What is this Dharma?
This short story was first published in the January 1957 issue of Mangalodhyam, a renowned Malayalam magazine. Clear evidence suggests that the author of the work is Veerabhadra Pillai. It is believed that he originally wrote this story with the intention of including it in a larger collection.
The Secret Speaker
In the suburban area, at this late hour of the night, it was unusual to see any lights still on. The dim, eerie yellow glow streaming through a tattered curtain cast shifting shapes on the wall, creating an unsettling atmosphere. The cracked and fissured tar road looked like something out of a nightmare, a dark and jagged path leading to nowhere.
Nearby, a narrow gutter glittered faintly as water trickled through it. A few pigs likely slumbered in its murky depths, their occasional snorts, snores, and gasping noises breaking the stillness. I had been waiting for a bus for what felt like an eternity. It must have been 8:30 at night already, and hunger gnawed at me. I wasn’t even sure if buses still ran at this hour. The road stretched out deserted, with no soul in sight as far as my eyes could see.
The only signs of life were a few drunkards swaying aimlessly, a leprosy patient cloaked in rotting garments, and a street wanderer whose gender I couldn't discern in the dimness of the night. None of them were people I could approach for help, and their presence only deepened my unease.
The minutes dragged on, each one amplifying my fear. Across the road stood a decrepit house, its roof caved in. The remnants of its crumbling wall were draped with thorny creepers, their twisted shadows swaying ominously in the faint light. The movement of the shadows seemed alive, heightening the sense of dread that had wrapped itself around me.
A lone figure was walking down the road, pushing a bicycle. He seemed startled to see me standing there. As he approached, I signaled to him and asked, "Will there be any buses on this route?"
"You said... a bus?" he replied, his tone tinged with disbelief.
"Yes," I confirmed.
"There’s only one bus that runs on this route," he said with a faint smirk. "And it must have already left."
I had already guessed his answer, but I pressed on. "Is there any chance of catching a bus nearby?" I asked.
He paused for a moment. "At the three-road junction, you might find something. But you'll need to walk a bit."
"Is this the way?"
"Do one thing. There's a shortcut through Kappikkal Road. Cross the railway gate and turn left. You'll end up behind Karthick Theatre. From there, take a narrow alley, and you'll reach the national highway. The express buses occasionally stop there. If not..." He hesitated before adding, "At the very least, you might get a lorry to give you a lift."
I thanked him and started walking ahead.
“Oh, about that railway gate, be care…” he began to say something but stopped abruptly.
“What?” I asked, turning back.
“Nothing. Go ahead,” he replied, brushing it off with a wave of his hand.
I nodded, thanked him again, and continued on. The narrow, muddy road stretched ahead of me, the gutter water flowing alongside it, glinting faintly in the dim light. Scattered jelly stones dotted the path, making each step uncertain.
As I walked further, a faint light appeared around a small bend in the road. A bright notice caught my eye, pinned to a post. It read: "Union of Human Souls Redeeming Group – Eighth State-Level Meeting." Intrigued, I looked closer. A small auditorium stood just beyond, its modest parking area crowded with bicycles.
I hesitated, confusion and curiosity warring within me. What was this strange gathering in such an isolated spot, far from the city? The place exuded a mystic, almost clandestine aura, as though it belonged to a secret society. The allure was undeniable. Overcoming the cautious restraint ingrained in my middle-class sensibilities, I decided to step inside.
The room was dimly lit, casting shadows that danced along the walls. No one seemed to notice my arrival. At least a hundred people sat motionless, their silence almost eerie, like statues carved in the dim light.
At the front of the room, a middle-aged man stood at a microphone, speaking with fiery passion. I slid into the shadows, blending into the background behind a pillar, watching him closely.
He didn’t look ordinary—not in the least. Valiant was the only word that could describe him. His tall, commanding figure was striking, with broad shoulders, a chiseled frame, and a strong, regal neck. His face carried a stern determination, his eyes burning with conviction. Yet, his attire struck me as peculiar—a long, flowing garment that seemed out of place.
