Through careful thought and experience, Ganesh had honed his days into a precise rhythm. He had finally mastered the balance between indulging his passions and fulfilling his duties. Not that he disliked shepherding the ganas, performing his daily prayers, listening to the pleas of his devotees, or assisting his parents when needed. Still, such tasks paled in comparison to the sweet bliss of a warm laddoo melting on his tongue and sliding down his throat.
Nothing could truly match that sensation. The mere thought made his mouth water.
Wiping a stray trickle of saliva from the corner of his lips, he reflected on how much his nature had shifted since his... transformation. In a way, his current existence explored the ancient puzzle of mind versus soul. Possessing the great mind of an elephant, his inclinations leaned towards its ways: easygoing, deliberate, yet incredibly consistent. And then there was the remarkably sharp memory – almost photographic – something he was certain his human head had never possessed. This felt like his deep-seated, instinctual self.
But his soul remained fundamentally that of a thinking being, capable of reason and reflection. This core self was his conscious driver, the seat of his awareness.
Maintaining equilibrium between these two forces was a constant effort. If his reasoning soul completely overshadowed his elephantine mind, he feared becoming detached and lost in abstraction. Conversely, if his instincts dominated, he risked becoming an elephant in all but physical form.
Thus, Ganesh employed his hobbies to regulate this internal balance. His love for consumption, a trait inherited from his elephantine aspect, was a source of simple pleasure he readily embraced. Simultaneously, his enduring passion for learning and the arts, which carried over from his original self, provided a productive focus that conveniently never interfered with his enjoyment of food.
With a specific purpose in mind today, Ganesh slipped into the kitchen, retrieving a familiar pot from the larder. He knew its contents well: modaks, sweet dumplings of rice flour and jaggery - his absolute favourites. Cradling the pot, he ambled towards his study. He had cleared his schedule entirely, anticipating the important undertaking that awaited him.
Pushing open the wooden door, Ganesh surveyed his sanctuary. 'Study' was perhaps too generous a term for the delightful chaos within. Stacks of etched wooden blocks and rolled silk scrolls teetered precariously and covered nearly every flat surface. Musical instruments, both common and bizarre, were dispersed with equal wantonness. A sitar leaned against a pile of philosophical treatises, while a mridangam drum served as an impromptu stand for an unrolled silk sheet hypothesising a new performance, and an interesting string instrument that was shaped like a taut bow rested atop another sprawling roll of silk that listed various experimentation he had conducted on it to understand how it worked. He navigated the labyrinth of knowledge and music, finding a relatively clear patch of floor near a cushioned seat. Setting the precious pot of modaks down with care, he turned and firmly shut the door, the heavy thud echoing slightly before he slid the bolt across with a decisive clack.
With that security in place Ganesh raised a hand and opened his palm. A soft, golden light bloomed there, coalescing before dissolving into countless shimmering motes, like miniature fireflies. They zipped through the air silently and purposefully. Scrolls lifted and slotted themselves onto wall-mounted shelves, stray wooden blocks clicked neatly into stacks, and the various musical instruments - the veena, the flute, the sitar, and many, many more - floated gently to hang from their designated hooks on the walls. Within moments the clutter receded, leaving the space clear and orderly.
Satisfied, Ganesh initiated the second phase. He moved his palms through a series of mudras - gestures - and wove intricate patterns in the air with both hands. Translucent, shimmering mandalas flickered into existence and layered themselves all around him - on the walls, the floor and the ceiling - sealing the space. As the shimmering barrier settled, a low hum resonated - felt more than heard. To test the integrity of his ward, he casually formed a fist and aimed a light punch at the veena now hanging nearby. His knuckles met the invisible barrier inches before the instrument and rebounded sharply as if striking taut rubber, while the impact dissipated harmlessly into the humming shield.
Perfect!
