In the soft afternoon light, I stood again near the idols. The goddess sculpture beneath the sacred
arch looked unusually beautiful that day her face calm, wise, almost watching. Around her neck
shimmered the very necklace once offered by the administrator. It rested there with quiet power, as if
it belonged only to her.
Something inside me had changed. Since the day I served tea to Bade Ustaad, I felt a quiet strength
growing in me. The fear hadn’t vanished completely, but it no longer ruled me. I still avoided the open
almirah and the shelves where bottled things stood especially that glass jar with the preserved snake.
But I could walk near them now. I could breathe beside them.
That night, something shifted again.
From the narrow opening in the gallery window, I saw Chhota Ustaad return to the ashram. He was
not alone. A woman walked beside him wrapped in light perfume, her steps hesitant but familiar. I
watched in silence as they entered his room. After some time, she came out again, quickly, almost
frightened. Her purse slipped as she turned. In that instant, the light from a lamp touched something
inside it.
A necklace.
The necklace.
The same one that had glowed around the goddess’s neck earlier that day.
Inside the room, Chhota Ustaad lay on his bed. His eyes half-closed. Drunk. There was no kriya that
night. No chants. No rituals. The house was quiet. Most disciples had left or disappeared into their
rooms early.
Later, I whispered what I saw to my uncle. I didn’t expect the slap.
It wasn’t hard, but it hurt.
He went pale first. Then he said, "That woman... she’s the tea vendor’s sister. Divorced. She comes
to Chhota Ustaad for remedies. Kriyas. She’s looking for a second marriage. That’s all."
I told him about the necklace.
His expression changed. His hand rose.
"That’s none of your business," he said. "You are here to sweep. Not to judge."
His voice was low, but it closed the moment like a locked door. I turned away, my eyes burning. That
night I didn’t speak again. I lay in my corner, curling up with my thoughts. Hugging the secrets I was
not allowed to keep or share.
arch looked unusually beautiful that day her face calm, wise, almost watching. Around her neck
shimmered the very necklace once offered by the administrator. It rested there with quiet power, as if
it belonged only to her.
Something inside me had changed. Since the day I served tea to Bade Ustaad, I felt a quiet strength
growing in me. The fear hadn’t vanished completely, but it no longer ruled me. I still avoided the open
almirah and the shelves where bottled things stood especially that glass jar with the preserved snake.
But I could walk near them now. I could breathe beside them.
That night, something shifted again.
From the narrow opening in the gallery window, I saw Chhota Ustaad return to the ashram. He was
not alone. A woman walked beside him wrapped in light perfume, her steps hesitant but familiar. I
watched in silence as they entered his room. After some time, she came out again, quickly, almost
frightened. Her purse slipped as she turned. In that instant, the light from a lamp touched something
inside it.
A necklace.
The necklace.
The same one that had glowed around the goddess’s neck earlier that day.
Inside the room, Chhota Ustaad lay on his bed. His eyes half-closed. Drunk. There was no kriya that
night. No chants. No rituals. The house was quiet. Most disciples had left or disappeared into their
rooms early.
Later, I whispered what I saw to my uncle. I didn’t expect the slap.
It wasn’t hard, but it hurt.
He went pale first. Then he said, "That woman... she’s the tea vendor’s sister. Divorced. She comes
to Chhota Ustaad for remedies. Kriyas. She’s looking for a second marriage. That’s all."
I told him about the necklace.
His expression changed. His hand rose.
"That’s none of your business," he said. "You are here to sweep. Not to judge."
His voice was low, but it closed the moment like a locked door. I turned away, my eyes burning. That
night I didn’t speak again. I lay in my corner, curling up with my thoughts. Hugging the secrets I was
not allowed to keep or share.
The next morning felt like every other. Grey smoke drifted from the kitchen. The prayers started.
But something was missing.
The goddess stood bare. The necklace was gone.
No one said anything. No one dared.
During the pooja(prayer), Chhota Ustaad sat silently. His voice didn’t rise. He didn’t correct the
mistakes in chanting. His spine was bent forward, as if his thoughts were heavier than his body.
I looked at my uncle. He turned his face away.
That was answer enough.
In the afternoon, I took tea to Bade Ustaad. His room smelled of damp earth and sandalwood. He
was sitting silently, as always a silence that felt full, not empty. He took the tea, then asked gently:
"Can you read?"