He had a broad forehead, a sharp nose with a subtle, upward tilt, delicate ears, lips tinged with a natural pink, and a jawline that demanded attention. His chin held a certain poise, lending his face a sculptural symmetry. He seemed like a figure carved from marble, a Greek statue brought to life—or perhaps Arabian face, or something else, older and more enigmatic. His visage could have belonged to the ancient Semitic terracotta statues, or perhaps an artistic rendering from an age steeped in mystery.
He reminded me of Salomon, Caesar, Akbar, or Raja Raja Chozhan—an amalgamation of greatness etched into a mortal frame. His face carried the hues of wisdom, the sharp glint of shrewdness, the force of power, and the unwavering resolve of valiance, all woven together as though he were an emperor returned from history’s pages.
I struggled to follow the language of his speech; perhaps I wasn’t listening closely enough. But then, as I caught a few more words, something in their cadence struck a deep, unknowable chord within me. It was not a sensation easily described—something profound, far removed from delusion or fancy.
He stood as the sole figure of authority in that clandestine gathering, the undeniable leader. His presence was omnipotent, his voice resonant. As his speech drew to a close, it unfurled a vivid vision—a meticulous blueprint for a glorious future. Every word carried the weight of action, the power to stir the depths of resolve.
"I see the doubt in your eyes. How will you accomplish all these tasks? A small question stirs beneath the newfound energy you’ve gained, like a pulse—persistent, unyielding. At first, you may even savor the thrill of it, the sensation of grappling with uncertainty. But soon, that question will take hold of you, growing sharper, more urgent.
When you lie in bed, in the quiet of solitude, it will begin to stretch and multiply. In the shadows, in moments of isolation, it will expand, filling the spaces where certainty once stood. You will feel it tightening around you, its grasp cold and relentless. It will wring out every affirmation you once held close, and you will find yourself struggling against its suffocating weight.
Its lashless eyes, its gaping mouth—an abyss that swallows you whole. The poison of its breath will choke the air from your lungs. And in a surge of terror, your heartbeat thundering, you will wake, alone, adrift in the vastness of existence.
Everything spoken here tonight will scatter, carried away to distant horizons, fading into whispers. Yet, I can already feel the lonely pain that will follow you—in your beds, on the streets, in your rooms, or even amidst the clamor of a crowd. The infinite faces of loneliness, the myriad shapes it takes—I can feel them as if they were my own.
Yes, my friends, From the cold depths of your soul, I have seen something undeniable. I can say with unwavering certainty, "You can do it all." For you are not merely one person; you are something far greater.
A long, low sigh rippled through the crowd, undulating like a wave of collective thought.
"Yes, Comrade. You can crush that squirming earthworm beneath your boots. Nothing is beyond our reach. Whatever we achieve with your hands will be monumental—lofty and infinitely possible. Do you wonder how to prove it? Look no further than your own body. In this frame of your being lies a wonder of creation. How perfectly sculpted, how harmoniously it resonates with the rhythms of nature. Life flows through it like a cascading stream, its sole purpose unmistakable: to act and to triumph. This body, this marvel, is challenging you—to rise to your duty, to put it into action, to strive for victory.
Do not halt. It implores you to push forward. When you falter, when you let it idle, it becomes no more than a bundle of flesh, weighed down by decay, returning to the soil from which it came. But when you answer its call, when you pour your energy into it, it grows stronger, more resolute. This is the truth you will soon realize: no victory, however grand, compares to the triumph of fulfilling the body’s insatiable thirst for conquest and purpose. Every other victory is but a drop in comparison.
Every body is formed to conquer and preserve, to shape and safeguard the universe itself. This relentless desire is drawn from the proteins and minerals of the earth, forged into the form you now inhabit. The body is the manifestation of a great, primal will—a will so immense it gave itself shape. Among all the creative forces, this is the holiest, the most profound.
Unleash this force within you. It is the same force that births universes, that molds existence itself. Untie its first fold, and it will crush every barrier before it. It will claim the universe, for that is its sole purpose—its reason for being.
