Om Tryambakam Yajamahe.
Every word sank into him. He felt as though this mantra was meant not only for his body, but for his consciousness as well—as if it were slowly turning him in another direction.
When the fire was lit, the moment became unbearable. It was not physical pain—his body was beyond his perception now—but a torment born from the shattering of identity. He watched as the flames rose, his clothes caught fire, and smoke drifted upward. With every spark, a memory flashed—the laughter of people, Master’s stern face, the cold mountain air, the scent of medicinal herbs, and the mysterious old ascetic who had once looked at his nails and said, “When the time comes, they will become your identity.”
What time? he had asked then.
The old ascetic had smiled. “When you have to save yourself—not from the body, but from illusion.”
Now that memory surfaced amid the flames.
So is this that time? Yogesh asked inwardly.
Suddenly, he felt himself splitting in two—one part being consumed by the fire, and another watching it happen. Then, as though an invisible whirlpool had seized him, everything sank into darkness.
At first, the darkness was cold. Then, little by little, a hazy light emerged within it. When he became aware of himself again, he was in a strange realm—not heaven, not hell. A long, narrow path stretched ahead, with countless souls moving forward on numb feet. There was no light in their eyes, only emptiness.
Yogesh asked a soul walking nearby, “Where are we going?”
The answer came late, as though rising from the depths of a well. “You have to keep walking.”
“But where?”
“Don’t think. Just walk.”
Yogesh shuddered. Strange flowers bloomed on both sides—deep purple, blood red, and metallic blue. Their petals trembled faintly, releasing a sweet yet unnatural scent. He saw that the souls who stared at them for too long began walking more slowly. Some stopped to touch them, and their eyes became even more vacant.
“This isn’t rest. It’s oblivion,” he murmured.
That was when he saw them—several women glowing with unnatural beauty. Their clothes fluttered in the light breeze, as if woven from light itself. Their eyes held a hypnotic allure, and their smiles seemed welcoming.
One of them said softly, “You’re different.”
Yogesh stopped. “Who are you?”
“The ones who will free you from your exhaustion,” another replied.
For a moment, peace settled inside him. After so much fear and helplessness, the gentle voice felt like a balm.
“Is this release?” he asked.
“If you want it to be,” the first woman said, extending her hand.
He followed them. The path turned away from the main route. The flowers’ scent grew stronger. Ahead lay a pool—black and still as a mirror.
“Why did you bring me here?” Yogesh asked.
The only answer was a smile—slightly deeper now, slightly colder.
A figure rose from the center of the pool—a woman’s shape, but faceless. Where her eyes and lips should have been, there was only smooth, flat skin. She slowly moved toward the bank.
Yogesh stepped back. “What are you?”
Suddenly, she lunged. Her touch held an icy chill and a burning hunger within it.
Fear rose inside Yogesh, but at that very moment, another emotion awakened—anger. I haven’t spent my whole life running from fear. Why should I run now?
His hands began to tingle. He saw that his nails had grown long and black, with an amber-like gleam.
He remembered the old ascetic’s voice: “Illusion will tempt you because you still have desires. When desire ends, power will reveal itself.”
The faceless woman whispered, “Surrender. You’re tired.”
Yogesh said firmly, “I’m not finished yet.”
He thrust his nails forward. The instant they touched the figure, a sharp scream that pierced consciousness rang out. Smoke rose from the places where his nails had struck. Cracks spread across her skin, and black liquid began to seep out.
“You should be afraid,” the figure seemed to echo.
“I’ve already been afraid,” Yogesh replied. “Now I understand.”
He struck again—this time with greater force. A faint glow emanated from his nails. At last, the specter stumbled backward and fell into the pool. Ripples spread across the water’s surface, then everything grew still.
The beautiful women turned into smoke—as if they had never existed. The scent of the flowers faded.
Yogesh stood alone. He was trembling, even though he had no body. He looked at his hands. His nails were slowly returning to normal.
He drew a deep, inward breath. “So this isn’t punishment. It’s a trial.”
He looked toward the main path. The souls were still walking—numb and unaware.
“I won’t become like them,” he said softly but firmly. “I’ll ask questions. I’ll search for answers. If death isn’t the end, then it must have a meaning.”
Somewhere in the distance, a dim light flickered—ash-colored, yet steady.
Yogesh moved toward it. Fear still remained within him, but so did the will to live. He knew this journey had only just begun. The secrets of his consciousness, his death, and the mysterious power that had awakened within him still remained to be uncovered. But he was no longer running. He was walking—awake, alert, and more alive than ever.
Was the faceless woman merely a specter, or was she the living form of some fear hidden within Yogesh?
Could Yogesh escape this realm, or would he be imprisoned here forever?
That flickering light in the distance—was it the path to release, or another illusion?