An oppressive feeling hung in the air of Shantinivas Inn. It was felt by all who occupied the tables. The presence of sound was but a feeble mask for what lay beneath the surface. You could sense it in the subtle hints on their faces—faces that bore hidden pain, frustration, resentment, and discontent toward the source of their misery. Yet, honest words remained unspoken, for honesty would inflict more harm upon the sullied castes than any good.
Instead, they complained about the pawns who danced to the tune of their masters. And all those suppressed emotions morphed into a dark shadow that dared not venture beyond the inn.
Amidst this deceitful act, an unnoticed presence carried an ominous silence. And it could have been shattered by various triggers—an insult from a sharp tongue wielding the right words, the utterance of the name of the one who had taken his lover’s life, or the piercing gaze of a guard demanding fear within the eyes of the lesser, whose eyes remained disconcertingly calm.
Beneath the veneer of silence, he harbored a feeling far greater and far more dangerous than anything shared within the inn. It was a flame that defied soothing, fueled by a tragedy heavier than a mountain, yearning for a fate darker than the abyss. It was a death knell, the destroyer of all that lived beyond a prison known only to him. Patiently, the man sat, waiting for the wise men to usher him into a dreamless slumber.
*****
It was the third day of imprisonment, and the traitor of the Triloka Empire waited for his chronicler. Sat in a dimly lit corner was he, strongly constrained, with his hands and legs shackled by divyaloha chains—etched with arcanist engravings that prevented him from using his mana.
His prison cell was deep in the underground, away from the brushstrokes of ever-burning gold. The unbearable heat made him long for a shapeless kiss that could wipe away his perspiration, sparkling like pearls under the waning light of a lone lamp.
The doors to his prison creaked and groaned as the two guards, swathed in dark, flexible leather armor and bull masks, opened them. Along with them was a young woman, draped in a blue cotton saree with minimal patterns and motifs that added elegance without being gaudy. She strode into the prison cell with a gait that possessed the predatory grace of a lioness.
“You wanted me, here I am,” the woman spoke. The rebel lifted his head and gave her a smug, satisfied smile.
“I half expected to be killed on sight by the wise men,” He said, dragging his index finger across his throat.
“Good morning, Indra, leader of the traitorous Asuras. My name is Arshia, the first sword of the empire, the shadow of the emperor, the silver of divinity who watches over the three realms.”
She brought her palms together and gently pressed them. She did not bow her head, refusing to show reverence to her lesser. That brought a smile to the rebel’s face. Nothing amused him more than ucchavarnas and their elaborate way of greeting someone, befitting their caste.
“So it is morning. I can’t really tell in this prison.”
Two servants brought a chair, and Arishia settled on it. A few moments later, four servants walked in with a table, cotton papers, bamboo pens, and a carbon-based ink bottle. They eased the table between the both of them and skillfully arranged the stationery and hurried out.
Arshia traced her index finger in the air. Inky blue mana leaked from invisible pores as she drew a curve and uttered, “Stha,” the curve stayed as her finger traced another one and, after completing it, repeated the word. She did the same thing for curves and dots until it formed a glyph that resembled an owl.
“Ekikuru,” she said sharply, and the glyph blazed to life.
It morphed into tendrils of light and merged with the contours of Arishia’s eyes. While the hue of her eyes remained unchanged, the rebel noticed the effects.
“Ah, the owl glyph. It’s very useful for clandestine endeavors. I recall using it once to meet an ancient and peculiar individual and had a fascinating conversation.” He paused for a moment, his eyebrows furrowed.
“In this situation, couldn’t you have asked the servants for a candle instead of expending a significant amount of Mana?” the rebel asked, and then his eyebrows raised in a playful, exaggerated manner, followed by a sly grin.
“You want to discern lies from truth? You sneaky child. Good for you! Good for you!” He nodded approvingly.
“I am not a child, and this is no time for prattling. So let’s cut to the chase, shall we? Tell me why you surrendered so suddenly? Why did you disappear for two years? How did you become one of us and taint the sacred halls of Vishwavidyalaya? And how did you become man- “
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Her lips pressed tightly together as if trying to hold back from uttering that word. “Mantravid or you may call me a wizard like the extinct people of west,” he complete it for while smiling rather proudly.
“I know you abhor it, but face the truth. I am one of the greatest mantravid in centuries. My tale spread across the continent, and several have already seen what I am capable of.”
“You are a deceiver, nothing more.”
The rebel grinned at the disgust in her tone. “You still didn’t ask me the most important question. You should ask why I picked you.”
“Very well,” she said. “Enlighten me then. Why did you pick me? What is it about me that compelled you to surrender and share your secrets?”
The rebel’s smug grin widened. Relishing the opportunity, he leaned forward to reveal his motives.