This was an event from World War I, when the German army seized control of a section of the Egyptian desert. An Indo-Anglo troop was dispatched to reclaim the territory. In the midst of the barren expanse, atop a dune, stood a German automatic rifle, entrenched and deadly. Surrounding it was nothing but empty sand, scattered with patches of quicksand. That rifle unleashed a relentless hail of bullets, pinning down the Indo-Anglo troops. Moving forward was impossible without silencing it.
The English commander gave a fateful order to the Gurkha unit: advance towards the dune and capture the rifle. Without hesitation, the Gurkhas obeyed. Into the storm of bullets, they charged, row upon row. Corpses fell like wheat before a scythe, yet the soldiers pressed on, trampling over the fallen as they surged forward. Each man who moved ahead became a shield, absorbing bullets for the one behind him.
Minutes passed, and the unit dwindled to a single soldier. The last Gurkha, his resolve unbroken, climbed the blood-soaked dune. Against all odds, he reached the summit and launched himself at the German soldiers—thirty of them entrenched around the rifle.
When the gunfire ceased, the lone Gurkha stood victorious, his figure drenched in blood, as though risen from a crimson pool. For the entire Indo-Anglo force, he was no mere soldier—he was an angel of deliverance.
The dune was captured, and with it, a decisive victory in the battle was secured.
There was a singular energy that coursed through the Gurkha warriors, binding them into one formidable entity. A shared purpose fused their individual bodies into a vast chain, forming a single, unstoppable force. This colossal body, with its countless legs and arms, moved with a unified vision—a vision that drove them toward certain death yet compelled them to achieve victory. Not a drop of doubt lingered among them, no trace of hesitation.
At the command, they surged forward as one. Had even a single man faltered, stepping back in fear or doubt, the entire army would have crumbled, their mission rendered meaningless. Their deaths would have held no purpose. But it was the triumph of the last man standing that gave their sacrifice its resplendent significance.
On that fateful day, each warrior cast aside the chains of self-preservation, surrendering to a collective will that transcended individuality. Their combined form became the embodiment of a primordial desire—a desire fueled by an unyielding energy that surged onto the battlefield. It was this force that forged one of humanity’s most extraordinary moments.
"Dear comrades, what is this chain that binds us? What is this drop of fear? From where does this faltering arise? We must understand it. We must face it. Only then will we truly know it. Only then can liberation be within our grasp."
At that moment, I became aware of someone standing close to me. I hadn’t noticed him approach; his steps had made no sound. His sudden presence startled me. Though the darkness obscured his face, I knew he was crying—his suppressed spasms betrayed an intensity that words could not.
I did not turn to look at him, yet I felt his grief as if it coursed through my own body. His sorrow resonated within me, an unspoken pain that made me ache for him without needing to see his tears.
"The uniqueness we attribute as our self-consciousness, Comrade, is the very chain that imprisons us. The moment we feel the weight of the word I, we forfeit our courage and unity. The moment we place the body in the time dimension of history—within its purpose—is lost in that instant. Only when we break free from this illusion will humanity achieve true liberation.
This self-conscious chain is the root of all human suffering. It binds the mind, perpetuating an eternal cycle of sorrow. This historical anguish—the agony of a human caged within their body—is nothing but the torment of separation. It is the binding of bodies, the slow decay of souls rotting as lifeless corpses, rendered purposeless by their isolation."
A single body, clutching a meaningless dream, burdens the mind until it finally succumbs—dying, decaying. This is the story of the world. On the other side, to shed this weight, humanity retreats to caves and solitary rooms, seeking solace in misguided spirituality, tormenting themselves further. Some starve their bodies, torturing them in a futile attempt to suppress the mind. Fools. Their minds, consume their frail, withered bodies entirely, magnifies a fierce and uncontrollable force.
What should we do instead? Liberate the body. A liberated body, casting off the mind like a wild horse, would leap forward untamed. Nothing in this world could govern it or seize the throne of that unbound mind. And so, I share with you my truth: redemption lies only in the freedom of the body.
Humanity is the body. Not your body, not his body, not our bodies—just a body. It is through this singular vessel that the original desire manifests, the very essence of humanity. This desire, its aim, its fulfillment—that alone is the nectar of life.
