Shadows of the Householder
Part I: The Happy Family Gathering
Pawan and Shruti, for wind and memory for force and forgetting, grew up in the same house, yet differently. Very careful of their privacy, Shruti was sloppy and would do things like leave her clothes lying all around. Pawan would pile them up rapidly in some scattered disorder. Their mother checked each pocket, looked between their books so much that they, too, had gotten wind of this, for she would drop hints about their habit of leaving money in their pockets, and hit at a copy of the Hustler deep down in the son’s cupboard. However, she thought, it is a normal growing pattern. The twins, though poles apart, were good friends and wise to their mother’s peek. They had developed super-secret senses and started using the command line, terminal, and incognito mode. The Python taught at school was no help, and mostly their computers were full of code and other such incomprehensible things. Father Hari Om came back from office at 1800 Hrs, was into an 8 PM routine, and after two large hours entertained the family with his wit, and after four hours went to sleep. Mother Sharda, furious at her neglect, would find nothing in his purse or the bag; even Father had wised up to her detective behavior and ventured little. She, on the other hand, was compulsive and inventive, and had found a friend in the neighborhood who was the first to know any salacious talk and the first to divulge secrets. If Sharda were a detective, the woman was a spy.
In that house of contesting wills, there came a friend of their father, a much younger man who was a friend apart and had an assignment from the Defense Ministry for their father to host. Michael Robarts, feeling lonely in the hotel, was called to dinner, and there with beautiful Shruti, incisive Pawan, and an intelligent mother, he had a ball of a dinner. Being late in all the carnivality, he was given the guestroom. Second, he had offered to shift from the hotel; he had praised the Indian food so much that the mother was in the air, and so was Shruti. The mother, with her full command of culinary art, prepared scrumptious meals. Shruti asked him about Germany, and Pawan, in a quiet, contesting way, interrogated him about Albert Camus and his seminal works, “The Outsider” and “The Plague”.
Michael Robarts stayed in their home for only three days, and during those three days, Shruti had fallen in love. The mother went through his laundry, found the unfamiliar scents exciting, and also fell in love with the same young man. 
While Pawan and Hari Om remained oblivious, the two women had become rivals and, especially, sniffed each other out, concluding they had learned of each other. Sharda, having imagined him nude in her laundry, the girl watched and plotted. Sharda made almost desperate love to her Husband when the visitor had gone away, and the house was likely to roll back into the usual humdrum. At the dining table, Shruti said the house feels vacant. Mother, furious, slapped her for the first time.
It was not an ordinary slap. Its sharp crack seemed to echo through the Hari Om household for years.
On the surface, Sharda treated the episode as a minor mother-daughter fracas, something Shruti would soon forget. But inside, she knew the truth: the slap had been unjust, born not from discipline but from jealousy and guilt. Her motives had been ugly, and they shamed her.
Shruti, only eighteen, appeared to reconcile. She smiled, helped in the kitchen, and spoke politely. Yet the memory stayed lodged in her like a splinter—quiet, deep, impossible to remove.
Pawan grew wary of his mother’s sudden moods. For weeks, he moved through the house like a shadow, but eventually retreated into his own coded world and recovered. Hari Om, however, was different. He had sharply objected to the slap that night, and something in him cracked. The quiet drinker slowly transformed into an abusive drunkard—words turning venomous, then hands following.
The house began to rot from within.
The twins left for college and hostels at the first opportunity, diving into their new lives with relief. They had escaped just in time. Back in the decaying home, only Sharda and Hari Om remained, blaming each other in silence and in screams. Venom ran in their veins now. Every conversation carried the ghost of Michael Robarts—his laughter, his scent, the three days that had exposed the emptiness they had long ignored.
Some nights, Sharda would catch Shruti’s old clothes still lying in a corner of the cupboard and feel a fresh wave of shame. Other nights, she would remember the unfamiliar scent on Michael’s laundry and touch herself with a mixture of rage and longing. Hari Om drank harder. The walls listened to their accusations, but offered no judgment.
Far away in their respective hostels, the twins rarely spoke of home. Yet both carried the same quiet knowledge: that one visitor had not simply stayed for three days—he had stayed forever.
Part II: The Slow Disintegration
Shruti never mentioned Michael’s name again in front of her mother, but she carried it like a hidden tattoo. In college, she dated boys with German-sounding surnames to feel something close to it. None of them lasted. She would close her eyes during their clumsy kisses and remember Michael’s calm, amused voice explaining Camus. “One must imagine Sisyphus happy,” he had said across the dining table. She wondered if he ever imagined her.