Now, for the task itself. Retrieving the pot, he settled onto a cushion. He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. The sweet scent of jaggery and rice flour mingled with the faint ozone tang of the barriers, but those worldly distractions quickly melded into the background. His mind, as usual, was a bustling marketplace of thoughts - a half-remembered melody, the lingering taste of the last modak, a philosophical query from a scroll he'd read that morning, the ever-present awareness of his duties. He began the familiar process of calming the storm, acknowledging each thought before gently setting it aside, seeking the quiet pool beneath the surface ripples. It was like coaxing his two natures - the deliberate, sensory elephantine mind and the reasoning, abstract soul - into a temporary truce.
Slowly, painstakingly, he focused his intent inward, reaching for the very structure of his consciousness. He envisioned it not as a single entity but as layers, like that of an onion. There was the surface awareness, then below that, the deeper currents of instinct and memory, and finally the bedrock of his soul. With immense concentration, he began to work through the topmost layer - his active, thinking self. It felt like a convoluted yarn of interwoven threads.
These threads represented the mind. The brain wasn't a machine that thought, it was an agent that formed and created connections between sensory inputs. A new input left a mark, and his mind connected the mark with another with these fine threads. Each new mark would have a place and connection. And as more and more inputs were added to this repository, the vaster and more convoluted this network became. Unravelling this network was pointless. To unravel, one needed to follow the thread through its convoluted path and slowly, and methodically, pulling it back. But these connections were made by a concept far beyond even his own level of understanding. And to make sense of it would be to understand the exact functioning of his brain - something even sages far more accomplished than he had failed to achieve.
Now, to go through this layer, one had to wade through the chaos. It would be overwhelming, but there was a truth that very few erudite individuals were aware of - all strings led to a single source. Ganesh reached forward and grabbed a stray thread. He then closed himself to all other noise and pulled himself into the ball of yarn with the thread as his guide.
Time was a nonsensical construct in here. What could feel like hours could be mere fractions of a second, and the vice verse could also be true. Yet, eventually, whether in seconds or hours, Ganesh felt himself emerge from the densest part of the threaded maze. But he was still not clear of the chaos, as the layer below the threads were the sources - the memories. These were capricious and ever-changing. The mind assigns emotion to memories and a large part of it is connected to the sensory inputs at that time. But emotions can keep changing - what could be pleasurable now could evoke deep disgust in the future if something abhorrent is attached to the sensory triggers attributed to that emotion.
Intermittent flashes illuminated the fog - vivid scenes from his past, fleeting impressions of the present. Having journeyed here before, Ganesh expertly ignored the urge to linger on these spectral replays. Instead, he plunged purposefully into the depths. He swam through the currents of his remembrance with practised ease. The fog gradually thinned and the ambient light grew stronger and clearer.
Ahead, he perceived his destination: his soul, which was a vibrant point of concentrated light at the very core of his being. He surged towards it. As he approached, his astral form felt immense compared to the pinpoint ball of light. As he made contact, a strange warping sensation occurred. His form seemed to flow like liquid light as it was siphoned rapidly into the radiant sphere, before he vanished entirely within it.
For a moment, there was darkness, then a sudden, breathtaking expansion.
He found himself standing under a familiar sky upon an endless expanse of vibrant green meadow. The air was cool and soft. Beside the vast field stretched a serene lake with a polished silver surface that was shrouded in a gentle, luminous mist.
Ganesh stood at the water's edge with his hands clasped loosely behind his back, and observed the tranquil scene. The silence here was profound, broken only by the rhythmic lapping of water against the shores, and the melodic calls of swans as they glid gracefully across the lake's surface. He breathed in the clean air, feeling a sense of peace settle over him.
Then, without a second thought, he stepped onwards atop the water surface. As he walked, the luminous mist clinging to the lake's surface began to stir. It thinned, swirling upwards like ethereal smoke, slowly unveiling what lay beyond. Tall battlements of warm, red sandstone appeared first, followed by wide courtyards and strong walls with arched gates. Above these rose numerous balconies with detailed screens, small domed pavilions, and larger rounded domes that crowned the structure. It was a huge, impressive palace made of intricately carved stone, resting on the horizon like a giant waking from sleep.
