The Broker of Blessings

Chapter 1

The sun beats down on my face as 7'4 feet tall Bhairavi strides through the village square, her bare feet padding softly on the dusty ground. From my perch atop her broad shoulders, the world spreads out before me: the ochre-colored huts, the parched fields reaching towards the horizon, the faces of my adoring devotees. Or, more accurately, the faces of those I intend to bleed dry. I am just 5'1 feet tall.

"What offering is this?" I ask, my voice amplified by the height, carries easily over the murmuring crowd. I fix the frail farmer with a stern look, the morning sun turning my spotless white dhoti almost blindingly bright. The small bundle of rice in his trembling hands is an insult, a mere pittance.

The farmer shrinks under my gaze, his eyes darting nervously. "Shastriji," he stammers, "it is all I have left after the drought. I pray for your blessing, for rain to return to our lands."

My fingers tighten around my prayer beads, the faint jingle a counterpoint to the man's desperate plea. Blessing? Blessings are earned, not freely given. "Is this the best you can offer the divine?" I demand, my voice dripping with disappointment. "Do you expect the gods to answer such meager devotion?"

A ripple of unease spreads through the crowd. Good. Let them witness the consequences of insufficient piety. Bhairavi remains silent, her expression unreadable as always. But I can feel her strength beneath me, a solid foundation upon which I build my authority.

I lean down, my gaze piercing the farmer's. "Perhaps," I say, lowering my voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "there are other ways to demonstrate your faith. A goat, perhaps? Or a promise of a larger offering when the rains return?"

The farmer's eyes widen, and I see the dawning realization. He understands the game. Faith is a currency, and I am its broker. A satisfied smirk tugs at the corner of my lips.

As the farmer begins to haggle, I survey the crowd. There is young woman, Rohini, with her bright eyes and quick hands, always eager to help with the temple chores. And old man, Dhruv, who eyes me with suspicion. Every face tells a story, and every story is an opportunity.

Bhairavi turns down a narrow lane, heading toward the temple. The crowd presses closer, eager to catch my attention, to offer their prayers, their coins, their devotion. It is a heady feeling, this power. A taste of the divine. And I intend to savor every moment.

The temple looms ahead, its clay walls baked to a dusty red by the relentless sun. The scent of incense hangs heavy in the air, mingling with the earthy aroma of cow dung and the sweet fragrance of marigolds offered to the deities. Bhairavi pauses at the entrance, allowing me to dismount with practiced ease.

As my feet touch the cool stone of the courtyard, Rohini rushes forward, her face radiant. "Shastriji," she greets me, her voice bubbling with enthusiasm. "The preparations for the evening prayers are complete. The lamps are lit, the flowers arranged, and the musicians are ready."

"Excellent, Rohini," I reply, bestowing a rare smile upon her. "Your dedication is commendable." Her face flushes with pleasure at my praise. She is a useful girl, eager to please, and discreetly observant. Such qualities are invaluable.

I stride into the main hall, Bhairavi following silently behind. The temple is simple, yet the flickering lamps cast an ethereal glow upon the idols of the gods, their painted faces seeming to watch me with knowing eyes. I ignore their silent judgment. Gods are powerful, yes, but they are also easily appeased with the right rituals and offerings. And I am a master of both.

I seat myself on the raised platform reserved for the priest, my eyes scanning the hall. The villagers are beginning to gather, their faces etched with anticipation. The evening prayers are a highlight of their day, a moment of solace and connection to the divine. And for me, they are an opportunity to reinforce my authority and collect my due.

As I begin the chanting, my voice resonating through the hall, I notice Dhruv, the old man with the suspicious eyes, standing at the back. He is watching me intently, his brow furrowed. I hold his gaze for a moment, a flicker of defiance in my eyes. He may doubt me, but he cannot deny the power of the rituals, the devotion of the crowd.