Sharda, meanwhile, began collecting small betrayals the way other women collect sarees. She kept the guest towel Michael had used, washed it only once, then sealed it in a plastic bag like evidence. Some nights, when Hari Om lay snoring in a whiskey haze, she would press her face into that towel and hate herself for how alive it still made her feel.
The twins came home less and less.
Pawan buried himself in coding competitions and later in a start-up in Bengaluru. He developed an almost clinical detachment from emotion — “efficient heartbreak avoidance,” he once joked to a girlfriend.
Shruti took up journalism. She told herself it was for the truth-seeking, but she knew part of her was hunting for stories that might, by accident, lead her back to Michael Robarts. She even googled him once every few months, always in incognito mode, always deleting the history. He had moved. Promoted. Married, then divorced. No children. The universe, it seemed, was keeping him neatly available.
Two years later, children had got the drift that Papa had been posted out to Jhansi, having been overlooked for a promotion, which was expected, given his career achievements in both sports and professional matters, but was marked as unfit for promotion due to disruptive drinking; only in not-so-plain words, it was “deterioration in performance”, unmeasurable, ungaugeable. Hari Om, however, felt peace and was happy to go on drinking. Sharda went to her parents’ house. Hari Om lived alone with a bottle. He thought incessantly of Sharda, quitting the job, leaving the drinking, and promised himself never to seek Sharda and never to leave drinking. Such wild premises in opposition that he found himself opening the bottle again.
Sharda was no ordinary woman; she took the loneliness by the horns and converted to philanthropic work. However, in a corner of her heart, she missed Hari Om, remembered the good old days, and the pleasure she felt in his company. The guilty memory had been overcome, and there in her heart remained a small lingering hope.
Part III: The Alchemy of the Seamless Being
Mind Parasites
Mind parasites and subconscious vampires are metaphors for the hidden forces that inhabit the human psyche. They feed on addiction, resentment, power, and unexamined desire. These invisible entities dwell surreptitiously in our mental abodes. They surface sporadically, siphoning vital energy without possessing a soul of their own. Ignore them, and they drag you into the abyss. Will, by contrast, is an angel — a beacon of resolve.
There are life-affirming vampires, too — entities that mimic vitality while quietly negating it. The alcoholic chasing oblivion. The addict is enslaved to craving. The question remains: Are these distortions intrinsic to the soul, random aberrations that add depth to existence? Or are they incidental, like viruses — uniformly satanic, draining without purpose? In this exploration, we meet the vegetative and the demonic, the suppressed and the willing, those walking toward hell, and the rare few who walk beyond.
The Collision
Colonel Hari Om uncorked his bottle of Blenders Pride and poured a generous measure. After office hours, little remained except to curse his ex-wife — the “divorced bitch,” as he now called her. Alcohol dulled the rage and let him revisit old slights and imagined triumphs. He still saw himself as seamless: unyielding, unbroken.
Then a subconscious vampire stirred.
It seized his gun, pushed him into the car, and drove him through the night. Two hours later, he stood outside Sharda’s house. No answer at the door. He fired a single shot into the air — a hollow bark of demonic ardor — and drove away. Neighbors whispered. The CMP investigated. He was not charged, but the echo followed him. He had become a man under the radar, isolated by rumor and pity.
The Path Less Trodden
Hari Om submitted his resignation. It was accepted with relief and benefits. Better to let a falling man exit with dignity.
He took an extended leave and began a war of attrition against his parasites—six months of relentless discipline followed — badminton, 5 km runs, gym work. The jowls disappeared. A leaner, a harder man, emerged. The vampires did not die, but they hibernated, starved of reactive fuel.
With his payout in hand, he cleared his haunted house, gifted belongings to old servants, and boarded a bus to Haridwar. From there, he trekked toward Badrinath. Constant movement, sparse meals, and high-altitude austerity hardened him further. By October, when the temple emptied, he stayed on.
He embraced cold-water baths in the Alaknanda, yoga, and sadhana. One evening, standing beneath the seven peaks where the Pandavas had walked to their end, the urge to speak rose like a mountain spring. In the temple, he spoke for hours with a clarity as fresh as Badrinath’s dawn. The few remaining listeners were mesmerized. Word spread. Disciples gathered. An ashram took shape.
The Uncoiling Snake
Far away, Sharda watched with a serpent coiled in her gut — part envy, part yearning. She traveled to the ashram seeking diksha. Hari Om did not turn her away. In the quiet of his room, he opened the cupboard, took out two glasses and a bottle of Blenders Pride.
“Don’t call me Baba,” he said. “For you, I am still Hari.”
He poured generously. “This is Prasad.”