We must allow our bodies to pursue that fulfillment. A fulfillment beyond death, beyond solitude. Only there, in that boundless state, is sorrow absent. That is why I say: wherever sorrow ceases, you are truly fulfilled.
What is this fulfillment? We are but drops, while the universal desire is the flood. We are but fleeting flames, while the universal desire is the wild, unyielding fire. When we merge with that desire, there is no we. We become it. Yet, we have bound our desire to this fragile form, chained it with the shackles of self-awareness.
Gnashing, grasping, clawing at the earth with restless fury, its mane bristling, the tamed beast paces fiercely within its cage. That beast is our unbridled desire, and we fear its intensity. We fear it will shatter our identity and plunge us into the vast, unknowable darkness.
It is this very fear—the fear of losing ourselves—that binds us to every kind of grief. It is the root of our solitude, the source of our dread of death.
The one who shatters this shackle is the true warrior. Each of the Gurkha warriors who martyred themselves in that desert embodies the essence of a true warrior—the conqueror of self-consciousness. Each of them stands as a saint, not in the mold of those pitiable ascetics who retreat to caves, starve their bodies, and waste away into decay, but as saints of profound wisdom born through action.
The body itself holds no wisdom. True enlightenment arises in the moment the shackles of the mind are broken, and the body surges forward, untethered and unafraid. It is in that moment that the body reaches its highest form of enlightenment. That is why I say this: knowing is not wisdom. Becoming is wisdom.
Without exception, every religion propagates the necessity of sacrifice. Humanity has discovered, through its long history, that true wisdom can only be attained through sacrifice.
We lose our ego in the act of sacrifice. Every drop of this earth was shaped through sacrifice. Standing on the blood-soaked ground of sacrifice, we breathe its essence—we live by it.Millions have endured unimaginable torment—stripped of all they possessed, their blood spilled, and their essence absorbed by the soil. These are the ones who truly lived. They are the sages who, through their ultimate acts, touched the loftiest moments of existence and attained wisdom.
Dear Comrades, what is the pinnacle of those Gurkha warrior's life? Is it in the revelry of gut filled feasts, or the embrace of sexual pleasures? No, never. The truest, most profound moments come in that battle, when the Major’s command cuts through the chaos and an unshakable surge electrifying their souls. It was in that shared unity, that bond, that they transcend fear and doubt. Together, they step forward as one, to sacrifice not just their bodies but the entirety of their being.
No one can deny this truth. Self-denial and sacrifice are the twin paths that lead to the complete fulfillment of the human spirit.
A man stood behind me and stepped closer. A chill emanated from his body, sharp and damp, as though he had just emerged from an icy shower. His presence carried a peculiar scent—like the earthy musk of a mossy pond, or the faint, unsettling odor of decaying grass.
The swayed intensity of speakers voice, now converged into a steady flow, signaling the end of his speech was near.
“Just step beyond the threshold and behold,” he said, his tone low yet commanding. “The human flood undulates before you, a ceaseless tide. Look closely, and you will notice a hollow—a space waiting for you, calling for you to fit within it. Enter it, merge with it. Become one with the flow, as a single, unbroken body.
"When you surrender your ego entirely, you will find what you seek—nirvana. Fulfillment. Completion.
So remember this: whoever loses himself, finds himself. Amen.”
“Amen,” the crowd echoed in unison. The speaker bowed slightly,, before stepping down from the podium. A few among the crowd swarmed around him, engaging him in conversation. Gradually, the rest of the crowd began to disperse, the faint clatter of bicycle wheels fading into the distance.
I snapped out of the trance as though waking from a dream, pulling my conscious mind back into focus. What a soul-stirring speech it had been. No philosophy I’d ever encountered could rival its power. My thoughts raced, wondering how a mere human could possibly deliver words of such depth and magnificence.
Beside me, the man who had been standing still suddenly surged forward, as if fueled by a newfound energy. He moved swiftly to the front of the speaker, his voice sharp and commanding.
“Stop right there! Answer me before you leave,” he demanded.
The speaker turned to him, a warm and friendly smile softening his expression. “Please, go ahead.”