The chanting rises to a crescendo, the musicians joining in with drums and cymbals. The energy in the hall builds, a palpable hum of faith and expectation. I raise my hands, bestowing a blessing upon the crowd. Coins rain down at my feet, glittering in the lamplight.

After the prayers, as the villagers line up to offer their individual devotions, Rohini approaches me, her eyes wide with concern. "Shastriji," she whispers, "a traveler arrived in the village today. He asks many questions about you and Bhairavi."

My senses sharpen. A traveler? Asking questions? This is unwelcome news. "What does he look like?" I ask, my voice low.

"He is short, with a weathered face and keen eyes," Rohini replies. "He wears simple clothes, but his bearing is that of a nobleman. He calls himself…Arjun."

Arjun. The name is unfamiliar, yet it sends a shiver down my spine. Who is this man, and what does he want? My carefully constructed world, built on faith and fear, feels suddenly fragile. I must find out more about this Arjun. Before he unravels everything.

I press the gold coin into Rohini's hand, its weight a silent promise. "Be discreet," I instruct, my voice barely above a whisper. "Find out everything you can about this Arjun. What questions does he ask? Who does he speak to? And most importantly, what does he seek?"

Rohini nods, her eyes gleaming with a mixture of excitement and apprehension. She is young, but she understands the importance of secrecy. She slips away into the crowd, disappearing as quickly as she appeared.

My mind races. A nobleman disguised as a traveler, asking questions about me and Bhairavi. This is no mere coincidence. Someone is investigating me, digging into my past. But who? And why now, after all these years of carefully maintaining my facade?

I force myself to focus on the present, on the villagers still waiting to offer their devotions. I greet them with a practiced smile, offering blessings and accepting their gifts. But my mind is elsewhere, consumed by the mystery of Arjun.

As the line dwindles, I notice Dhruv still lingering at the back of the hall, his eyes fixed on me with that unsettling gaze. I beckon him forward, my expression carefully neutral.

"Dhruv," I say, my voice calm and measured. "You seem troubled. Is there something you wish to discuss?"

The old man hesitates, his gaze darting around the hall before finally meeting mine. "Shastriji," he says, his voice raspy with age, "some of us remember a time before Bhairavi carried you through the village. A time when you walked among us, a humble priest like any other."

My heart skips a beat. He is treading on dangerous ground. "Those were simpler times, Dhruv," I reply, my voice hardening slightly. "But the gods have their own plans. They chose Bhairavi to elevate me, to bring me closer to them."

"Or perhaps," Dhruv counters, his eyes narrowing, "you chose Bhairavi. Perhaps you saw an opportunity to elevate yourself."

A surge of anger courses through me, but I manage to keep my composure. "Such accusations are blasphemous, Dhruv," I say, my voice laced with warning. "You question the will of the gods at your own peril."

Dhruv stares at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, without another word, he turns and walks away, disappearing into the night.

I watch him go, my hand clenching into a fist. Dhruv is a thorn in my side, a constant reminder of my past. And now, with Arjun sniffing around, he poses an even greater threat. I must silence him. Permanently.

Just then, Rohini reappears, her eyes wide with urgency. "Shastriji," she whispers, pulling me aside. "Arjun is asking about Bhairavi's past. About where she came from and why she chose to serve you."

My blood runs cold. This is worse than I feared. If Arjun uncovers Bhairavi's true origins, my entire scheme will crumble. I must act quickly. "Find Arjun," I instruct Rohini, my voice tight with urgency. "Lure him to the old well outside the village. Tell him you have information about Bhairavi that I don't want him to know."

Rohini hesitates, her eyes filled with doubt. "But Shastriji," she whispers, "what if he suspects a trap?"

"He won't," I assure her, my voice dripping with false confidence. "His curiosity will be his downfall." And mine? I push the thought away. I have come too far to fail now. Arjun must be silenced. One way or another.