She drank. After the first sip, she whispered, “I am sorry for what I did.”
“So am I,” he replied.
In that simple exchange, the final vampire was invited to the table. Will, the angel, remained unmoved.
Part IV: The Uncoiling Snake
Sharda hesitated many times. It wasn’t as if Hari Om had become an alcoholic on his own. She had played her part in that slow conversion. She understood the bitterness of a disintegrating marriage—how it had reshaped both of them. Her tongue had grown sharper; his had turned foul, profane. By the time they stood in the divorce court, they were two venomous creatures shedding the last skin of civility. When she walked out, she thought, Good riddance. But her parents’ house felt like a temporary refuge, not a home. Money was tight. Two children, half his salary as alimony. Luxury was out of reach. She had left her IT job years ago; now the gap and her age made re‑entry nearly impossible. Worst was the label she carried like a scarlet letter: divorcee. It closed doors faster than any résumé gap. So when Hari Om fired a gun outside her house, she had not been afraid. Her first thought was startling: He still loves me. But meeting him again? Asking forgiveness? Not then. Not yet. The Discovery Hari Om had vanished after his premature release. Two years passed. Then Col Bopa Rai found him in Badrinath. He told Sharda everything—Hari Om’s spartan routine, his penance‑like discipline, his sadhana, his transformation. He showed her a photograph. Something shifted inside her. A quiet yearning—first to see him, then something deeper. When she learned he had opened an ashram, she felt pride and shame in equal measure. Was it guilt? Envy? Love? She could not decide. After long conversations with her daughters, she prepared for the journey. The Ashram. She did not go merely as a wife. She went, suppressing the snake of pride that had lived in her chest for years. She went with veneration, with trembling hope, with the wish that he might allow her a place—any place—in his ashram. She took a bus to Joshimath. Bopa arranged her stay. The next morning, he took her to the ashram. When she stepped into the hall, the air was cool and still. Disciples sat in silence. Then she heard it. “Sharda. Come here… on the dais.” Her feet froze. Then, with difficulty—and a humility she had never known—she walked forward. Hari Om stepped down and touched her feet. “No, Baba… it is my privilege,” she whispered, collapsing at his feet. Disciples lifted her gently and guided her to a back room. Hari Om dismissed the assembly for the day. Inside the warm room, she could not speak. Hari Om opened a cupboard. “Don’t call me Baba. Only my shishyas call me that. For you, I am Hari. As you are still Sharda for me.” He took out two glasses and a bottle of Blenders Pride. He poured generously. “This is Prasad,” he said, offering her a glass. She accepted reluctantly. “It will calm you.” After two sips, it did. “I am sorry,” she whispered. “For what I did.” “So am I,” Hari Om said. The words hung between them—simple, unadorned, heavier than any ritual. The First Night Later, as she lay in the small guest room, wrapped in a thin blanket, she felt the cold seep into her bones. But beneath the cold was something else—a strange, unsettling warmth. She had come seeking forgiveness, perhaps even a place beside him. Instead, she had been given something rarer: a place within herself she had never dared to enter. Outside, the wind howled through the pines. Inside, the snake uncoiled a little more. Sharda Ma. The next morning, Sharda woke before dawn. She opened her suitcase and took out the saree she had hesitated to bring—a glimmering Kanjeevaram silk, deep maroon with gold threads that caught the light like fire. She draped it slowly, her hands trembling. When she entered the congregation hall, Hari Om was already seated on the dais. An empty chair stood beside him—simple, wooden, unmistakably placed with intention. The hall fell silent. One disciple rose. Then another. Soon, the entire assembly stood. Even Hari Om rose to his feet. “She is your Ma,” he declared. “Sharda Ma.” A murmur rippled through the hall. “She gave me mukti. And now she is here. As my wife. As the one who walked through fire with me. As the one who returns without pride.” He gestured to the empty chair. “We are married again—not by ritual, but by truth.” Sharda sat beside him, her eyes lowered. “From today, she will oversee the arrangements of the ashram. I request that all of you assist her, honor her, and learn from her.” The disciples bowed. “Sharda Ma ki jai.” The Declaration Hari Om raised his hand again. “When Gautama returned to his home, he accepted his wife as a bhikshika. Today, I choose something even more ancient.” He turned toward Sharda. “I accept her as my patni—my life partner. As your mother. As Devi herself.” The hall vibrated with reverence. “She has uncoiled the snakes in her navel and stands ready for kundalini—the very state you have all been striving toward. She has achieved this not through renunciation, but through the tapas of a householder—through patience, endurance, and suffering borne without collapse.” He folded his