally, she reached forward and tugged at his cheeks. "How can I make you laugh, hmm?"
His lips parted, and in a small, shaky voice, he whispered, "Mother."
Her playful grin faltered for a second before she forced a laugh. "Ahhh… this little boy." She patted his head gently, then pressed him back onto the bed. "Go to sleep."
He shut his eyes obediently—only to yelp when a sharp tug caught his ear.
"Ha! You laughed!" she accused, raising her hand as if to smack him.
"Enough," Granny barked from across the room. "Go make the bed and sleep beside him."
"Yes, Granny!" she sang out, still grinning.
As she fluffed the bedding, she leaned close and whispered, "Remember—if someone calls you at night, don't answer. Not until the third time. Understand?"
He nodded slowly.
"Good. Because night's call loves small boys." Her eerie tone sent a shiver down his spine, even as she broke into laughter.
That night, the house fell silent and sleep finally claimed him.
....................
He woke to faint noises drifting in from outside—murmurs, footsteps, a distant clang like someone dropping a pot. For a moment, he lay still, staring at the ceiling, expecting pain to stab his body as it had before. But nothing came. No ache, no sting. Just silence and that strange calm that didn't feel earned.
He sat up slowly, testing his arms and legs as if they belonged to someone else. Everything moved fine. No bandages tugged, no wounds throbbed. A glass of water sat by his bed; he reached for it, his reflection warping in the ripples. The first gulp felt like swallowing sunlight.
The door burst open.
"Bad guys," Mala muttered, storming in, her brows knotted. "Always looking at us with those short eyes." She slammed the door and turned to him. "Granny's looking for you."
Before he could ask why, a shadow slid in like smoke. Granny. Her voice creaked like old wood, but her laugh was sharp. "Hunh, they came for fun, as they always do when something big is brewing. And you…" Her gaze pinned him like a nail. "You finally woke."
Jimmy nodded, unsure if that was the right answer.
Granny shuffled closer, her hand cool against his cheek. "What a cute boy," she whispered with a grin that didn't reach her eyes.
He frowned. "Who are you?"
"I don't know," she said, then laughed—a high-pitched, broken sound that spiraled into the walls. Hihihihihihi… Jimmy turned his head away, confusion prickling his spine.
"Here." A clay cup appeared in her hand. "Drink this." The liquid inside smelled faintly of roots and metal. He sipped, wincing at the bitterness, and felt heat crawl down his throat.
As he began arranging his bed, Mala leaned against the wall with a smirk. "Wow, what a good boy. Do mine too?"
Before Jimmy could answer, Granny smacked Mala's arm with a sharp thwap. "Don't trouble him. He's not here for chores." Her gaze flicked back to Jimmy, softer now, almost curious. "Where is your home? From where did you come?"
Jimmy paused, fingers tightening on the blanket. "I… don't know. I can't remember anything. Where I came from… it's all gone."
Granny stared for a long beat, her smile thinning. "Then stay," she said finally. "When your memory returns, you'll leave."
"Can I really stay here?" he asked, the question tasting strange in his mouth.
"Of course." The word left her lips like a promise.
Before he could breathe, shouts erupted outside. Doors slamming. A rumble of voices. Granny moved to the door, her shawl dragging like a shadow. "Go see. Take Mala."
Mala huffed. "Aren't they belittling us too much?"
"What's happening?" He asked, stepping after them.
Granny turned, eyes glinting like wet stones. "Little boy, speak no word to anyone. Use signs. It's safer." Then, with that same broken laugh: "Changing fate? Nothing changes. It flows like water in a river—never stagnant as a pond."
...............
Is fate truly that powerful, or do we shape it with every choice we make?
Do our lives begin as blank pages, or do we carry the ink of past virtues and sins?
If we are born anew, why does our consciousness not remember where it once wandered?
Where are those forgotten memories hiding—the folds of the soul, or in the silence of time?
Are we prisoners of a script already written, or authors rewriting an endless draft?
What if every meeting, every loss, is a debt being paid from lifetimes unseen?
Why does the heart ache for places it has never been, and people it has never met?
Is suffering punishment, or a teacher shaping us for something greater?
If destiny exists, does hope have meaning—or is hope the rebellion against destiny?
Does the soul keep its scars, even when the mind forgets its battles?
And when we die, do we awaken from a dream, or fall into another one?
The answers lie ahead… in Nirbindra.
To be continued…