I nodded. "A little. I like stories... of kings and queens, battles, sometimes magic."
He nodded too. That was all. I was dismissed gently, and I went back to work.
That night, I lay again under the gallery. Above me was the small window to Chhota Ustaad’s room. I
could hear him. He wasn’t alone.
Angira was with him his closest disciple. They weren’t chanting. They were whispering.
Their voices floated down like low wind.
"I’m tired of this," Chhota Ustaad said. "These rules of the thrown... Bade Ustaad watching every step
like some god."
Angira replied, "Then why don’t we take the dark kriya deeper? Why keep going outside? Let the
ashram see real power."
Chhota Ustaad laughed under his breath.
"He always interferes. Just when the energy rises, that old man appears. And I don’t even trust him
anymore. Maybe he serves a dark deity too, just hides behind his silence."
Angira whispered, "We will master the dark deity soon. Then he can’t stop us."
There was a pause.
Then came the question:
"Why not take the thrown? Why not replace him?"
Chhota Ustaad’s answer came slowly, heavy like stone dropped in water.
"The throne is cursed. I don’t want it. It calls who it wants. But once you sit, you don’t leave. Ever."
But something was missing.
The goddess stood bare. The necklace was gone.
No one said anything. No one dared.
During the pooja(prayer), Chhota Ustaad sat silently. His voice didn’t rise. He didn’t correct the
mistakes in chanting. His spine was bent forward, as if his thoughts were heavier than his body.
I looked at my uncle. He turned his face away.
That was answer enough.
In the afternoon, I took tea to Bade Ustaad. His room smelled of damp earth and sandalwood. He
was sitting silently, as always a silence that felt full, not empty. He took the tea, then asked gently:
"Can you read?"
I nodded. "A little. I like stories... of kings and queens, battles, sometimes magic."
He nodded too. That was all. I was dismissed gently, and I went back to work.
That night, I lay again under the gallery. Above me was the small window to Chhota Ustaad’s room. I
could hear him. He wasn’t alone.
Angira was with him his closest disciple. They weren’t chanting. They were whispering.
Their voices floated down like low wind.
"I’m tired of this," Chhota Ustaad said. "These rules of the thrown... Bade Ustaad watching every step
like some god."
Angira replied, "Then why don’t we take the dark kriya deeper? Why keep going outside? Let the
ashram see real power."
Chhota Ustaad laughed under his breath.
"He always interferes. Just when the energy rises, that old man appears. And I don’t even trust him
anymore. Maybe he serves a dark deity too, just hides behind his silence."
Angira whispered, "We will master the dark deity soon. Then he can’t stop us."
There was a pause.
Then came the question:
"Why not take the thrown? Why not replace him?"
Chhota Ustaad’s answer came slowly, heavy like stone dropped in water.
"The throne is cursed. I don’t want it. It calls who it wants. But once you sit, you don’t leave. Ever."
His voice changed. It lost the pride.
"They say the owner of the thrown never steps outside the ashram again. Snake bites, shadows,
close calls with death. The throne brings people, money, offerings but not a single rupee belongs to
the one sitting there. Not even for family. That’s the rule."
Angira said softly, "This forbidden tantra is draining you. You don’t seem the same."
Chhota Ustaad replied sharply, "I’ll recover. I have my ways. Don’t worry."
After a while, Angira left.
I heard the soft sound of a glass. Chhota Ustaad was drinking again.
Between the rustle of shadows and sleep, I heard him whisper:
"Lila... when will we be together forever?"
I didn’t understand.
But I fell asleep with the name echoing in my chest like a strange secret I wasn’t supposed to hear.
"They say the owner of the thrown never steps outside the ashram again. Snake bites, shadows,
close calls with death. The throne brings people, money, offerings but not a single rupee belongs to
the one sitting there. Not even for family. That’s the rule."
Angira said softly, "This forbidden tantra is draining you. You don’t seem the same."
Chhota Ustaad replied sharply, "I’ll recover. I have my ways. Don’t worry."
After a while, Angira left.
I heard the soft sound of a glass. Chhota Ustaad was drinking again.
Between the rustle of shadows and sleep, I heard him whisper:
"Lila... when will we be together forever?"
I didn’t understand.
But I fell asleep with the name echoing in my chest like a strange secret I wasn’t supposed to hear.