The old man's voice did not just speak; it unfolded, like brittle parchment holding a drop of poison. "Yes, my son. This Vetala… its roots are not in this soil, but in a time five centuries gone. My father told me, and his father before him. The story is the chain that binds it."
Neer and Agni sat across from him in the dim hut, the air grown still. Agni's posture was relaxed but alert, one knee drawn up, his body angled subtly as if to shield Neer from the weight of the tale itself. Neer leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his gaze fixed on the old man's weathered face.
"It begins with Raghav and Neelima." The name, Raghav, seemed to hang in the dusty air, charged with a forgotten sorrow. "Raghav was born of this very earth, to a family of high regard. From his first steps, he was devotion personified—to his parents, to his Gurudev. In the Gurukul, he was not just a star; he was a sun. Obedient, powerful, and so radiant in form that poets would fall silent. He was Kamadeva, if the god of love had taken a warrior's vows."
"Maidens' eyes followed him like sunflowers, but he saw none of them. Duty was his breath, service his heartbeat. He defended these very lands from invaders, his sword an extension of his pure will."
The old man's eyes grew distant, seeing not the hut's walls, but the green gardens of a lost time. "Then, one day, his Gurudev sent him to fetch flowers from the garden. And there… he saw her."
Neer felt the shift. It wasn't in the words, but in the air. Agni, beside him, didn't move, but his attention sharpened, a hunter sensing a change in the wind.
"A maiden of such beauty, it seemed the garden had conjured her from its own essence. Raghav, who had never faltered in his focus, found his feet rooted to the path. He watched, spellbound, as she moved, a melody made flesh. He followed, a ghost drawn by a light."
"Suddenly, Gurudev was there. 'Raghav, the flowers grow where you stand, not where your eyes wander.' Raghav startled, bowed, muttered an apology. But the Gurudev's gaze was knowing, and gentle. 'Go, complete your task.'"
"Yet the seed was sown. Day after day, Raghav saw her. Brief glimpses—the flash of her robe between trees, the sound of her humming as she picked jasmine. She became a quiet obsession, a beautiful secret his disciplined heart could not contain."
The old man's voice dropped to a murmur. "Then came the day he saw her bow to a hermit. 'Greetings, Father.' Raghav's world tilted. She was the Gurudev's daughter. Neelima."
Neer's breath caught. He glanced at Agni, finding his friend's profile carved in concentration, a slight frown between his brows.
"He approached her. 'Divine one, who are you?' His voice, they say, held a tremor he had never known in battle. 'I am Neelima,' she replied, eyes downcast but a smile playing on her lips. From that day, their meetings were no longer chance. Stolen moments in the dappled shade, whispers exchanged over fragrant blooms. Love, fierce and young, bloomed in secret, a wild vine in a garden of strict order."
The telling grew heavier. "Gurudev discovered them. His voice was not angry, but it was final, like a stone door closing. 'Neelima, come away. Raghav, your duty lies elsewhere.' Raghav bowed, his heart a caged bird. But the cage was of his own making, and the bird would not be still."
The old man sighed, the sound full of ashes. "They met again. Neelima's confession was a tear-streaked whisper. 'I love you, Raghav. I will live with you, die with you. Without you, my life is a barren field.' Raghav took her hands, his own calloused from the sword, now trembling. 'Soon,' he promised. 'We will be married.'"
"But destiny is a cruel scribe. The very next dawn, Gurudev sent Raghav to war. He fought for a month, a hero clad in mud and glory. When he returned, rushing to the garden, Neelima was gone. He learned the truth in the village whispers. She was married. A mangalsutra around her neck, sindoor on her brow—marks of belonging to another."
A profound silence filled the hut. Agni's jaw was tight. Neer felt a cold knot of injustice form in his own stomach.
"Raghav found her. 'Neelima… was it all a lie?' His voice was raw, stripped of all its former strength. Before she could answer, Gurudev was there again. 'Her duty is to her husband now. And you, Raghav, have disobeyed for the last time. Leave this Gurukul.'"
