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.