Bhairavi approaches with her usual silent grace, her towering presence a stark contrast to my scheming thoughts. She lowers herself slightly, offering her hip as a seat, and I settle into the familiar cradle of her strength. It feels almost… domestic, this bizarre intimacy we share. But sentimentality is a luxury I cannot afford.

"Tonight, Rohini will take Arjun to the old well," I murmur into Bhairavi’s ear, my voice barely audible above the evening breeze rustling through the temple courtyard. "He must be silenced. Forever."

Bhairavi's expression remains unchanged, her dark eyes fixed on the horizon. It's impossible to know what she's thinking, what emotions lie beneath that placid surface. But I trust her implicitly. She is my most loyal servant, my most powerful weapon.

"He must never question our authority," I continue, tightening my grip on her shoulder. "He knows too much. Or at least, he's close to knowing too much."

A flicker of something—perhaps understanding, perhaps merely acknowledgement—passes through Bhairavi's eyes. She shifts her weight slightly, a subtle indication that she has heard and understood.

"When Rohini brings him to the well," I instruct, my voice firm, "you must be waiting. A swift, clean action. No witnesses. No trace."

I feel a twinge of guilt, using Bhairavi like this, manipulating her unwavering loyalty for my own selfish ends. But I quickly suppress it. This is survival. This is power. This is my destiny.

"He will be expecting Rohini," I add, anticipating any potential complications. "He will be focused on her, on the information she supposedly possesses. Use that distraction to your advantage. Surprise him. Overpower him. And then… consign him to the darkness."

Bhairavi says nothing, but I sense her resolve hardening. She is ready to do what is necessary. She always is.

"Afterward," I say, leaning closer, "return to the temple. Act as if nothing has happened. Let no one suspect that we are involved."

Bhairavi begins to move, carrying me effortlessly through the village streets. The air is thick with anticipation, the scent of impending violence hanging heavy in the air. I glance up at Bhairavi’s face, searching for any sign of emotion. But her expression remains as impassive as ever.

As we approach the old well, I can feel my pulse quickening. This is it. The moment of truth. The moment that will determine my fate.

I spot Rohini standing near the well, her small figure illuminated by the flickering moonlight. She is talking to a man, a short, weathered figure who can only be Arjun. My heart pounds in my chest.

"Wait here," I whisper to Bhairavi, dismounting from her hip. "I need to see this."

I melt into the shadows, watching as Arjun leans closer to Rohini, his face etched with curiosity. This is the moment. The moment when Bhairavi will strike.

But something feels wrong. The air is too still, the silence too heavy. A sense of foreboding washes over me.

Suddenly, Arjun straightens up, his eyes narrowing. He grabs Rohini by the arm, his grip surprisingly strong.

"Where is she?" he demands, his voice low and menacing. "Where is Bhairavi?"

My blood runs cold. He knows. He knew all along. This isn't a trap for him. It's a trap for us.

The weight of Arjun’s words hangs heavy in the air. He knows about Bhairavi. He knows about the trap. Panic claws at my throat, threatening to choke me. But I cannot falter. I am Gokul Shastri, and I will not be undone by a mere traveler.

With a subtle gesture, a flick of my wrist, I give Bhairavi the signal. The signal we practiced a thousand times in the quiet hours of the night. The signal that means death. I watch, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs, as Bhairavi emerges from the shadows. She moves with the silent grace of a predator, her towering form casting a long, ominous shadow over Arjun and Rohini.

Arjun's eyes widen in surprise, then harden with resolve. He shoves Rohini aside, drawing a gleaming blade from his side. A nobleman disguised as a traveler, indeed. He anticipated this, prepared for it. My carefully laid plans begin to crumble before my eyes. Bhairavi does not hesitate. With a roar that echoes through the night, she lunges at Arjun, her massive hands outstretched. He is quick, agile. He dodges her initial attack, the blade flashing in the moonlight. But Bhairavi is relentless. She swings again, a sweeping blow that sends Arjun stumbling backward.