"In your speech, you mentioned me," he said, his voice low. "No one in this place knows who I am, yet you spoke of me. I was drawn here—captivated by your voice, compelled to see for myself."
When the light fell upon his face, my heart faltered. For a fleeting moment, I feared it was all a dream. But I steadied myself, whispering that it was real.
"I hung on to every word, every pause, every nuance," he continued, his tone softening. "Your words—they were surreal, intoxicating even. But when the speech ended, the void returned. That unbearable emptiness..."
Suddenly, his expression darkened, and his voice erupted with fury. "Sham! It was all a sham!. You drown the truth in a flood of empty rhetoric! Conspirator! Sinner! You bury honesty alive beneath your worthless words!"
His rage consumed him, his trembling form a storm of indignation.
"Who are you? First, reveal your identity," he asked, calm and unwavering as he pulled free from the man's grip.
"I am the one you spoke of," the man replied, his voice measured yet firm. "The lone survivor from the Gurkha soldiers who perished ten years ago in the Egyptian desert. I was the one who seized the gun that day. For that, they awarded me the Victoria Cross."
"Congratulations, comrade. It’s an honor to meet you in person," he said, his voice filled with admiration. "You are the greatest warrior I have ever encountered. Truly, this feels like a blessing. Your victory wasn’t just against the storm of enemy bullets. No, it was against yourself. A warrior who conquers himself conquers the entire world. It reminds me of Dante’s Divine Comedy—the triumph over hell itself. Isn’t that what this is? I am glad—so very glad."
He stood frozen for a moment, his expression shifting rapidly before he erupted into a frenzy. "Pretense! You conspirator!" he shouted. "You’ve begun your honeyed, deceitful speeches again. Lies, all of it! You cheater—I’ll kill you!"
"I don’t understand your anger, comrade," he said evenly. "If there is anything wrong in my speech, tell me. Let me correct it."
His lips trembled, and he stumbled. Then, in a voice like that of a wounded, wild animal, he began to cry—loud and unrestrained. It was a wailing unlike anything I had ever witnessed, every limb of his body writhing with grief.
As the storm of his sorrow slowly subsided, the speaker in his voice gentle but firm. "Now, tell me—what happened to you?" he asked.
There is a railway gate nearby," he said, his voice heavy with an unspeakable weight. "It was on that track I lost my life in an accident twenty years ago."
I wasn't surprised by he menting about his death. He paused, as if listening to the echo of his own words, then continued. "For all these years, I have decayed in the graveyard, amidst thorny bushes that tear and cling. But my thoughts—they foamed and overflowed, consuming me. Infinite emptiness. My mind would strain, bending to its limits, only to collapse into futility. In those moments, I wept—soundless, unsobbing wails that could never find an audience. At times, rest would descend upon me, a fleeting reprieve. Yet it would only lead back to the same hollow void.
"I came to understand that redemption was not mine to have. Above the soil where I lay buried, the world teemed with life. Each passing day, the world I once knew drifted further away. The places I lived transformed. People died, buildings crumbled and rose anew, even the ancient rocks and mountains shed their skins for new forms. And I… I faded from memory."
"My wife—she ascended to heaven. My children became strangers to the world I had known, reshaped by time. Soon, there will be no evidence that I ever lived. My moments, my laughter, my tears—they will exist only in my memory. I will be nothing more than a grain in the flood of countless souls who have lived and died.
"What, then, of my consciousness? It will have no voice to speak, no ears to hear, no body to feel. And yet, it will not rest. It will wander, restless, lost in the vastness of space. Is that all that remains of us? A hollow echo, listless and longing?"
"Oh, it is terrible! Is this great expanse of space filled with such restless souls? Is that the truth of the heavens that call to us—to pull us, those born of soil, into their fold? And we humans, blind to it all, we live—born, eating, loving, holding sweet and bitter memories alike—only to die. It is terrible!"
He began to cry, his frail body convulsing with the sobs of a child starved and on the brink of death.
The speaker, unsettled, leaned closer. "Friend, how can I intervene in your sorrow?"
"When you spoke of me, I felt… hope. A fragile, radiant hope that finally, at last, I might be redeemed. I prayed, my heart trembling with desperation, and I came here, my tears a testament to my yearning. But you—oh, you betrayed me. You are not my redeemer."