His steady pace across the water continued with the surface being barely disturbed by his passage. As he neared the far shore where the palace loomed, a large, pristine white swan glided directly into his path and halted his progress. Behind it, bobbing gently on the water was a cluster of fluffy grey cygnets that peered curiously past their mother's form. The large swan dipped its elegant neck in a deliberate bow. Then, with a soft rustle of feathers, it turned and guided its brood aside, clearing the way. Ganesh offered a slight nod in return before resuming his journey.
He stepped onto the stone embankment before the palace just as the massive, intricately carved wooden gates swung silently inward, revealing a grand entrance courtyard. The moment he crossed the threshold, a pleasant gust of wind swirled around him, carrying the distinct, comforting scents of fresh ink, fine writing silk, and dry wooden tablets. Carried atop the wind was the gentle strumming of a veena, which was overlaid atop a pleasant drone establishing the tone.
Ganesh followed the clear, resonant notes of the veena, letting the melody guide him deeper into the palace. The entrance courtyard gave way to an interior that defied simple geometry. It was a library, unlike any that could ever be conceived. There were towering shelves laden with scrolls, tablets, and bound leaves stretched infinitely upwards and sideways, connected by staircases that spiralled impossibly, leading both up and down simultaneously, sometimes ending abruptly in mid-air or merging seamlessly back into a wall of knowledge. Walkways twisted overhead, and archways opened onto yet more shelves receding into hazy distances. Knowledge manifested here in every imaginable shape. A hidden energy pulsed from these forms. It would be maddeningly easy to become lost in this labyrinth of learning, but the veena's song cut through the potential confusion like an unwavering thread leading him onward.
The music swelled, the intricate melody reaching a crescendo. Ganesh turned a final corner, following the sound into a calmer, circular chamber bathed in soft light. There, seated gracefully upon a simple cushion, was a woman clad in an elegant, unadorned, off-white sari. A beautiful veena rested in her lap with its polished wood gleaming in the gentle light from the candles hanging around. Her eyes were closed, her head tilted slightly, swaying gently in time with the final, fading notes she played.
As the last vibration of the strings subsided into silence, her fingers stilled. Her eyes flickered open, revealing irises of warm, deep brown. A pleasant, knowing smile touched her lips as her gaze met Ganesh's.
"Aunt!" Ganesh greeted her with a matching smile.
"I must say, your most recent composition is quite an interesting one," she responded, placing the veena carefully on its stand beside her. "Very adamant. I've been trying to experiment with it, but it is remarkably resistant to my changes."
"I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing," Ganesh responded sheepishly, scratching behind his ears.
"Art can be what the artist wants it to be," she replied. "It generally reflects the artist's character. Inflexibility isn't particularly your style, so it makes me wonder what was going through your mind when you composed this."
"It's not the whole thing..." Ganesh murmured. "I am trying to weave a narrative. It requires... coercing the intended audience down a particular path."
"It is very heavy-handed," she offered. "And if my guess regarding the identities of your target audience is correct - and it always is - I would suggest some room for spontaneity. People like to feel like they are in charge of their actions and thoughts. Some free rein here and there will do wonders in guiding a narrative."
"I will keep that in mind," Ganesh said, twirling his trunk in contemplation.
"I await the rest of this composition very soon," she said finally, rising and walking up to Ganesh. She rubbed his head affectionately and walked past him. "So, what motivates your visit today? Pleasure or purpose?"
"Purpose," Ganesh answered, skipping slightly to keep pace behind his aunt. "I am in a bit of a conundrum that requires your vast wisdom and knowledge."
"Your praise is unnecessary; I welcome any distraction that can stretch my mind," she said with a tired sigh.
"You must be aware of the curse Mother placed on Rama Bhargava," Ganesh began.
"How could I not?"
