Time flowed like the Gaṅgā—quiet on the surface, relentless beneath.
Four more years passed in Malaka village, and in those years Neem—whom only Mahādeva called Dhrubo, and whom he himself named Pāpi—changed more than anyone noticed at first.
The trial Mahādeva had set before him had ended long ago, but its echoes remained. From it, Pāpi learned patience, not as waiting, but as endurance. He learned wisdom, not as knowledge, but as restraint. And he learned sin, not as an act alone, but as a process—how it is born, how it grows, and how it tightens its hold on the heart.
Under Madhu's guidance, his learning deepened.
He asked questions endlessly, but never carelessly.
"Gurugi," he would ask, sitting beside Madhu as herbs dried in the sun, "why does the same plant heal one disease but worsen another?"
"Because," Madhu replied, smiling, "medicine is not just substance, child—it is timing, measure, and intent."
Pāpi listened. He remembered.
He learned how fever could be drawn out through sweat, how wounds could be cleansed with bitterness, how even poison—handled with wisdom—could become life-saving medicine. What Madhu taught from books and experience, Pāpi tested on himself.
Not out of recklessness—but necessity.
Mahādeva's boons protected him. His body, born of fertile soil, sacred water of ganga, sunlight, medicinal herbs, and poison, accepted what would have killed another. He suffered no lasting harm just some minor problems, yet every trial taught him something precise. Slowly, through failure and refinement, he achieved something even Madhu had never conceived—a poison-medicine, a preparation where toxins of herbs and poison of poisonous plant balanced so delicately that one could not exist without the other.
When Madhu realized this, he was silent for a long time.
Then he placed his trembling hand on Neem's head and said only,
"Mahādeva walks close to you, child. I am merely following your shadow now. Let Mahādeva show you broaden path."
Pāpi helped where he could. He carried water, treated fevers, ground herbs, and soothed the dying. He didn't just showed himself as a child found by people of Malaka village but become a child of this village. And when no one watched, he cultivated his body as he once had in his previous life—slow breathing, controlled movement, silent focus. It did not awaken great power, but it made him stronger than any child his size should be. It also made him more disciplined.
Yet something strange remained.
Neem did not grow.
Years passed, and his body remained small—unchanged, untouched by time. Madhu examined him carefully. No disease. No imbalance. No curse he could detect. Troubled, Madhu stood before Mahādeva's shrine one night and prayed with folded hands.
"O Lord," he whispered, "if this child is under Your care, then let him grow as You see fit. But if it is Your will, allow him a normal life among us."
Pāpi heard those prayers.
They warmed him more than fire.
They wish me well, he thought. They ask nothing in return.
He could do nothing about it—Mahādeva's word bound his body—but gratitude filled him all the same.
When, two more years passed, Neem become 3 year old, the change finally came.
Neem began to grow.
Slowly at first, then steadily. His limbs lengthened, his voice deepened slightly, his steps gained weight. The village rejoiced as though a curse had been lifted. Laughter returned to Madhu's eyes. The students teased Neem kindly, calling him "late bloomer."
To mark the moment, the villagers decided to perform a Maha Pūjā.
They sculpted new statues of Mahādeva and Mā Pārvatī with their own hands—imperfect, rough, but filled with devotion. Flowers were gathered, lamps prepared, food cooked beyond necessity. Compared to royal ceremonies, it was small. Compared to empires, insignificant.
But for Malaka village, it was grand.
So grand, so sincere, that Mahādeva and Mā Pārvatī themselves descended—disguised as a simple Gopāla family. They walked among villagers, shared food, listened to songs. Their presence was veiled, subtle, like a fragrance one notices only after it has passed.
Pāpi did not see them.
But he felt them watching over him, the village & the Maha Pūjā.
That night, before hundreds of villagers and travelers from nearby lands, Neem stepped forward. Lamps flickered. The air stilled. Without knowing why, silence fell.
And then he sang. He sang in pure admiration & respect towards Mahādeva.
First, softly:
"Om Namah Śivāya,
Om Namah Śivāya,
Śāntaṁ Śivam, Bhūta-nātham…"
His voice carried purity untouched by ego. As it rose, something ancient stirred. Then he continued—his rhythm quickening, his presence changing, a faint, unmistakable aura blooming around him, like Mahādeva's own shadow.
"Jatāṭavī-galaj-jala-pravāha-pāvitā-sthale,
Gale'valambya lambitāṁ bhujanga-tuṅga-mālikām…"
The Śiva Tāṇḍava Stotram flowed through him—not as performance, but remembrance. Feet stamped lightly. Hands moved in instinctive rhythm. The earth itself seemed to listen.
Villagers watched, breathless.
Some wept. Some folded hands unconsciously. Some felt fear—not terror, but awe.
When the final "Om Namah Śivāya" echoed into silence, lamps flickered once more, as if bowing.
Among the people, unseen, Mahādeva smiled.
Beside him, Mā Pārvatī's eyes softened.
"This child walks the path well," she said gently.
Mahādeva nodded. "He learns not only power—but restraint. Not only sin—but transcendence."
The pūjā ended. Blessings lingered. Villagers returned home changed, though none could say what changed. But they all felt it was for their good.
Chapter Ends.
For anyone who wants to read
"Shiv Tandav Stotram"
Jaṭāṭavī-galajja-lapravāha-pāvita-sthale
Gale'valambya lambitāṃ bhujaṅga-tuṅga-mālikām।
Ḍamaḍ-ḍamaḍ-ḍamaḍ-ḍamanninādavaḍḍamarvayaṃ
Cakāra caṇḍa-tāṇḍavaṃ tanotu naḥ śivaḥ śivam॥1॥