The insinuations of our actions did not ebb as my core endeavored to evade them—a forlorn aspiration—for our crimes linger everywhere. I felt their presence in the sable of night, in the rays of gold that awaken life at dawn, on the spiteful tongue of the dusky dame whom I refused to slay.

They were everywhere, breeding an obscene ambiance, striving to correct me with a scarlet smile, ear to ear. I didn't want it to happen. I didn't want my life to end. But everything has an ending—silver stars in the coal night, sparks in orbs that saw my blade, trees earning the sun's scorn. All would end as the universe dictates. But what of Indra, the semi-divine? What of Indrasena, the king slayer?

Yes, mine too would end, but unlike many, mine would end by my own will. Not at the hands of the sufferers, but by the sword of my own choosing. Some might say such an end is unjust for the taker of many mothers' progeny, but it won’t be any different from the many fates that defy the hand of justice.

If my actions that night were unjust and sinful, inviting an evildoer like me into her home would make Samira equally guilty. However, the so-called pious play a part in weaving the web of crime with their willful ignorance. Consequently, these hypocrites have no right to condemn her to the noose for protecting those incapable of protecting themselves.

My sister and I were both predators and prey that night, feeling overwhelmed by the vast, oppressive world closing in to crush us, lest we sought the fragile nest to hatch as eagles do and arise with carnivorous fury.

I banged at the door of the so-called nest like a cat in distress, but my act was no feline deception. It was a desperate cry, where each second made the steps we stood on feel like briars, and every breath taken outside left a huge tincture for predators. Footsteps sounded on the other side of the door, hinting at a sense of urgency, but to my past self, it felt like a deliberate delay.

The door creaked open just a crack, and Samira peered through with one eye. "What are you doing here? And who is th—" She paused as she gazed upon the blood stains on our body.

"Get in!" She hissed, pulling me in as my sister followed. She shut the door and pushed me against the wall.

"What did you do?" She yelled.

"I-I..."

"It was me," my sister spoke, her voice trembling. "It's all my fault. They were mocking my little sister, those murderers. I—"

"You killed them." Samira said. "Whom did you kill?"

"His name was Ravidasan" I spoke in her stead.

Samira's brown face paled like a summer cloud. "That's the son of nagaradipati. His family ruled this city for a generation."

She ran her fingers overs her coal locks. "They will hang you for this."

"If I take the fall for this, would my family be safe?" I asked, knowing the answer, hoping that reality could be shaped to my liking - just a little.

"They will kill you all for what you've done."

My legs gave out and I sunk into the floor like an anchor dropped into the sea. "I- I"

She knelt before me. "This is not the time for you to waver!" she snapped, grabbing my attention. "I want you to tell me everything that transpired tonight."

I told her everything. After listening to me, she said nothing and led both of us upstairs to the guest room and told us to lock the doors. Sleep did not come easily that night. I waited for Samaira’s return and only slept when my body gave in. Devika's sleep was more an attempt to escape reality than a state of contented rest. I don't blame her; I’ve had many such nights myself.

When I woke up, I saw her curled up in the bed, the soft radiance of dawn gilding her face with a veil of stars. I walked to the intricately carved jali windows and looked out. I saw guards in blue kurtas, white breeches, and leather armor running frantically, dragging down a young, sullied woman who resembled my sister. Hastily, I turned away from the windows like a startled cat.

I felt my chest tighten and my breath quicken, as if the air had left the room at the behest of all that is good, intent on ending my cursed existence. I wanted to run away. I wanted the misery to end and wished for my vision to be clouded by fog, but there was nowhere to go and no way for clarity to welcome obscurity.

"No, you cannot fall. You have to keep moving forward for her sake," I repeated to myself like a mantra, fighting against the weight of guilt straining to kill my spirit. I forced myself to be a little brave to confront a world that felt so daunting. I rose and conducted myself in a peculiar manner; you could say I was trying to be a sheep in wolf's clothing.

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I stepped out of the room to seek my master. When I got downstairs, I noticed food on the table along with a paper that had four words written on it: "Stay inside and practice." I held that parchment in my hand and wondered what she did the night before. At a time when colors were told not to shine brightly, she, who shone the brightest, ventured. I reckoned what secret she possessed to be so bold.

I held onto the paper and pondered the last word: "Practice." Did I want to play again? Of course I did. I wanted to do it with gaiety, but headlong guilt always won, while restless joy took flight.

"Brother,"

I turned around and saw my sister's haggard visage and tear-stained eyes. I wanted to do something to ease her pain. "Would you like to see me play?"

