The library's sandstone façade glowed under the late-evening lamps as Amrit Kumar approached. His heartbeat thrummed with anticipation. In his satchel lay the Pranayama Scroll gifted by the Yaksha of Naimisharanya. Over the past day he had pored over it in secret, learning breath patterns that whispered of astral gateways and hidden sanctums. Now, the final clue from Vaitara pointed here: beneath these very stacks, a lost shrine of Sarasvati—goddess of wisdom—awaited discovery.
He slipped past the locked glass doors—no one ever tightened security after hours in the old library basement—and descended the narrow spiral staircase. Each creak echoed like a question. At the bottom, a metal door marked "Archives"—usually sealed and untouched—stood slightly ajar. A faint golden light spilled around its frame.
Amrit pressed a hand to the wall, closed his eyes, and began the first pranayama: "Pour in the breath as the river gathers at the sea." He inhaled in a slow, widening arc; the light ahead deepened. He exhaled, wings of breath folding behind him. The door sighed fully open.
Beyond lay a dusty corridor carved from ancient granite, the walls faintly patterned with lotus petals. Cobwebs sparkled in the hush. With heart braced, Amrit stepped forward, guided by the soft glow petals of bioluminescent moss. At intervals, niches held shattered statues—half-formed images of Sarasvati holding a veena, the lute of creation. Chips of marble glittered at his feet like spilled starlight.
He pressed on until the corridor opened into a domed chamber. Columns lined its circumference, each crowned with a carved swan—the vahana of Sarasvati. In the center, raised on a dais of black basalt, was a stone pedestal with an empty bronze brazier. Around the brazier's rim were etched Sanskrit couplets praising knowledge and purity:
"Jnana Devi, bestower of insight, awaken the mind's hidden light."
Amrit's fingers trembled as he set the Pranayama Scroll atop the brazier. He traced the lines of verse on the pedestal with his fingertip, then closed his eyes and began the chant:
"Om Saraswati Namastubhyam Vidya Dheemahi Vagdevyai Cha Dharani…"
His voice echoed and faded. The scroll's edges glimmered; golden breezes swirled. He bowed his head, chanting the mantra of release he had found scrawled in the Yaksha's notes:
"Nirbanikram lahar, wash away the stain of dharma's neglect."
Suddenly, the brazier's interior glowed, flames erupting without fuel—blue, white, and gold. Light flooded the shrine, illuminating a hidden alcove in the back wall. Amrit approached and discovered a niche containing palm-leaf manuscripts bound by silken thread. The leaves were brittle, yet the ink remained sharp: instructions for the Nirbanikram Lahar ritual, a purification of karmic taint.
Before he could read further, the air rippled and a figure emerged—a spectral woman clad in saffron robes, eyes gentle yet piercing. Her form was half-opacity, flickering like a candle in the wind.
"Greetings, child of dharma," she said, voice like warm honey. "I am Priyadarshini, once priestess of this shrine, now guardian in the subtle plane."
Amrit bowed deeply. "Honored to meet you, guardian. I seek to purify my soul and learn the ways of Sarasvati's grace."
Priyadarshini floated closer, raising a hand to the manuscripts. "You have summoned the ritual. Yet beware—purification in the astral plane draws eyes in darkness. Only the sincere may pass its test."
She waved a slender finger. The scroll and manuscripts lifted off the pedestal and surrounded Amrit in a circle, spinning in midair. Panels of light formed before him, each revealing a scene:
A scholar sacrificing friendships through hubris, prizes piled high while hearts lay empty.
A healer refusing aid to a stranger for fear of scarcity, letting life slip away.
A warrior sparing an enemy out of compassion, forging an unexpected bond.
The panels dissolved in a cascade of ink-black tears, leaving Amrit alone in the glowing shrine.
Priyadarshini's voice came again: "You must walk the Nirbanikram Path in the astral realm. Will you confront your darkest failures?"
Amrit squared his shoulders. "I will."
He closed his eyes and focused on his breath. The scroll's verses resonated through his mind:
"As the river surrenders to the ocean, let your burdens drift away. Embrace the waves of awakening."
With a final exhale, the shrine dissolved, and Amrit found himself standing on a slender bridge of moonlight suspended over the Silver Stream—an astral river that gurgled backward, carrying memories instead of water. He shuddered at the frozen, spectral bank where souls knelt in silent prayer.
At the bridge's entrance stood Priyadarshini, her form more lucid now. "Cross, and face the shadows of your deeds," she said, then vanished.
Amrit took a trembling step. Each footfall echoed through eternity. He peered over the parapet into the shimmering depths. "For dharma," he whispered, and moved forward.
Almost immediately, a dark mist curled up from the water. From its depths emerged a shapeless figure, shifting from man to woman to child, faces twisted in fear and accusation. Amrit recognized them: the faces of those he had hurt— classmates he dismissed for late assignments, villagers he passed by without a glance on his train home, the hostel worker he let carry his heavy luggage without a word of thanks.
The figure's voice was a whispering chorus: "We are your karma. We weigh upon you. Purify us, or be bound forever."
Amrit's chest tightened. The swirl of faces pressed close, each accusing, each wounded. He staggered, nearly falling into the stream.
A calm voice in his mind steadied him: "Breathe. Name each burden, and let it go."
He inhaled, recalling Vaitara's lesson. "Bring in the light…" and exhaled, "release the pain." He spoke aloud:
"I am sorry for every time I ignored you." He thought of the villagers. The hurt clung like barnacles. "I forgive myself for my indifference."
The mists recoiled. The faces faded one by one, disappearing into specks of starlight.
But as the last face vanished—a glimpse of Satish pleading in darkness—a fresh vision tore into his mind: a black lotus blooming in a pool of blood. "Your soul is stained," it hissed. "You cannot purge the past with words."
