Chapter 9:The Bottled Souls and the Other Throne

Days passed after my uncle left. The ashram didn't feel the same. Not louder, not quieter just heavier.

The chants still echoed, the fire still burned, but something underneath had changed.

One morning, I went to place the laundry outside the ashram. The door was half open unusual.

As I pushed it gently, the smell hit me first. It was not of decay, but of something closed too long: ash, oil, burnt cloth, and wet stone.

On the shelf, hidden behind old copper vessels, I saw it.

A bottle.

But not just a bottle.

Inside it floated something pale, like breath trapped in water.

The surface of the bottle fogged up, and then cleared and in that fleeting moment, I thought I saw a face.

Not clear. Not loud. But there. Watching me.

A whisper came from it. Or maybe from within me.

"Help ... help me..."

I stepped back. My hand touched another bottle.

Then another.

There were more.

"I came out in haste, and throughout the day, the things in the bottles seemed to be calling my name. But at night, as I was wrapping up the work..."

I heard Angira and Chhota talking softly outside near the Tulsi tree(holy basil).

"After the Akhara, everything will change," Angira said.

Chhota's voice was excited. "We'll build a second gaddi. Near the cremation fields. I'll be the master. People will line up with offerings."

"The fame will be enough. The politician will back it. Once this Akhara succeeds, we won't need the old ways."

They were planning a throne of their own.

That afternoon, I brought tea to Guruji's room as I always did.

He was sitting near the window, silent, his eyes not on me but on something far beyond.

I placed the cup gently before him and was about to leave, when he spoke.

"Vivek," he said without looking. "Do you know why the First and the Eighth Dwar(gate) are rarely opened?"

I turned and stood still. He didn't wait for an answer.

"Because they are not just doors they are life and death themselves.

The First Dwar(gate) is where the soul begins its journey. The Eighth... is where it finally lets go."

I listened quietly. He was not teaching. He was simply speaking.

"No common kriya can open them efficiently. And most who try, fail. Some doors can only be opened through Guru Kripa.

Others require the weight of the Gaddi. Without these, you may find the gate but not the key."

I stayed quiet, trying to take in his words.

He didn't say anything more. Just gave me a small nod a gesture toward the book lying near his mat.

I bowed my head.

Then I sat and opened the book.

The pages flickered, but only briefly. It stopped showing anything after a few lines I couldn't understand. As if it had spoken enough for today.

When I looked up again, Ustaad had already returned to meditation.

Still, still as stone.

As if nothing had ever been said at all.

In the following days, I found myself working from morning till night with the other disciples.

The field where the Akhara was to be held was huge nearly two kilometers away from the ashram, surrounded by old trees and uneven land.

We were cleaning, leveling, building small platforms and seating areas. It looked like a field, but it was turning into something sacred... or dangerous.

The energy was building every day.

Invitations were being written and packed.

The politician had taken a personal interest he was listed as the chief guest. He often came to inspect the field, walking in with sunglasses, a proud look, and several men behind him.

Angira, ever loyal, would rush to greet him, offering water, papers, and answers with a bending spine and a fake smile.

Chhota Ustaad wasn't seen on the ground much. He was mostly with Lila now walking her around the preparations like he was showing her a kingdom he built.

He told her every detail: how many lamps, how many spirits, how many bottles. His confidence was growing, and so was the way he looked at her more like a partner than a visitor.

Angira, meanwhile, had taken charge of the management.

He handled the workers, supervised the rituals, yelled at us when something wasn't clean, and smiled politely whenever the politician or his assistants were nearby.

The ground was being prepared not just for a spiritual event…

but for something that would change everything.