"Well, it appears to have transferred itself onto another individual."
As soon as Ganesh revealed this detail, the woman halted and turned to look at him, an eyebrow raised in intrigue.
"Curses don't transfer," she stated, massaging her chin thoughtfully. "Your mother must have cursed your father's gift directly, not the individual holding it. The gift itself must be what transferred ownership."
Ganesh nodded in affirmation.
"And?" she prompted.
"I promised the man that I would help him get rid of the curse," Ganesh emphasised.
"And why would you make such a promise?" the woman asked with an exasperated snort.
"I felt that it wasn't fair," Ganesh confessed.
"Fairness and unfairness are constructs mortals create to justify cause and consequence," she explained, shaking her head slowly. "Do not try to impose such abstract concepts on the will of the world."
"Nonetheless," she interjected smoothly, "a promise made must be kept."
She turned decisively and walked towards a nearby shelf. She picked up a few scrolls from it and tucked them under her arm. "Come back in four days. I will have an answer for you by then."
Ganesh leapt in glee and clapped his hands. "Thank you, Aunt! I knew I could count on you."
"Oh, well..." the woman stammered slightly, turning her head away as a faint crimson tinge touched her cheeks. "Do tell your mother to come visit once in a while. It grows lonely in here with just these inanimate scrolls to keep me company."
Her gaze dipped for a moment with a hint of sadness, but it was immediately masked by a neutral expression. "Now, off you go!"
Ganesh bowed affectionately and skipped away. He could rest assured that a solution would be found for Kratos' current predicament.
After all, there was nothing in this world that the Goddess of Knowledge - Saraswati - did not know!
___
Rakshasas are monsters. Everyone knows this. They act without human feelings. But monsters don't always have monstrous shapes. People can be Rakshasas too. Humans can also act like "hungry beasts".
Valli's father taught her this. He was the chief. He had watched his people for many years. He warned her about the darkness hidden in human hearts. He believed no one was born good. He believed that people were all evil deep down. Only rules and fear held the evil back. But if the rules broke, or fear faded, the evil would crawl out.
He didn't read it in books; he saw it in the forest, in the village. He saw how greed could make a man steal from his brother, how jealousy could curdle a friendship like milk left in the sun. "Power and suffering," he'd say, "A man with the illusion of power, and a man at the end of his ropes, are the two creatures most susceptible to the evil within their hearts. Too much power, or the plain illusion of that fact, or too little power with nothing left to lose, and man will believe that there is no consequence to his actions. That is when the Rakshasa waiting inside rears its ugly head."
The last rays of sunlight bled through the dense canopy as Valli hurried along the familiar forest path back to her tribe's village. Twilight deepened quickly here. The trade had gone well - the hides and meat had fetched a good price in farm goods and dairy - but haggling over the rare herbs she'd gathered had delayed her longer than expected. Her father would be upset. But she knew the worth of her product and wouldn't accept anything less. Her muscles ached with fatigue, but years in the forest kept her senses sharp, and her steps light but wary.
Then she heard it. Not the rustle of a boar in the undergrowth, nor the skittering of monkeys overhead. These were heavier, clumsier sounds. Human footsteps, and they weren't even trying to be quiet. Her heart hammered against her ribs. She quickened her pace, clutching the small knife at her belt.
Too late. Figures emerged from the gloom ahead and behind, blocking the path. These were familiar faces. She would see them first thing when she entered the town, and last thing when she exited. They were the guards. Even though their faces were shadowed by the dusk, she could see the intoxication in their gaze and their clothes carried a heavy scent of alcohol. She wasn't unaccustomed to the lecherous gazes they'd send her way. She could ignore it near the town. But here, without the safety of rules to stay their nature, she could not ignore those gazes. The leering hunger in their eyes was unmistakable.
"Well, well," one sneered, stepping forward. "Look what the forest coughed up. The little jungle rat, far from her hole."