hands. “Om Devi Chamundai Namah.” The disciples echoed the mantra. Sharda felt the serpent within her rise—not in pride, not in shame, but in a quiet, steady grace. For the first time in years, she felt whole. The Alchemy of the Seamless Being Part III I. The Hypothesis: Mind Parasites Mind parasites and subconscious vampires—they are the uninvited guests of the human psyche. They inhabit no substance, for they have no soul of their own, yet they live in the “human houses” of our minds, surfacing surreptitiously to suck the vital energy. The question remains: are these part of the soul’s random distortion or incidental cohabitations, like a virus? Do they add to the richness of the human experience, or are they uniformly satanic? In this exploration, we meet the vegetative and the demonic, the suppressed and the willing—those walking toward hell, and the rare few who walk beyond. II. The Collision: The Alcoholic Demon Colonel Hari Om was a “seamless being,” but the dark adhesive of grievance held his seams together. Post-office hours, the silence of his quarters was filled with Blenders Pride. He nursed the bitterness of a disintegrating marriage to Sharda—she, a sharp-tongued architect of critique; he, a foul-mouthed, profane bastard. One night, the “vampire” rose, picked up his gun, and drove to Sharda’s house. He fired a single shot into the air—a hollow bark of demonic ardor. It was not an act of violence, but a suicidal tendency of the soul, a cry for a life he had already negated. He came under the “Radar,” a man seen to be falling, surrounded by the distancing whispers of his peers. III. The Isolation: The Path Less Trodden Will is an angel. Hari Om submitted his papers and disappeared. For months, he conducted a war of attrition against his parasites. He traded the 8 PM whisky for 5 km runs; he traded resentment for the cold-water baths of the Alaknanda. By the time he reached Badrinath in the thinning crowds of October, the vampires were not dead, but they were hibernating—starved of the reactive energy they required to manifest. He habituated himself to the cold, practicing Sadhana under the watchful gaze of the seven mountains where the Pandavas once went to die. One evening, he began to speak. His thoughts possessed a clarity as fresh as the mountain morning. The “alcoholic demon” had been distilled into a siddh purush. IV. The Synthesis: The Uncoiling Snake Sharda’s pride was an uncoiling snake. Living in her parents’ house as a divorcee, money was tight, and social standing was tighter. When she heard of Hari Om’s transformation from their mutual friend, Col Bopa Rai, she felt a mixture of shame and a secret yearning. She traveled to the Ashram not as a wife, but as a seeker. When Hari Om saw her in the assembly, he did not cast her out. He called her to the dais and, in a shocking act of humility, touched her feet. Inside the quiet of his private room, the final “prasad” was served. Hari Om pulled a bottle of Blenders Pride from the cupboard. “Don’t call me Baba,” he said. “For you, I am Hari.” He poured two glasses. It was a gesture of non-duality—the whiskey was no longer a master, but a bridge. “I am sorry for what I did,” Sharda whispered after the first sip. “So am I,” replied the man who was finally, truly, seamless. The Take-Home Message Life-affirmation is the sovereignty of the Will over the Parasite. We know we are on the “path less trodden” when our actions no longer serve an urge, but a purpose. Redemption is not the deletion of our past demons, but the ability to invite them to the table, offer them a glass, and remain unmoved by their call.
Par V: The Ashram and Its Succession
In the Shadow of Snow-Capped Peaks Where the Alaknanda whispers ancient secrets and mist veils the sacred heights, the Ashram stands as a quiet sentinel. Bopa Rai had become a cherished guest here. He occasionally brought visitors eager to hear the Siddh Purush and his vani. Word had spread that ever since the once-taciturn, hard-drinking Hari Om became a siddha, Goddess Saraswati had taken residence on his tongue. In the Joshimath Cantonment, Bopa gained influence through his closeness to Baba. Now nearing retirement at fifty-six, he found himself drawn to the Ashram’s disciplined rhythms. His visits to Hari Om and Sharda revived the easy camaraderie of their earlier days, leaving him to marvel at how life had brought them full circle.
Whispers Over Blended Spirits Beneath the Himalayan stars, where firelight dances on old friendships, three souls gather in quiet ritual. Three times a week, Hari Om, Bopa, and Sharda shared a drink—Blenders Pride remained a quiet constant. One evening, Bopa asked the question that had long lingered: “Are you holy, clairvoyant, or special in some way?” Hari Om shook his head firmly. “No,” he said. “I am only disciplined and kind.” Privately, he viewed many followers as deluded. He spoke in simple anecdotes, often laced with Sainik Sammelan bluntness, yet people hung on his words with unnatural hunger. The isolation of Badrinath had loosened his tongue—he could speak freely without acrimony—but he remained convinced his followers routinely misrepresented him.