“You play a larger part in this than you realize, and you will learn about it at the very end of my story. i promise you that with proper context, your involvement would make perfect sense.”
Arisha slammed her fists on the table. “Enough,” she said, her voice firm. “I need transparency, not ambiguous hints and half-truths. If my involvement holds such great significance, then lay it all bare before me. I refuse to be kept in the dark as you prattle about your so-called adventures.”
“Not really a patient person, are you?” the rebel sighed. “You have much to learn, child, and my story might help you with that.”
“What can a sullied bastard like you teach me?” she scoffed.
“Do not dismiss us sullied, child. You can learn much from a sullied than those bumbling fools in the capital. I broke through your system, didn’t I? You will get your truth, but you must be patient. Five days is all I need and after that you will get everything, and I get to do what I want.”
“And what is it you want?” She asked.
“Redemption. I want to redeem myself and face the consequences of my actions.”
“I find it hard to believe that a man like you could ever feel guilt.”
Hearing her words, the rebel chuckled wryly. “I see you’ve painted a monster out of me,” he began. “And perhaps, in some ways, I have become one. But, Lady Shatrughna, aren’t you curious about the path that led me down this perilous road? In my opinion, this could be a cautionary tale, a glimpse into the depths of the human mind and the consequences of terrible actions. Listening to this may help you prevent something like me from happening again.”
“Is that so? Then tell me your story, and I will judge you with a fair mind. Enlighten me about the choices that pushed you towards this treacherous path of defiance and rebellion.”
“Well,” he began, clearing his throat. “It would be appropriate to begin with my earliest memories, right when I was a te-“
“No,” Arshia interrupted. “Start from that incident, when you became an Asura.”
"If you want the truth, write my whole story. Otherwise, bring in your wise men and their torturers. They won’t get a thing out of me, and they know it."
“Have it your way. I will act as the biographer, and you, the pious, misunderstood noble revolutionary.”
“You’re getting the hang of this,” he said, smiling like a proud teacher.
Arishia dipped the pen in the ink, ready to pen his tale on paper. Her impatient eyes lingered on him as he contemplated.
“Begin,” she said, impatiently.
“My most vivid memories began when I was a teen,” he stared. “My family, just five of us, struggled to make ends meet. Yet..” He paused and continued with palpable bitterness.
“Life was good, and I was a better person.”
“Were you pious back then?”
“No,”
“What about your family?”
“Oh, they were pious. My father was more pious than my mother, but she understood our place in the world. The only thing she ever complained about was not being able to divorce her worthless husband who offered her nothing but misery.”
Indra smiled wryly. “I love the cunning manner you people embedded these regressive beliefs within us. A clever way to hinder our progress and prevent us from growing.”
“It is you people who could not evolve, and we, as civilized individuals, tolerated your beastly nature.”
“Go listen to the priests preaching in the sullied districts, child. You will understand what I am talking about.”
The rebel shook his head. “Arguing with you is like raining on a stubborn buffalo.”
Arshia frowned at that, and the rebel cleared his throat to continue.
“Where was I? Ah yes. I had two younger sisters, born to a sullied prostitute who abandoned them on our doorstep, much to my mother’s dismay. If they were born to the women of Vesyavarna, they would have taken them in and trained them to lose their virtue to their superiors every night. However, sullied men are not allowed to lie with those women. As a result, the sullied men turned to sullied prostitutes — desperate women who sold their bodies to survive.”
“You ever sold your body? There are rumors that you did,” she said, her lips curling into mock amusement.
“I did what I had to do to survive. They are not what I would call fond memories,” he said, letting out a mirthless laugh.
“There are only a few moments in my life I would call fond. My life has been nothing more than a perpetual tragedy, sometimes due to my own mistakes, and most of the time the world throwing challenges my way.”
He halted and stared at her with a pensive gaze. “I wish I could go back to the peaceful days of my childhood when my father taught me his creed, and my mother sang soothing lullabies to help me sleep. Though I didn’t like my father, my mother was an angel who went hungry just to make sure I did not starve.”
“Very tragic, please continue.”
“It was not a good life, but at least it was peaceful, and we were whole.”
“What happened to your family?”
“What happens to those who defy their masters?” he asked, and then answered his own question. “Execution.”
“That was one of the darkest times in my life. But before I share it with you, you need to understand the essence of who I am. Before I aspired to become a mantravid, and before I led the bloodiest rebellion as an Asura, I dreamt of being a singer,”
He went on, his pensive gaze persisted. “It was a foolish ambition for someone of my standing. Individuals with a tainted blood like mine were never allowed such pursuits; having a voice to rival any minstrel carried little weight. Still, I had a voice, and even though I couldn't make a living from it, I was determined to follow my passion. So, let's start there. Let's begin with the incident that made me realize my first dream.”