"A woman shouldn't be out so late, all alone. There could be dangerous monsters hiding in these woods," another said, his voice thick with mock concern that didn't reach his eyes. "Maybe we can... help escort you back home."
Insults followed, crude remarks about her people, her caste, and her body. Valli stood her ground, hand tight on her knife. She knew their kind. Every man she'd met thought themselves superior. These men in particular felt even more so because some ancient text had placed them in a caste above hers. Even though all they had was this measly scrap of power that they perceived to be their birthright, they thought themselves kings. These were the men whose Rakshasa nature needed little excuse to surface.
When the first one lunged, she moved instinctively. Her knife flashed, scoring a line of red across his arm. He howled, stumbling back. She dodged another grab, kicking hard at a knee. But there were too many. A heavy blow struck her shoulder, sending jolts of pain down her arm. Rough hands seized her, pinning her arms, dragging her off the path despite her fierce struggles.
She kicked and bit, injuring another, but their weight and numbers bore her down onto the damp earth. Dirt filled her mouth and the smell of stale sweat and cheap liquor filled her nostrils. Pinned beneath them, panic started to claw at her throat. And her voice grew raw from exertion and fear.
At that moment she remembered her father's words, spoken by the firelight. "The gods don't look our way, daughter. They have their favourites among the city dwellers, the high-born. But I pray anyway. Because even the smallest chance is still a chance."
A face leered down at her, and his foul breath washed over her skin. One man fumbled with his clothing, his eyes glazed with cruel intent and lust. Despair threatened to engulf her.
These were the kinds of men that the gods looked towards.
"No chance," she thought bitterly. "Father was wrong."
Suddenly, a heavy thwack resounded too close to her head.
The weight pinning her shoulders vanished. The leering face above her contorted in impossible shock as its eyes widened with disbelief. A spearhead had erupted from his open mouth, dripping gore. Its tip slammed into the earth beside her head, the shaft quivering mere millimetres from her temple.
There was only silence, save for the gurgling gasp of the dying guard. Then, a warm, thick drop splashed onto her forehead, tracing a path down through the parting of her hair. Crimson blood, stark against her skin in the fading light.
A rapid series of sickening thuds and cracks echoed nearby as the remaining attackers met their end. Valli scrambled out from under her rotund attacker with great difficulty. As she pushed herself to her feet, gasping for air, she was shocked to see what remained of the men who had tried to assault her. All of them were impaled against trees by spears identical to the one vibrating beside her head.
"I apologise-" A voice startled her. Valli yelped and leapt back, immediately brandishing her knife defensively.
"Wait! Please, lower your weapon!" the voice responded hurriedly. Her blurry vision focused, revealing a teenager, perhaps her own age, standing with his arms raised in surrender.
"I-I apologise for startling you," the boy explained. "I would have dispatched them sooner, but my Guru had forbidden me from using my spear until absolutely necessary."
"W-Who are you?" Valli asked, her voice raspy.
"Murugan," the boy said simply as if the name explained everything.
"Is that name supposed to mean something to me?" she asked cautiously, still wary.
"I guess not..." he murmured sheepishly. "No matter! My parents would be disappointed if I let a woman traverse such a treacherous path alone after sundown. Why don't you let me escort you home? Your husband must be worried sick!"
The same offer of escort, but without the vile undertones of her attackers. Nonetheless, Valli wasn't ready to accept help from a stranger, especially one who dispatched men so brutally, yet spoke so casually. At least the animals of the forest were honest about their nature.
"I can go by myself," she said firmly. "And I am unmarried."
"Really?" The boy looked genuinely confused. He pointed towards her forehead, his brow furrowed. "But..."
Valli rubbed her palm against her forehead. The viscous wetness met her skin - the blood. She glared in disgust towards the man impaled by the first spear. "It is his blood."
"Oh! Let me fix that!" The boy stepped past her, retrieved one of the spears from the ground, and slammed its butt against the earth with surprising force. Instantly, all the spears pinning the bodies erupted with a violent burst, causing the corpses skewered by them to explode like grotesque fireworks. A shower of blood and viscera rained down, dousing both Valli and the boy.