The Humble Heart of the Haven Beyond the gloss of reverence lies the plain truth of labor and care. Hari Om cited an example: a book one devotee published, which he claimed was a profound exposition of his teachings. “It’s nothing but an ostentatious pamphlet,” he remarked dryly, “designed to eulogize me and attract more followers.” What he had built was a functioning community. People lived in discipline yet with genuine comfort. The Ashram generated substantial revenue; his needs were met, Sharda was treated as an honored staff member, and everyone was compensated generously. “I am committed to running this system as long as I am able,” he said, glancing at Sharda with quiet affection.
Rhythms of Resolve in Solitude. In the cradle of silence, where discipline blooms like alpine flowers, the Ashram offers its true gift. At its heart, it was about discipline. Some craved structure and were willing to pay premium rates for luxurious cottages. Others sought a warm refuge and framework for their personal sadhana—whatever it meant to each. Daily discipline was the only requirement. Those irritated by it usually left. More often, they stayed, becoming organizers or bringing substantial donations. Everyone understood that maintaining an Ashram was expensive. Yet where else could one find such shelter? Here, in this remote Himalayan jungle, residents enjoyed the luxury—and caprice—of solitude. Creativity flourished: painting, writing books, producing YouTube videos, spreading the Ashram’s message—activities multiplied beyond counting or supervision.
The Weight of the Gaddi, like a river carving its own bed, power gathers and flows around one man’s quiet presence. Over time, the place had become the center of their orbit—an artificial father figure. Anyone could leave at any time. “Are there aspirants for your position?” Bopa asked. “Anyone eyeing this gaddi, ready to topple you or force your retirement?” Hari Om laughed. “In any dispute, my word remains final—that much is accepted. But yes, many are dominant and hungry to rule. Sitting on the gaddi is no easy task. Delivering Sainik Sammelan-style discourses three times a week is exhausting.” He paused, then added wryly, “The field is open. I would happily retire to a quiet bungalow as a ‘super saint’ who neither speaks nor preaches. This world has accreted around me. It will erode in time, too.”
Echoes of Wisdom Across Valleys From ancient verses to timeless tales, knowledge flows like mountain streams to nourish the gathered souls. A special group of adepts mined scriptures—the Gita and the Vedas—and secular wisdom from Aesop, Panchatantra, and Mulla Nasruddin—to illustrate points in Hari Om’s sermons. Their work was considered superior, and promising members could be elevated to their ranks. The Ashram expanded beyond Badrinath’s harsh climes to more hospitable places: Bengaluru and Jodhpur. During the cold months, Hari Om Swamy traveled to these centers. Now nearing seventy, he had grown enfeebled, the toll of lifelong discipline visible in his frame.
The Turning of Seasons and Succession When the guru’s shadow lengthens, the question of legacy rises like dawn mist. Succession became inevitable. Bopa Rai declined the role outright. Asha accepted the possibility, as did Radhey Shyam and M. Chidambaram. Sudhir, another contender, noted that Badrinath’s head priests had traditionally come from Kerala—and he hailed from there. The aspirants began subtle campaigns. In the end, all leading adepts were capable: wealthy, eloquent, and unlikely to cause major friction. To resolve the matter impartially, Hari Om consulted the head priest of Badrinath. The priest proposed an astrological contest combined with a rigorous physical trial.
Trials of Ice and Hunger, Path to Renewal. Through freezing waters and empty days, ambition is tempered into humility. The four finalists underwent daily cold-water baths in the Alaknanda and fasting on alternate days. Two faltered. Only Asha and Sudhir endured. They were sent to seek the head priest’s blessings. The ordeal of cold and hunger had subdued their ambition, leaving them receptive and humble. The priest’s counsel proved decisive. Ultimately, Hari Om chose a path of continuity and renewal. Asha, along with Hari Om, Sharda, and Bopa, relocated to Bengaluru to establish a university under the Ashram’s auspices. The move offered an edifying change of pace and purpose. Backed by the institution’s resources, they adapted swiftly—soon donning Bengaluru-style attire and blending into the bustling metropolis.