"How?" he asked, his serene smile unbroken.
"Evidently, you are unaware of what unfolded in the desert after the battle."
"And what was it that happened?"
"When the last of the enemies surrendered—none spared—I turned back in triumph. But all I could see was a sprawling heap of corpses. My gut churned as if turned to stone. The army gathered around me, lifting me high in their celebration. They carried me over the fallen—those lifeless warriors. Liquor flowed freely in their frenzy of victory.
I was brought back to Keiro amidst cheers and fanfare. And there, I was awarded the Victory Cross. While I was being treated for my war wounds, the war came to an end. Yet, instead of returning home, I felt compelled to revisit the desert. That forsaken land—discarded, unloved, and unwanted—stood like an abandoned void. A dark brown expanse, barren and silent.
The stone-like weight returned to my gut as I walked through its emptiness. I made my way to a small city called Basta, where I managed to steal a few hours of restless sleep. My train was set to depart the next day.
But in the middle of the night, I woke. It was a full moon. And the desert under the moonlight—ah, there’s nothing like it. The moon, a soft red hue, cast its spell over the sands, an intoxicating beauty that could leave anyone entranced.
My legs carried me back to the same battlefield in the desert. Not a day has passed without regretting that decision. From that moment onward, I was gripped by a tormenting unease, as if the desert itself had placed a curse upon me.
In the moonlight, the desert appeared like frozen grey waves stretching endlessly. As I approached the site, a cacophony of sounds began to fill the air—a chaotic blend of voices, like a vast crowd dispersing with distorted murmurs. Yet the noise was unclear, fragmented, like echoes from another realm.
When I drew closer, everything seemed ordinary at first. But then I noticed a smoky, shifting image. Silhouettes emerged, faint yet undeniable—shadows of warriors. Gurkha warriors. Those who had fallen on that field.
They huddled together, restless and uneasy. Muted accusations rose among them, their frustrations seeping into the air like whispers of discontent. Disappointment gave way to sobs, and they nudged and jostled one another, as if searching for relief.
Only after a long and harrowing observation did I begin to understand. They were all trying to break free—desperate to escape. But they were soldiers to the last, trained to move as one, united in purpose. Yet now, their souls diverged, each pulled toward its own unfulfilled aim.
Their movements were disjointed, their legs dragging them in conflicting directions. And so, they collided and tangled, restless and bound by the very discipline that had once been their strengthMy legs carried me back to the same battlefield in the desert. Not a day has passed without regretting that decision. From that moment onward, I was gripped by a tormenting unease, as if the desert itself had placed a curse upon me.
In the moonlight, the desert appeared like frozen grey waves stretching endlessly. As I approached the site, a cacophony of sounds began to fill the air—a chaotic blend of voices, like a vast crowd dispersing with distorted murmurs. Yet the noise was unclear, fragmented, like echoes from another realm.
When I drew closer, everything seemed ordinary at first. But then I noticed a smoky, shifting image. Silhouettes emerged, faint yet undeniable—shadows of warriors. Gurkha warriors. Those who had fallen on that field.
They huddled together, restless and uneasy. Muted accusations rose among them, their frustrations seeping into the air like whispers of discontent. Disappointment gave way to sobs, and they nudged and jostled one another, as if searching for relief.
Only after a long and harrowing observation did I begin to understand. They were all trying to break free—desperate to escape. But they were soldiers to the last, trained to move as one, united in purpose. Yet now, their souls diverged, each pulled toward its own unfulfilled aim.
Their movements were disjointed, their legs dragging them in conflicting directions. And so, they collided and tangled, restless and bound by the very discipline that had once been their strength.
As a result, none of them could move an inch. They writhed together like a heap of worms, tangled in their torment. I called out to them, shouting with all the strength in my lungs, but they could not hear me. My voice seemed to vanish into the night, swallowed by the desolation.
I tried to reach out, to touch them, but my hands met only emptiness. I stood there, shouting until my throat burned and my body gave way. When dawn broke, I collapsed, fainting into the cold embrace of the desert.
