Chapter 0 : The faith
On a full moon night, the village is alive with people.
There’s laughter, music, and a strange joy in the air — the kind of joy that feels almost forced, as if the entire village is saying, “Look, I am happy.”
But in a quiet corner, away from the noise, two boys are getting ready to witness something different.
One boy is excited and nervous at the same time; the other — calm, confident, almost too casual.
---
Ashok (with a hurried tone): What are you doing? I think we’re running late!
The time is 1:28, and it’s already 12:40! We have a long way to go — and the crowd must be huge by now.
Ajay (chill): Don’t worry, we’ll reach there in no time.
There are many shortcuts through the jungles and rivers. It’s not like your city.
Ashok (excited): Whatever it is, I want to see everything — not just the main event.
Ajay: Okay, bhai. See everything then. Come, this way.
Ashok (curious): How long has this tradition been happening?
Ajay: If you go by what the elders say, then since the time when demons and gods lived among humans.
Ashok: Then it must be a fairytale.
Ajay (angrily): Have you lost your mind?
Don’t ever say such words in front of the villagers — or those might be the last words you ever speak.
Ashok (calmer now, excitement fading): Okay, sorry. How many times have you seen it? And… how do you process it now?
Ajay: A couple of times — since I was fifteen.
At first, I was afraid. But not anymore. When you see it every year, it stops feeling strange.
(He pauses.)
But remember — don’t overreact during the ritual. And don’t blink.
If someone sees you flinch, you might get into trouble.
Ashok (light tone): Chill, bhai. I got this. You don’t have to worry.
---
With that conversation, they reach the temple.
Hundreds of people stand crowded in the temple grounds — some there to watch, others beside young boys covered in fresh banana leaves.
The boys are bathed by the elders. One by one, each is called inside the temple.
Inside, the same puja begins — chants, incense, and a flicker of firelight that paints their faces red.
A priest places a tilak on each forehead, and then throws rice mixed with vermilion over them.
When they step back outside, their banana leaves are stained deep crimson.
They form a line — silent, trembling, obedient.
One by one, their heads are bowed before a wooden structure — two old planks crossed with an iron rod.
The sword rises… and falls.
One by one.
No screams. Only the heavy thud of faith.
Everyone is silent at that moment.
The heads are taken inside the temple.
The main gate closes for five minutes.
When it opens again, the priest walks out — holding the same sword, its blade still wet.
He touches the tip to every devotee’s forehead, marking them with a stroke of blood.
Then the clapping begins — slow, proud, and deep.
Not of fear.
Not of horror.
But of faith.
They believe they have done it for their god.