Asha was made chancellor, Sharda a dean, Bopa Rai the CEO, and Hari Om accepted an office as the owner and business head. There were departments whose HOD and other faculty were hired at handsome remuneration. The university was a success because it had moderate fees, and it was not important for the university to break even, as there was no sunk cost; a steady supply of funds from the Ashram and other devotees sustained it. Hari Om’s primary job was to secure these grants and funds, so he also served as CFO. Life was Good and satisfying in the daily chores of the university’
Part V: The Children
Pawan first married Reena, a sharp-eyed software engineer whose mind moved like clean code—precise, ruthless, and strangely compassionate once you understood the architecture. Theirs was not a marriage of fireworks but of mutual respect for systems that actually worked. In Bengaluru’s humid bustle, they built more than a home. Pawan’s guidance chip, elegant in its minimalism, had found its way into Indian defense drones. DRDO contracts flowed, then private investors. Money arrived not in floods but in steady, programmable rivers. Reena’s AI models, fed through the night on shifting market variables, became quietly legendary in certain stock-broking circles. She would wake at 3 a.m., check the latest run, and return to bed with the satisfaction of a mathematician who had solved one more unsolvable equation.
Yet for all his clinical success, Pawan carried the old house inside him like residual code. The slap’s echo had never fully left. He still sometimes heard it in the quiet between keystrokes—a sharp, crystalline crack that made him pause mid-function. When news of his father’s transformation reached him, first as rumor, then as verified fact (Col Bopa Rai’s photographs were unmistakable), something long frozen in Pawan began to thaw. The man who had once retreated into terminals now found himself crying in the car after a late meeting, not from sadness but from a strange, fierce pride. His father had done what few men manage: he had debugged his own soul.
He called Shruti that same evening.
In London, Shruti had built a different kind of life. Journalism had taken her to war zones and refugee camps, to places where human pain refused to be abstracted. She chased truth the way some chase ghosts, always hoping the next story might accidentally lead her back to the calm, amused voice that once spoke of Sisyphus across a Delhi dining table. She dated several men with German surnames. None lasted. Then, through a mutual contact in Berlin, she met Michael Robarts again—not the young defense attaché, but a slightly greyer, more careful version who had survived his own divorce and quiet failures.
Their reunion was stormy, passionate, and improbably real. Michael had never forgotten the Indian twins or the electric dinner that had once pulled him out of hotel loneliness. When Shruti finally told him the full story of the slap—its sound, its injustice, its long shadow—he listened without interruption. Afterward, he sat very still, turning his wine glass slowly.
“I always thought I was just a pleasant guest,” he said, voice low. “A three-day footnote. I didn’t know I left a fracture that loud.”
He found the idea of meeting Sharda again a little awkward—more than a little. Not guilt exactly, but a discomfort born of unintended consequences. He had been the spark. The rest of the fire had been theirs.
Still, when Pawan’s invitation came—Come to Bengaluru. They want to see us. All of us—Michael agreed. Shruti held his hand on the flight and whispered, “The house is different now.”
The reunion happened on the green campus of the new university nestled on Bengaluru’s outskirts. The air smelled of eucalyptus and possibility. Hari Om, now nearing seventy but still straight-backed, waited on the open veranda with Sharda beside him. She wore a simple cream cotton saree, no Kanjeevaram fireworks today. The old detective gaze had softened into something quieter, more watchful.
When Shruti and Michael stepped out of the car, time performed its familiar trick. Shruti saw her mother and felt the old splinter shift—not gone, but no longer sharp. Michael’s handshake with Sharda was brief, polite, and almost formal. Their eyes met for a second longer than necessary. In that glance passed an entire conversation neither would ever speak aloud: the laundry, the scent, the towel that had once been sealed like evidence.
Later that evening, when the young ones had gone to their rooms, Sharda would tell Hari Om about burning the towel months earlier in her parents’ backyard. “I finally let the ghost have its funeral,” she said. Hari Om had only nodded, poured two small measures of Blenders Pride, and answered, “Good. Even ghosts get tired of haunting.”
Pawan watched his parents across the dinner table with something close to wonder. The man who had once fired a gun into the night sky now spoke of discipline and kindness with the same quiet authority he once used for office reports. The woman who had once slapped her daughter in jealous rage now moved through the university corridors as Dean Sharda Ma—respected, occasionally feared, secretly loved. The mind parasites had not been slain. They had been invited to the table, offered a glass, and taught their place.
That night, the four of them—Pawan and Reena, Shruti and Michael—sat late with Hari Om and Sharda under strings of soft lights. Stories flowed. Old wounds were touched but not reopened. Michael asked Hari Om about Camus again, and the old man laughed.
“‘One must imagine Sisyphus happy,’ you once told my children. I spent years imagining him drunk and angry instead. Turns out happiness is harder. And simpler.”
Shruti leaned against Michael’s shoulder, no longer hiding. The slap’s echo had traveled far—across continents, through marriages, into new careers and new lives—but here, in this circle, it finally sounded like something else: not a fracture, but the first note of a longer, deeper music.
