Chapter 6 — The Temptation of Riddhi-Siddhi

The symbol on the stone had remained in Prosenjit’s mind long after the others had returned to the Gurukul.

It was a simple symbol, yet it had created a question far greater than its size. Two curved lines crossed one another around a small circle, surrounded by marks that looked almost like letters but belonged to no language Prosenjit knew.

He had seen it before.

Not clearly, not for long, but enough to remember.

It had appeared near the place where the sacred seed had been stolen.

Now it seemed to be calling him somewhere.

For several days Prosenjit tried to ignore it. He continued his duties at the Gurukul. He attended lessons, performed Naam-Smaran, helped younger students, collected firewood, carried water and cared for the garden. But whenever his mind became quiet, the symbol returned.

At night, he would lie beneath the wooden roof of the student quarters and stare into the darkness.

Who had made that symbol?

Why had it appeared near the seed?

Who had taken the seed?

And most importantly, what did it mean?

One morning, before sunrise, Prosenjit finally made a decision.

He would follow the symbol.

He did not tell the others.

The mountains were still covered in darkness when he left the Gurukul. A thin mist floated above the forest floor. The air was cold, and the distant peaks looked like sleeping giants beneath the fading stars.

He carried only a small cloth bag, some food, a water container and a walking stick.

He followed the path he had noticed earlier, moving deeper into the Himalayan forest.

The trail became narrower.

Trees stood close together, their branches forming a natural roof above him. The sound of the Gurukul slowly disappeared behind him. There were no voices, no bells, no footsteps of other students.

Only the forest remained.

After nearly two hours, Prosenjit reached a rocky slope.

There, carved into a large stone, was the same symbol.

He stopped.

His heart began beating faster.

He looked around.

Nothing moved.

The path continued upward.

Prosenjit climbed.

After another hour, he saw the remains of an old stone structure between the trees.

It was a shrine.

Or perhaps it had once been one.

Its roof had partly collapsed. Moss covered the walls. Wild plants grew through cracks in the stone. A broken bell hung from a wooden beam near the entrance, moving slightly in the mountain wind.

Prosenjit approached slowly.

There was something strangely peaceful about the place.

He stepped inside.

A small stone platform stood in the centre. Behind it was an old carving of a seated figure, almost completely covered by dust and moss.

Then Prosenjit heard a voice.

“You came looking for the seed.”

He turned immediately.

An elderly man was sitting near the far wall.

His clothes were simple. His hair was long and grey, and his face was calm. His eyes were clear and unusually still.

Prosenjit had seen him once before from a distance.

It was Lama.

The solitary seeker who sometimes travelled through the Himalayan forests.

“You know about the seed?” Prosenjit asked.

Lama looked at him.

“I know about the stories people have told about it.”

“Where is it?”

Lama smiled faintly.

“That is not the first question you should ask.”

“Then what should I ask?”

“Why are you searching for it?”

Prosenjit hesitated.

“I want to understand what happened.”

“That is one reason.”

“What is the other?”

Lama looked toward the broken doorway.

“You want to know whether the seed can give you something.”

Prosenjit said nothing.

The silence itself became an answer.

Lama slowly stood.

“Come.”

He walked toward the back of the shrine and pushed aside a thick curtain of vines.

Behind it was a narrow stone passage.

Prosenjit followed.

The passage led into a small chamber beneath the shrine.