"He went home. His parents, fearing the village's scorn more than their son's broken spirit, turned him away. His younger brother wept, clinging to his legs. Raghav placed a hand on the boy's head, bowed to his parents one final time, and walked into the wilderness of his own despair."
The old man's voice broke. "But the village… the same people who once sang his praises… they hunted him. They dragged him to the ancient banyan you see yonder. They bound him. They beat him with stones, with clubs, with the weight of their own hypocrisy."
He paused, gathering the shattered pieces of the story. "As he lay broken beneath that very tree, his life bleeding into the roots, his last words were not a curse, but a question to the heavens. 'I, Raghav… who served parents, Gurudev, and kingdom… all I asked for was love. Was that not my right too? Those who praised me are now my murderers. Oh, Lord… take me from this realm.'"
"No rites were performed. No prayers were said. His body was left for the crows, and his soul… his soul, steeped in betrayal, abandonment, and a love severed at the root, could not move on. It twisted. It festered. It became the Vetala—a spirit of unfulfilled longing and righteous wrath, bound to the tree of his execution, demanding from the village the justice and the love it denied him."
A single, dusty tear traced a path through the crevices on the old man's cheek. "That is what waits for you. Not a monster, but a tragedy. A heart that loved too deeply in a world too shallow. He does not haunt for sport. He haunts because he is still asking his question."
Neer was on his feet before he realized it, a hot pressure behind his own eyes. "His only crime was to love! And for that, they killed him?" The injustice was a physical taste, metallic and sour.
The old man merely shook his head, a world of weary sorrow in the gesture. "Who can answer, child? Only the gods keep that ledger."
Neer turned to Agni. His friend was already looking at him, and in Agni's eyes, Neer saw the same fierce, protective resolve that had shielded him on the mountain and in the forest. But now, it was directed outward, toward this ghost of a wronged boy. Agni gave a slow, deliberate nod.
"Then we give him his answer," Neer said, his voice firming. "We perform the rites that were stolen from him. We free him."
"Stop!" The old man lurched forward, a hand outstretched. "You walk toward a death that is not a clash of swords, but a drowning in sorrow! Do not go!"
Neer was already moving toward the door. As he passed Agni, a hand—warm, solid—caught his wrist, not to hold him back, but to turn him gently. Agni's gaze held his, a silent conversation flowing in the space between heartbeats. Together. It was in the slight pressure of his fingers, in the steady calm of his expression. Where you go, I stand.
The gratitude that washed through Neer was a warm tide, softening the edges of his anger. He covered Agni's hand with his own for a brief second. "We go," he said, and it was a vow.
They stepped out of the hut. Night had fully claimed the village, but it was a different dark now—knowing, watchful. The ancient banyan was a monstrous silhouette against the star-flecked sky, its hanging roots like the threads of a giant, forgotten web.
They walked. Agni moved close, his shoulder brushing Neer's, a constant, solid presence. His eyes scanned not for physical threats, but for the shifts in the unnatural silence, for the chill that had nothing to do with the night air. When Neer's step hit a loose stone, Agni's hand was instantly at the small of his back, steadying him without a word.
Every step toward the tree felt heavier, as if the very air was thickening with the condensed grief of five centuries. The cheerful village sounds were gone, swallowed by a vacuum of anticipation. The only sound was the crunch of their own footsteps and the slow, syncopated rhythm of their breathing.
Neer's hand rested on his sword hilt, but it was a gesture of readiness, not threat. His other hand brushed against Agni's as they walked, a fleeting point of contact that grounded him.
"Whatever is there…" Neer whispered, his eyes locked on the brooding shadow of the banyan, "we don't fail him."
Agni's reply was a low murmur, meant only for Neer's ears, as intimate as a shared thought. "Then we face the sorrow. Together."
The wind died completely. The shadows beneath the banyan's vast canopy seemed to deepen, to pulse. The village, behind them, held its breath.
The Vetala was no longer just waiting.
It was listening.