Amrit fell to his knees, every fiber trembling. Doubt flooded him: Is forgiveness enough? Can I truly purge such karma?
A hand touched his shoulder. He looked up to see Priyadarshini standing beside him, palm radiating gentle light. "True purification requires more than sorrow or words," she said. "It demands understanding and transformation."
She guided him to stand, then touched his third eye. Amrit gasped as a wave of warmth coursed through him. He saw again the scenes of his life—only this time he was an observer, learning compassion from missteps. He saw the hostel worker's toil and offered thanks; he saw his classmates' struggles and offered help; he saw Satish's hunger for validation behind his betrayal, and recognized the boy beneath the dark.
Tears poured down Amrit's face as he accepted the lessons. The starlit bridge brightened, and the black lotus wilted, replaced by a white lotus that drifted down the stream.
"Rise," Priyadarshini whispered. "You have walked the Path. The Lahar washes you clean."
The river's backward flow reversed for a heartbeat, and then resumed—now carrying petals of light instead of tears. The bridge dissolved, and Amrit blinked back in the stone shrine, manuscripts and scroll gently resting at his feet.
Priyadarshini knelt beside him with a serene smile. "Your aura is renewed," she said. "Go forth with clarity, but know the darkness watches. Today you have cleansed one burden; more await on the road ahead."
The shrine's brazier flickered out, and the manuscripts returned to their niche. The spectral priestess faded into mist, leaving Amrit alone in the hush.
He knelt in gratitude before the empty brazier, then rose and tucked the Pranayama Scroll into his satchel. As he retraced his steps through the corridor and up the spiral staircase, he felt lighter—yet also more alert, as though new eyes had opened within him.
When he emerged into the library basement, dawn's light filtered through the barred window. The campus outside yawned awake. Amrit paused to catch his breath, then smiled softly. He was one step further on the Dharma Path—purified, but ever mindful of the shadows that lurked beyond the next bend.
The silver orb of the full moon hung low above the Narmada River as Amrit stepped onto the ancient ghats at midnight. The stones beneath his feet were worn smooth by centuries of pilgrims. The air smelled of incense drifting from distant shrines, mingled with the river's wet breath. His satchel held the moonstone amulet from the Crescent Moon Temple, its cool surface pulsing faintly against his palm.
He was no longer a typical IITM student walking home. He was a traveler on the Karmic Path, pursuing whispered clues in astral visions. Tonight's calling: the Tides of Karmic Debt—a trial spoken of in Priyadarshini's parting words. The clergy of Narmada told legends of a Silver Stream feeding into the river under the full moon, where souls glimpsed lifetimes and the weight of their actions.
Amrit moved to the river's edge and closed his eyes, slipping into meditation. He steadied his breath with the Pranayama of the Infinite Breath, letting the moonstone's glow guide him deeper:
"Inhale the cosmos. Exhale attachment."
The river's gurgle softened. Amrit felt his consciousness drift free of his body—an ethereal seed on the current. When he opened his eyes, he stood on a sandbar that glowed like polished metal. Around him, the river's waters rippled backward, revealing flashing scenes within each wave.
To his right, a scene: a mother feeding her starving child, sharing the last morsel. An act of selflessness. The wave shimmered with golden light.
To his left, a scene: two merchants cheating a traveler, haggling over pennies. The wave seethed in red.
Straight ahead, a wall of water formed showing him his own past: the times he ignored complaints, dismissed ideas, chose convenience over kindness. Each moment was a sting in his heart.
As he watched, the river's tide drew him forward. He walked through the walls of water, each ripple soaking him in memory. The brilliance of kindness warmed him; the sting of cruelty cut him like glass. He felt tears welling.
Then the tide shifted—cold, black water rushed to engulf him. Within it, shapes twisted: spectral hands pulling him under, voices whispering "You failed me… you failed us…" His breath came in short gasps, panic rising.
He tried to float, but the water pressed like lead. He heard a distant chant, then recognized his own voice reciting:
"Om Ham Satya… sat tam… dharma jyotih…"
He struggled to recall the mantra from the Sarasvati shrine that purified his own soul. With desperate focus, he forced the words out, each syllable a bullet of light piercing the darkness. The black water peeled away, leaving him shivering on the metallic sandbar.
Gasping, Amrit sat cross-legged, pulling his knees to his chest. He felt the weeping of souls around him—a chorus of beings bound by little wrongs compounding into great sorrow. His heart ached with shared pain.
A soft footstep behind him made him turn. Radhika emerged, her sari painted with moonlight, hair damp. She smiled weakly. "I had to find you," she whispered. "The Silver Stream called me too."
Amrit nodded. He reached out a hand. She took it, settling beside him. Their breaths synchronized. They sat in silence as the river's currents calmed.
Finally, Radhika spoke: "I saw… my own doubts and insecurities growing into arrogance. In my quest for power, I almost lost compassion for others." She bowed her head. "I had to face it."
Amrit took a deep breath. "This trial shows us just how easily small wrongs cascade into great karma." He looked out at the barges of memory. "We must remember mercy first, or we drown before we even reach the stream's end."
Radhika placed a hand on his shoulder. "Together?"
He smiled softly. "Together."
They rose and stepped back through the river wall. Behind it, the ghats were quiet again. Only the small whirlpool at the bar remained, eddies of starlight dancing on the surface.
They turned away, but as they walked, the moonstone amulet around Amrit's neck flickered—and for an instant, he saw a third figure on the barge: the corrupted outline of Satish, shadowed in black petals, reaching out. Amrit's breath caught, but the vision vanished as swiftly as it came.
He squeezed Radhika's hand. Whatever darkness lay ahead, they would face it side by side.