"There!" Murugan explained brightly, seemingly oblivious to the horror. "Now it's not just your forehead covered in crimson!" Or at least that was the intonation his voice carried, because the shock and revulsion finally overwhelmed Valli, and her world faded to black as she lost consciousness.
___
"What is this mess?!" Kratos bellowed as he walked into the clearing. His eyes took in the scene thick with blood and gore. His gaze travelled up and noticed Murugan carrying an unconscious girl in his arms.
"I overestimated the common human's tolerance towards violence," the boy responded calmly. "We need to take her back home."
"Where would that be?" Kratos asked gruffly.
"She didn't tell me," Murugan responded. Almost on cue, frantic calls echoed from the nearby forest.
"VALLI!" The loudest voice cracked with panic.
"Over here!" Murugan called back, far too quickly for Kratos to intervene.
"Boy! What are you doing?!" Kratos growled.
"They sound like her people," Murugan reasoned, confused by the reaction.
"Stupid boy! What do you think they will do when they see her like this?" Kratos snapped, gesturing at the blood-soaked pair and the surrounding carnage.
"What-" Murugan began, but an arrow whistling past his head cut him short. He dodged effortlessly.
"Drop the girl, or die!" the man whose voice had cracked with panic warned. He stepped through the treeline, another arrow already nocked on his drawn bow.
"Wait a minute-" Murugan started again, but Kratos shut the boy up with a hard whack to the back of his head.
"Do as they say, boy," Kratos commanded, his voice calm and measured. Murugan reluctantly lowered Valli towards the ground.
A woman rushed past the bow-wielding man, knelt beside the girl, and hurriedly inspected her. "She's alive! She's okay!"
"The blood?" the man asked with a voice tight with concern, though his bow still remained aimed in their general direction.
"It is not hers," Murugan interjected before Kratos could stop him.
"Another word from your mouth, and it will be your last," the man warned with a low growl. He instructed the woman, "Carry her. We are returning."
"I am afraid I cannot let you do that," Murugan stated, ignoring the warning and stepping forward slightly.
"And why is that?" the man snarled and shifted his aim towards Murugan.
"We don't know who you are or what your relation is to the girl," Murugan responded stubbornly.
"We are her parents!" the woman cried out while clutching the girl protectively.
"I am sorry, but I cannot simply take your word for it," Murugan said as he shook his head, utterly failing to grasp the tension.
At that moment, the father's patience snapped. He released the arrow. Murugan sidestepped the projectile easily. He reached for his spear and prepared to retaliate, but Kratos moved faster and snatched the weapon away before Murugan could grasp it.
Kratos tossed the spear aside dismissively and strode towards the father.
Like a cornered animal, the man fired off another arrow. Kratos batted the projectile away with ease. Before the man could recover, Kratos closed the distance. The man jabbed with a knife strapped to his belt. If his opponent were anyone else, they would have been eviscerated. But Kratos caught his wrist in an iron grip.
Kratos leaned in and looked deep into the man's defiant eyes. "If you wish to live to see your daughter awaken," he stated, his voice a low rumble of menace, "you will let us leave. Now."
He released the man's arm abruptly. "We are leaving, boy," Kratos declared, turning his back on the stunned parents and walking away from the clearing.
"But, Guruji!" Murugan protested while glancing back at the parents who were now cautiously lifting the unconscious girl.
"They are her parents," Kratos repeated. His tone left no room for argument.
Kratos strode away from the clearing with Murugan trailing reluctantly behind him. This left the worried parents to tend to their daughter amidst the gruesome scene. Once they were deeper among the trees, well out of earshot, Murugan broke the silence.
"Guruji," he asked, still confused, "how did you know for certain they were her parents?"
Kratos didn't slow his pace. "That look in his eyes," he grunted. "Only a father facing the loss of his child has eyes like that."