The next day, I returned to the inn, my spirit heavy. Soon after, I journeyed back to India, to my native village of Nainital. But peace eluded me. Each night, as I closed my eyes, I saw the grief-stricken faces of my fallen comrades—wailing, pleading, and accusing. Their cries became the rhythm of my restless existence.
Unable to bear it any longer, I withdrew from home, abandoning everything. Clad in saffron robes, I renounced the world and became a wandering saint. Yet as I moved from city to city, my heart grew heavier, my mind more burdened.
Finally, I met a guru who offered guidance. He told me to journey to Rameswaram and bathe in the holy sea to cleanse myself of my sins. I followed his counsel, hoping for deliverance. But even after the sacred waters touched me, the weight of my guilt remained, unyielding and cruel.
With a shattered mind and a solemn gait, I wandered aimlessly. One fateful day, as I crossed a railway gate, my thoughts adrift, an accident claimed me. “
The speaker smiled cruelly. "You’re right—I cannot redeem you."
That smile inflamed him. "Then why are you advising me?"
"It is my duty," the speaker replied, their tone indifferent.
"Who are you?" he demanded.
The speaker’s mouth parted slowly. From within emerged a forked tongue, glistening and serpentine, slipping between two fangs dripping with venom. It moved like a flickering flame, swift and deliberate. Their eyes shimmered, turning into luminous orbs that gleamed like molten gold.
"Is it... you?" he wailed, his voice breaking. Fear consumed him, his very form trembling as he recoiled from the revelation.
"Yes, I am Lucifer. You call me Satan," he declared, his laughter echoing like a ghostly wail.
"You sinner! You sinner!" the man cried, his voice choked with anguish.
"Sin is my dharma," Lucifer hissed, his tone now serpentine. His body began to writhe, twisting unnaturally beneath his dark cloak. "Do you truly not understand why you are doomed, why redemption is beyond your reach?"
"No... I don’t know," the man stammered.
Lucifer’s laughter erupted again, cruel and mocking. "Ha! How dare you feign ignorance before Satan? Do you not remember? When you took your so-called holy bath in Rameswaram, the priest asked you to perform an ancient ritual. Do you recall his words?"
The man’s silence betrayed his dread.
"You were asked to sacrifice your most beloved possession. And tell me—what did you choose?"
He cringed as though struck by an unseen jolt, his body trembling.
"You took the Victoria Cross medal from your pocket, When you were about to cast it away, the priest stopped you. 'It looks like gold,' he said. 'Do not waste it—it is only a ritual gesture.' And so, you placed it back in your pocket."
"Yes... I did,"
"Ahhh," Lucifer hissed with a triumphant grin. "That priest? That was me."
"You deceiver!" he wailed, staggering backward. Spinning on his heel, he shouted, "Let me throw it away—right now!"
"And how do you plan to do that? You are but a spirit now! You cannot even touch it. It is over. You are bound by your own hand, and there is no undoing it."
The man stood frozen, utterly shattered. His shoulders sagged, and his gaze fell to the ground.
The intimidating speaker began to shed his guise. His form twisted and coiled, his body shedding its cloak as he transformed into a serpent. Slithering down from the podium, he hissed, "Behold the majestic sight of your master. My blessings are always with you."
With a final, menacing glance, he vanished into the shadows.
I turned my gaze to the man. He stood there, utterly broken, as if he might dissolve into the very darkness surrounding him. A flicker of pity stirred within me. I wanted to comfort him, to offer some solace.
But then, a chilling realization struck me. My voice wouldn’t reach him—I knew it instinctively, like a dreadful truth dawning slowly.
Perhaps... am I dead too?
He had a broad forehead, a sharp nose with a subtle, upward tilt, delicate ears, lips tinged with a natural pink, and a jawline that demanded attention. His chin held a certain poise, lending his face a sculptural symmetry. He seemed like a figure carved from marble, a Greek statue brought to life—or perhaps Arabian face, or something else, older and more enigmatic. His visage could have belonged to the ancient Semitic terracotta statues, or perhaps an artistic rendering from an age steeped in mystery.
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