Even now, I do not know if it was my selfishness or her happiness that prompted me to say those words. I would like to believe that my sister's happiness was not an excuse to shamelessly hide behind to do what I love.

"I would like that, brother,"

I took her to the room that was essentially my dream maker. There, I reached for the sarod, charming as a rose, with sweetness difficult to elicit, for the touch of the strings was thorn-sharp. Nevertheless, I let my guilt bleed, and my fingers did the work. I played many songs, some remembered, some half-forgotten. I tried to fill the missing parts but it felt like stitching up a cut flower with a frayed thread.

I have no desire to defend myself, and nor should anyone, for no one has to value authenticity in times of great distress? All we need is an escape. In a way, music was a high without green aflame, a sweet-sounding yet voiceless cooing that lets rationality rest and penetrates the layer of clotted pain.

My sister listened attentively, and I couldn't discern what went through her mind. For her smile held all the restrained shine that offered warmth if only the lips lifted her cheeks; her eyes creased in indecision, torn between woe or dance with frozen crescent of her lips.

Watching her made me wonder if she resented the freedom I was given — freedom that reinforced the torment we were told we deserved. I do not know what went through her mind but I could say with certainty I resented myself like many other men and women that opposed the accepted norm.

In my short life I've come to understand that we who march for the freedom are naturally resentful creatures - we strive to be free and yet torment ourselves for the price paid for it and in same vein yearn to destroy the spineless for feeling the totality of our victory.

That day, I played and sang aplenty, and for that, I received a short response—three words that mattered.

"Thank you brother," Whether those words were meant to make me happy or were of genuine appreciation was a mental debate unworthy of engaging in. Thus I simply took them at face value.

Hours later, Samira returned home with an air of grimness, her fine features holding all the untouchability of a Styr monument of ancient royalty. Her body was enshrouded in traveling cloth befitting noble birth. She left her leather slippers by the doorstep and pushed back the shawl of silver vines on ocean blue, allowing her hair to grace my sight. Her burgundy kurti was devoid of adornment, but the cloth itself was pure silk, matching the gathered skirt that treasured the anklets offering only the beauty of its voice.

"I will protect you as long as I can and ship you out of this city tonight.. The smugglers will take you to the city of ambar. There you will be taken to my order, who will train you in our creed."

She came closer, placed her hands on my shoulders, and looked at me with utmost seriousness. "Many efforts have been made to protect you two. The guards who are aware of your occupations are silenced."

If she noticed my surprise she didn't show it. "But you are not safe here they will find out about you eventually. And I-."

I sensed hesitation in her but it quickly disappeared - replaced by grimness. "I have to tell you something"

I knew what that would be, but I wasn't ready.

"Your parents are dead,"

Silence became my solace; evasion of true sight felt like a welcome reprieve. Despite my promise to be brave, I felt weakness in my bones, as if those words had renounced the idea of nightmare delusion. I heard my sister wailing, her body shuddering, but I did not move to comfort her.

My knees buckled, and I fell to the ground, tears streaming down my face.

"Indra!" Samira snapped, kneeling down before me and looking at me in the eye. "Do not despair. If you allow yourself to go down that path, you will become a creature of baser instincts."

"I should have never dre-"

She slapped me across the face, and I looked at her, dumbfounded. "Dreams shape your soul! Without them, you are not a creature of baser instincts - you'll become an animal. So don't ever say that you have no right to dream. It is your birthright and nobody should ever be allowed to take it away from you."

"Why?" I asked, almost a whisper. "Why should I dream even if it pains me to do so?"

"Why?" Samira asked, astonished, and then replied with granite clarity, "Because you are born into this world, that's why."

She stood up and offered me her hand. "Stand up and fight! Avenge your sister, who was brutalized and had her freedom stripped away. Live for your parents, who were hanged in your stead. Protect your sister, who has no one but you."

I took her hand and listened to the words that would stick with me for the rest of my life. "I want you to know I will always be with you as long as you tread the path that is right. So listen to me carefully: when you are taken to my masters, learn what they teach you, and be the man who would protect those who cannot protect themselves. If I am right about you, if my vision-"

She bit her lip and chose her words carefully. "There will come a time when you will become more than just a man. In that moment, no matter what anyone says, including your masters, always remember that conflict is inevitable. It existed before men, before gods, and will continue to do so. When you take the power, do not be the man who glory seekers hail; be the balance that keeps conflict in check."

For a long time, I believed her will would be mine and it would be fulfilled. But there was no marriage between promise, desire, and actions. Life has a way of divorcing trajectory from the soul's compass, for destination is not an ever-fixed mark in your dreams, where you could live with empathy while dearest bonds smile tenderly with you.