CHAPTER 15 :. THE BIRTH OF CHAOS
Banaras, British India - 1895
The night was thick with silence, broken only by the crackling of fire. It was an isolated clearing, hidden deep beyond the reach of the British authorities. The only light came from the torches—mashals—held by calloused hands, their flames flickering like restless spirits.
A hundred men stood together, shoulder to shoulder, yet none dared to speak. Their faces were carved from years of hardship—farmers whose fields had been stolen, soldiers discarded like broken weapons, artisans left to starve as British goods drowned their craft. They had come here seeking hope, justice, freedom.
But now, standing beneath the dancing glow of the flames, their eyes held none of that anymore.
Not vengeance. Not the fire of revolution. Not even the weight of morality.
They were hollow—hollow, yet filled with hatred.
It wasn't the hatred of the oppressed rising against their oppressors. It was something deeper, something far more terrifying—the hatred of men who had nothing left to lose.
And at the centre of it all, standing on a makeshift platform of stone, was Aghor Nath.
He was clad in tattered robes, his long, unkempt hair flowing like the mane of a beast. His presence was magnetic—not loud, not forceful, but carrying an eerie stillness that made the firelight seem dimmer around him. He raised a hand, and the whispers of doubt died in an instant.
Then, he spoke in Hindi.
"Brothers… sons of this cursed land… tell me, what do you see in the flames you hold?"
His voice was calm, almost gentle—but it cut through the air like a blade. Some men tightened their grip on their torches, others lowered their gazes, as if ashamed.
"Do you see warmth? Light? Hope?" He paused, scanning their faces, before his lips curled into something between a smile and a sneer. "Or do you see what I see?"
A hush fell over the gathering.
"I see the fires of Kalinga, where the earth drank the blood of our ancestors. I see the funeral pyres of widows, forced to burn with their dead husbands. I see the villages reduced to ash by the boots of the Englishman. I see our gods, once mighty, now mocked in the streets of our own land."
His voice rose, deep and thunderous now, carrying the weight of centuries of suffering.
"We have prayed, and our prayers went unheard. We have begged, and we were spat upon. We have waited, and only chains have come to greet us."
A murmur spread through the crowd—anger, grief, something primal awakening in their bones. Aghor Nath let it simmer before delivering his final blow.
"And so, my brothers, I ask you—if the gods are deaf, if justice is blind, if fate itself has turned against us… then tell me, what is left for us to do?"
He lifted his torch high.
"What do we do when the world takes everything from us?"
The crowd stirred, restless, uncertain. Someone whispered, "We take it back."
Aghor Nath turned his gaze toward the speaker—a young man, no older than twenty, his eyes burning with something dangerous. He smiled.
"Yes."
Then, he dropped his torch. It fell into a shallow pit at the centre of the gathering—lined with dry wood, soaked in oil. The flames caught instantly, roaring upwards like a beast unchained.
But no one flinched.
The fire was not meant to harm. It was controlled, ritualistic—a symbol. A signal. A line being crossed.
Aghor Nath stood still as the light consumed the air around him, his face lit like a prophet from some forgotten scripture. The crowd around him responded—not with fear, but with cries, chants, fists raised in rage.
The silence of the forest was broken.
And in that moment, something unholy was born—not in body, but in spirit.
The flame didn't burn skin. But it did burn something else.
Whatever restraint they had left. Whatever light.
They started screaming.
"Aghor Nath ki jai ho!" [All Hail Aghor Nath] "Aghor Nath ki jai ho!" [All Hail Aghor Nath] "Aghor Nath ki jai ho!" [All Hail Aghor Nath]
It wasn't a chant. It was a possession. One by one, the voices rose—coarse, raw, frenzied—as if their throats were no longer their own, as if something ancient and bitter had clawed its way out from the depths of their being.
The sound shook the trees. The very earth beneath them felt as if it held its breath.
"Aghor Nath ki jai ho!" [All Hail Aghor Nath]
Some began to stomp their feet in rhythm. Others pounded their chests like beasts awakened from centuries of slumber. Their mashals were raised toward the heavens, flames tearing through the downpour that had begun to fall without warning.
Rain hit the earth in furious sheets. Thunder cracked in the distance. But it only made their fury louder.
Water hissed against fire—but their flames refused to die. Because the true fire wasn't in their hands anymore.
It was in their souls.
A hellfire, unseen and unnatural, fed not by wood or oil but by loss. By grief. By hatred that no sermon could cleanse.
Even the rain—fierce and unrelenting—could not drown the spirits now ignited. Their soaked clothes clung to their skin, but they did not shiver. They roared.
They were no longer farmers. No longer sons of soil or craftsmen of peace.
They were vessels—emptied of love, filled with fury. Aghor Nath had not simply given them a purpose. He had given their pain a voice.
And now, the forest echoed with it. Again, and again—
"Aghor Nath ki jai ho!" [All Hail Aghor Nath]
No leader had ever marched an army like this. Because these were not men who marched. They would burn. They would tear. They would cleanse the world the way fire consumes the forest floor—to make room for something new.
They stood united in the storm, a hundred torches defying the sky.
A cold, heavy wind swept through the clearing, helping his beautiful, unkempt shoulder-length black hair flow wildly—like a forgotten king on the verge of reclaiming his throne.
The moon pierced through the storm clouds above, and somehow, in the middle of the rain, its silver light fell only on him. The downpour blurred everything else—but not him. As if the heavens themselves had chosen him. As if a messiah had descended for the people of this nation.
But his eyes… they did not carry love.
They carried a charming hollowness—beautiful and terrifying, like a man who had seen gods die and still smiled.
He spread his arms wide, slow and deliberate—embracing the rain, the fire of soul, the forest, the cries of men like they were old friends returning after centuries.
And the crowd roared his name like a hymn.
It was not just a rebellion.
And far beyond the clearing, where the British maps ended and silence once reigned, a darkness had begun to move.
It was the beginning
THE BIRTH OF CHAOS.