Pawan raised his glass. “To the householder,” he said.
Hari Om corrected gently, smiling at Sharda. “To the seamless householder.”
They drank.
Outside, the Bengaluru night hummed with traffic and possibility. Inside, six people—once broken, once haunted, once lost—sat together as something new: not perfect, but whole. The snake had uncoiled. The parasites had been given their portion. And the family, after many long detours, had finally come home.
Part VI: The Colonel’s Different Ride
Bopa Rai – Post-Retirement
Panchkula, Haryana. A modest independent house in Sector 15. Alone.
A Ballad of Bopa Rai
Jahaan Dekha, Tahan Tu Hi Tu: Finding the Sacred in the Profane
Memories Bubble
It began on one of his beer-fuelled wanderings.
Somewhere ahead — voices.
Women, singing together.
Clear. Beckoning. Sirens?
It came from across a dry, cracked ditch — the kind of shallow wound that divides places without warning.
Beyond that, a mound of soil.
There was a path… but Bopa took the shortcut: slipping, crawling, dust smearing into mud on his skin, knees scraping.
Finding the Sacred in the Profane
An unease hung over him.
Curiosity — or was it devotion? Bhakti? Or only… the itch of an unanswered question.
Wherever I looked, there was You. Only You.
Who is singing?
Shabri Mata.
And suddenly he remembered Mamo — the woman who carried away their waste in a bucket balanced on her head between two raised platforms. Old, deliberate, never in a hurry.
Clean in a way no soap could teach.
Sometimes she pressed a hard sweet into his hand. He had liked her in the honest, unreasoning way of a child.
In his boyhood’s private religion, her wrinkled face began to merge with the barefoot forest-dweller Shabri Mata — offering Lord Rama berries already tasted, already trusted.
Again, Finding the Sacred in the Profane
Circle of Hands
Years later, another connecting memory. Bopa remembered the ICU. An elderly comatose woman was not passing feces; instead, she was dripping blood through her rectum. Bopa asked the nurse to prepare a rectal examination tray. The nurse brought the tray—gloves, proctoscope, and the unspoken expectation. The medical adage returned: “If you don’t put your finger in it, you’ll end up putting your foot in it.” He inserted his index finger and encountered a semisolid stool blockage. There was nothing to do except bring out some feces on a curled finger. A wave of foul gas hit me. I gagged, retched into a bucket while the nurse doubled over in laughter. Then, after a pause, I returned to the task, completed the examination, and ordered an enema. It was only fecal impaction—not catastrophe but obstruction—relieved by humble, necessary service.
There was another day, the theatre echoing with bright light and antiseptic confidence. A senior surgeon operated on a deep perianal abscess. The patient was in lithotomy, the nurse attentive, and an anesthetist at the head. When the abscess was pierced, pus burst forth with a vengeance, splattering surgeon and assistants alike, unleashing a stench so overwhelming that all but the surgeon fled outside, gasping for clean air. After a minute, chastened and silent, we trooped back in. The senior, unfazed, worked on alone—no blame, only gravity in his hands. Our respect for him grew, not despite the indignity, but because of it.
Sacred in the Profane
The Shabari Mata Bhajan Crescendos: The Ditch
He reached the other side — mud-streaked, bleeding. Silence.
A man stood there. Also mud-streaked — as if the ditch had marked them both.
“Who is singing Shabri Mata?” Bopa asked.
The man just stared.
A quiet woman appeared, guiding him back toward his car without a word. He gave her a little money, a reflex.
At the car, whispers followed: A man is giving away his money.
Bopa shrugged. He drove away.
But the Bhajan clung to him — not as a song now, but as a riddle.
Revelation
Days later, it came to him. The “divine call” was the waste collector’s jingle — a melody to lure neighbors out with their garbage.
A summons to waste, not worship.
Still… its pull hadn’t vanished. As if the truth of the song mattered less than the way it entered him.
Cry Of The Pups
Whisky warmth still in his veins, the sound returned — not a Bhajan this time but shrill, urgent cries.
The ditch again.
The same dip in the earth, the same ragged edge.
In its shadow, a mad dog is tearing at a pup’s belly. The others are fleeing. The mother — a thin bitch with eyes clouded like the older woman’s in his memory — was frozen in helplessness.
Bopa didn’t think; he moved. His friend grabbed a stick, and together they plunged in, his boot catching the attacker. A snarl, a bite at the boot leather — and the mad thing fled into the dark.
For a strange moment, they were a pack: man, friend, mother-dog, united against chaos.
When quiet returned, it was the wrong kind: dusk falling, earth littered with little silences. Only one survivor is alive, trembling behind a tree.
