Chapter 10:When Spirits Took the Stage

The day of the Akhara began early. The entire field had been transformed large tents, decorated stages, ritual mandals, and rows of chairs for the crowd.

Everyone was dressed in their finest robes. Disciples, workers, and guests moved through the space with focused excitement.

I had never seen the ashram's people so alive.

The politician arrived greeted with folded hands .

He was the chief guest, and the first to perform a short yagna (prayer) under Chhota Ustaad's guidance.

Then, with a ceremonial blade, he cut the red ribbon at the edge of the main stage. The Akhara had officially begun.

Snake charmers performed first their music twisting through the air like the snakes they held.

Then came magicians, street illusionists, and finally, a renowned Ustaad from another city who performed a strange, hypnotic dance that blended with tantric movements. It was mesmerizing.

The field swelled with people. Almost the whole city had gathered.

I was stationed near the main platform with other disciples to assist performers and manage the flow.

Lila stood nearby, dressed simply but beautifully. Her eyes searched the crowd often, but her attention always came back to Chhota.

In the sea of people, I saw someone familiar my uncle.

He stood with the family of the jeweler he now worked for.

I ran to him and he opened his arms with a wide smile.

He hugged me tightly and placed his hand on my head in blessing.

We didn't talk long. He returned to his new duties with the nawab's group, and I rejoined the disciple team.

Chhota and Angira were everywhere managing performers, guiding the politician, answering questions with fake humility and real ambition.

Angira whispered that this event would restore the ashram's name for years to come.

But then, something caught my eye.

A book.

In Chhota Ustaad's hands.

It looked like the book I read in Guruji's chamber but wrong.

Twisted.

Its sacred symbol was printed in reverse. On the back cover, a pattern of black snakes curled inwards toward a dark center.

Angira held it at one point with great care.

They guarded it like it was something holy. But it wasn't. It felt the opposite.Perhaps a path of dark tantra.

The performances went on. People clapped. Bells rang.

And then came the final act Chhota Ustaad's performance.

As he walked onto the stage, people shouted his name.

He smiled with confidence, then turned to Lila, walking close to her… and I saw it.

His hand brushed hers. A gentle, secret touch. Hidden from the crowd. Seen only by the few who looked too closely.

Lila didn't react. But she didn't pull away either.

And the ritual began.

Chhota Ustaad stepped forward onto the main platform, carrying a large cloth bag across his shoulder.

From it, he began taking out small items powders, threads, copper vessels, and most importantly, a bottle sealed with black wax.

With a loud chant, he opened the bottle.

A sharp circular wind burst from it a mini tornado of dust and sound.

The crowd gasped and clapped, thinking it was part of the spectacle. Colored smoke rose, spiraling upward.

Chhota began chanting stronger mantras, tossing sacred ash into the wind.

The ash caught the wind and burst into colors red, gold, blue painting the sky like a living rainbow.

The audience was mesmerized.

But then something changed.

The spirit inside the bottle now free began pulling in energy wildly.

It moved faster than Chhota expected. His hands trembled.

The circle of disciples looked confused. For a moment, it was out of control.

Chhota struggled, but finally stabilized the spirit with more ash and mantras.

The crowd cheered. It looked like a miracle.

But it wasn't over.

From nowhere, another spirit burst into the arena. Chhota was now battling two at once balancing mudras, throwing herbs, shouting ancient words.

Still, the crowd believed it was all a magical play.

Suddenly, a figure entered the arena it looked like Lila.

But I knew better.

Her face was twisted just slightly, her walk uneven, her eyes shining strangely.

I had learned enough by now this was not Lila. This was a churel. A spirit in disguise.

She walked to Chhota… and began hitting him.

At first, he didn't resist.

Her face Lila's face made him hesitate. He looked hurt, not just in body but in heart. He didn't see the churel.

He saw the woman he loved.

Then, out of the panic, the real Lila appeared.

She shouted, "Chhota, that's not me!"

The fake Lila turned, screamed, and with the other spirit, threw the real Lila into the air.

She fell hard.

Chhota dropped everything and ran to her, crying.

Something snapped in him.

His broken wrist hanging, he raised his other hand, shouting the loudest kriya I had ever heard.

One ghost turned and fled, but the churel still in Lila's form stayed.

She attacked Chhota with rage.

Now the audience was no longer cheering. They were screaming.

Running.

Ducking under tents.

Some disciples fought back, some ran.

Angira ran to protect the politician and his guards. The tents were collapsing.

Chhota tried to lift Lila still half-conscious but the churel was beating him down. It was chaos.

I turned and ran with another disciple as fast as we could, down the road back to the ashram.

Through dust and screams, one thought filled me:Only Bade Ustaad could stop this.

We reached the ashram, breathless, and told Bade Ustaad everything.

He didn't speak.

He simply stood.

And walked with us into the fire.