Rohini cowers near the well, her eyes wide with terror. She had no idea of the events to come. I can see the horror etched on her face, the realization of the deadly game she has unwittingly been playing. But there is no time for remorse, no time for regret. This is a fight for survival, and I will do whatever it takes to win. Arjun parries Bhairavi's blows, his movements precise and efficient. But he is no match for her raw power. She batters him again and again, blows that would crush any normal man. Finally, with a desperate lunge, Bhairavi grabs Arjun.

I watch transfixed as Bhairavi lifts Arjun high above her head, his body dangling like a broken doll. He struggles, kicks, but it is no use. Bhairavi's grip is unbreakable. With a final, earth-shattering roar, Bhairavi throws Arjun into the old well. The sound of his body hitting the water is sickeningly loud, a definitive full stop at the end of his life. Bhairavi stands motionless, her chest heaving, her eyes fixed on the dark depths of the well. I approach her slowly, cautiously. I search her face for any sign of remorse, any indication of the emotional toll this act of violence has taken on her. But her expression remains blank, unreadable.

"Well done, Bhairavi," I say, my voice trembling slightly. "You have saved us." I try to smile, but the expression feels forced, unnatural. I turn to Rohini, who is still cowering near the well, her body shaking uncontrollably. "Go home, Rohini," I command, my voice sharp. "Forget what you have seen here tonight. Tell no one. Do you understand?" She nods dumbly, her eyes wide with fear. Without another word, she turns and flees into the darkness. I look back at Bhairavi, and give her instructions: "We have to leave no trace."

Bhairavi processes my words with her usual, unnerving silence. Instead of a verbal response, she bends down, shifting her posture in a way that makes my stomach clench. This isn't her offering her hip as a seat, a position of servitude. This is something different, something... primal. She scoops me up, not cradling me, but hoisting me onto her shoulders in a fireman's carry. My legs dangle awkwardly across her back, my face pressed against the rough fabric of her sari. The sudden shift in our dynamic sends a jolt of unease through me. This is not the Bhairavi I control. This is Bhairavi asserting herself, reminding me of the immense power she possesses, a power that I merely borrow.

Without a word, she moves to the well, her steps measured and deliberate. She begins to obliterate any evidence of the struggle. With her bare hands, she crushes the trampled grass, smoothing the earth as if nothing had ever occurred. She picks up Arjun's discarded blade, snapping it in two and scattering the pieces into the surrounding bushes. She erases every trace of his existence, as if he were nothing more than a phantom conjured by the moonlight. I cling to her back, my knuckles white as I grip her shoulders. The silence is deafening, broken only by the rustling of leaves and the distant chirping of crickets. I dare not speak, dare not interrupt her grim task.

When she is satisfied that all traces of the deed are erased, she moves to the well. She tears off a section of the crumbling stone wall and throws it into the water, masking the splash of Arjun’s body. Then, she reaches down and scoops up handfuls of dirt, scattering them around the well’s opening to conceal any signs of disturbance. I watch in morbid fascination, my mind racing. This is more than just loyalty. This is a deep, unwavering devotion, a willingness to sacrifice everything for my sake. But is it truly for me, or for the power I represent?

As she finishes, Bhairavi turns and strides back towards the village, her gait unwavering. The weight of my body on her back seems to be nothing to her. The weight of the deed done seems to be nothing to her. I sneak glances at her face, searching for any flicker of emotion. But her expression remains as impenetrable as ever, a mask of stoic resolve. The weight of my secrets, the weight of my ambition, feels crushing. Perhaps I have underestimated Bhairavi. Perhaps she is not merely a tool to be wielded, but a force to be reckoned with. When we arrive at the temple, Bhairavi finally lowers me to the ground, her movements still devoid of any gentleness. I step away from her, creating a space between us. The familiar comfort I once felt in her presence has been replaced by a gnawing sense of unease. This night has changed everything. "You are dismissed." I say to Bhairavi. I don't wait for an answer. I turn and disappear into the temple.