Bopa scooped him up. Felt his pulse — quick, uncertain. His friend found another.
They crossed the road, as if the ditch were a border they could choose to erase.
When Bopa set his down, its trembling stopped at once. From the scrub behind, a second mother emerged with her own brood. The rescued pup ran to them, his belonging instantly claimed.
And again, the bramble swallowed them whole.
Brambles and Forgiveness
Bopa followed — as he had followed the song.
Thorns caught his shirt, roots curled around his boots. The pups darted in and out, identical in their quicksilver joy.
He reached out for one; they evaded him, gentle in their refusal.
The mother’s tail wagged once — not to invite him closer, but to let him know there was no grudge.
At sixty, he returned home: without darshan, without pup.
Bloodied and scratched, carrying nothing in his hands — but something restless in his chest.
The Song Remains
All night, the Shabri Mata bhajan returned — but now it carried the cries of pups, the rustle of brambles, the stillness of that other side of the ditch.
Chaos fashioned into order.
Order fraying into chaos.
The world, pretending to be one thing, reveals itself as another.
No redemption.
No loss.
Wherever I looked, there was You. Only You.
Part VII: Supernatural Whispers
Supernatural things happen to supernatural people. For a long time, he heard the tune of Shabri Mata, and the words formed to go with it. His companion, mystified at Bopa Rai reeling out Bhajan after Bhajan, informed Hari Om of the Bopa’s condition. Hari Om immediately left everything and reached Panchkula, and without any ado, he took him to the safety of the Ashram. He called all his family to come to their residence in the Ashram. Pawan and Michael were given a hut each. Asha had come and busied herself by revisiting all parts of the Ashram Badrinath to ascertain things. She met with Sudhir, the current Baba of the Ashram. The meeting was poignant and full of shared memories. Bopa rai belting Bhajan after Bhajan had affected them, and she brushed past Sudhir, fetching a bottle. Sudhir held her hand and said, " Live with me, I need your comfort, she dissolved in his arms.
Michael, on the other hand, was cornered by Sharda. Finding some solitude to talk with in the drawing, she sat across the sofa and asked, “Do you remember those three days?” Michael was sensitive to the subject, blushed a little, and said that Shruti had told him about the slap. He added he is sorry for what transpired. Sharda said I had kept your towel for many years, and then I disposed of it. I am sorry too, in a way, but that had to happen at that time, and couldn’t have been helped. Well, now it’s gone, only a sweet memory left of you from those days. Shruti came in, and after a while, Michael left. Mother asked Shruti straight away, “You remember the slap? I have regretted it ever since.” Shruti said the slap was a journey, and after marrying Michael, the journey was completed. Slap forgotten.
One day, we all got together: Michael, Shruti, Pawan, and Reena. Bopa Rai, Hari Om, Sharada Sudhir, and Asha. Tea was requested, and Bopa asked about his condition. Bopa answered cryptically, “ We must think Sisyphus happy in all conditions.
Part VIII The Kundalini
I am seventy, said Hari Om, and Sharda is sixty-five. We want to relinquish the positions at the university and are seeking worthy replacements. We have two very large assets. Now it is the turn of Sudhir. I hope he will agree to appoint alternatives in the university or take the responsibility himself. Sharda quipped, “ Many” of us have self-awareness. Asha and Sudhir raised their Kundalini in Alaknanda. I got it free, on Bopa, it descended as if from heaven. However, we are old, and we can be mentors rather than deeper participants in worldly things. A younger generation is a requirement. And let me tell the younger generation: now is the time to expand the university, maybe take it to other shores, and I invite all who can to step up and take on the responsibility. Kundalini is nothing but a bit of self-awareness and discipline. So having it or not having it doesn’t really matter, kike Bopa said about a Happy Sisyphus. She stopped and looked around. Her eyes stopped on Sudhir. Now, you must tell your opinion. Maa, as you rightly said, Kundalini doesn’t come from bathing in cold Alaknanda, it comes from diffusion among men and women, we might go through that secular process of diffusion for mind parasites too, that Sidhh Purush once said, but Kundalini also flows in the intelligent and deluded alike; it takes different forms. Asha and I accepted Grihasta and willing to take on the responsibility of university for second phase in our life.
Reena stood up, I am the youngest here I would like to work for some time in the Ashram maybe my talent with AI could be of use here she sat down, I will keep visiting Pawan said, are the children allowed here, everybody laughed, Bopa said if they come uninvited just like the rest of us did they certainly are. Special arrangements can be made for them and then he burst into a Bhajan “ Shabri Mata ke Jhute ber”