CHAPTER 6- THE DEAD MEN'S TALE

In the vast room, feeble sunbeams, penetrating through the window, gently tapped on the closed golden eyes, seemingly reluctant to open. A serene hush enveloped the eyes, a tranquil pool undisturbed. Then came the whisper of a bell, a delicate chime that shattered the stillness like morning dew on a lotus leaf. Slowly, like dawn breaking over a tranquil sea, his eyelids parted. A figure, radiant and hopeful, emerged from the mist, but the world was still too bright. With a sigh, he yielded to the darkness once more. He felt a familiar gentle touch on his disheveled hair, "Raghav," A voice, rich and deep, carried on the softest breeze, called out to him.

His eyes cracked open. Standing over him was an old man, his face a weathered map of a life well-lived. Deep lines etched his skin, a testament to countless sunrises and sunsets. Yet, atop his head, a starkly white crown of hair defied the ravages of time. A brown coat cloaked his frame, while his white formal pants, stained with the faintest traces of dust, hinted at a journey undertaken. A gentle smile curved his lips, etched with fine lines, and a small yellow tilak adorned his brow.

"Subha Prabhat (Good morning), Mr. Bhat." His voice was rough as he began to speak.

"Subha Prabhat," Mr. Bhat paused, his eyes moving to the table. There, a pool of melted wax showed where the candle had burned out. "You don't need to spend your nights engrossed in books, you can get lost in them during the day too, young man," He continued with a smile.

Raghav abruptly rose from his chair, "I'll clean it up right away." He said in a slightly hoarse voice caused by his sleep.

"First, freshen up and prepare two cups of excellent tea for us," He instructed, heading towards the reception desk. "I shall offer my prayers until then."

"Ji," With that, Raghav turned and began to walk towards the hidden staircase behind the bookshelves. He knew that someone was waiting for him upstairs. Three doors only punctuated the upper hallway. One was always locked, at least as far as Raghav knew. The second was a sanctuary of books, old and new. The last was his. Raghav gently pushed open his door, a sharp squeak cutting through the quiet.

A dim, ethereal light suffused the chamber. Its source was a mystery, for every window was a blind eye, obscured by heavy, woolen drapes drawn taut over the netted panes. Yet, a soft luminescence lingered, casting an enchanting glow. As Raghav's gaze wandered across the chamber, it was arrested by an old wooden cupboard. Behind its imposing form, a man was huddled, his head bowed in abject despair. "Does the daylight soften your rage or your ruthlessness?" Raghav inquired calmly as he stepped into the chamber.

To which the man did not answer immediately, but then, "These rays... they devour me," He hissed, his voice a cold, low growl. "Only me." As Raghav started to enter the significantly smaller adjacent chamber, his gaze lingering for a moment on the man, a solitary statue in the larger room. The cramped space offered a stark contrast, a brief respite. From there, he emerged into a smaller, brighter chamber. A wooden table, laden with stainless steel plates, delicate glasses, and earthy pots, dominated the space. Below, an earthen stove stood as a silent witness to countless meals, its surface etched with the enduring marks of past flames, like memories that refused to fade. His spine formed a taut bow as he crouched, the floor yielding beneath his calloused palms. His gaze, fixed and intense, was drawn to the minute, obsidian dance of tea leaves within the earthen pot. But that's when the silence, heavy and expectant, was ruptured by, "Why did you choose this life?" He heard both disgust and anger in this cold voice that came from behind him like every time, which brought a smile to his face. With a sigh, he rose from the ground and grabbed a large bowl from the nearby table. He hurled it into a vessel filled with boiling water that had turned a light red, causing a light white substance—milk—to curdle within.

"A brew crafted from Assam's finest leaves can elevate even the dreariest dawn. Have you ever had the privilege of visiting Assam?" As he spoke, he set down a steel glass and a ceramic cup next to the boiling tea on the floor beneath him.

"True enough, a fantastic omen for me, or perhaps more accurately, for you," These words had such a tone, as if they were soaked in sarcasm. "As far back as my memory extends, this land was known as 'Kamrupa,' a name whispered with reverence some 8784 Purnimas (Full moons) ago. I stood at the helm of your army, a bulwark against the insidious tendrils of foreign invaders seeking to defile the sacred soil of Aryavarta. When you were a once-great and renowned emperor and not some servant in a tiny chamber serving tea to other people." He ended his words with a laugh that had the feeling of shattering someone's soul. A grim panorama unfolded in Raghav's consciousness. A king's ruin, scattered amidst a grotesque harvest of death, with himself a grim reaper among the sown. The vision was an iron-clad grip upon his mind, a waking nightmare etched into the darkness behind his closed eyes.

"Are you angry with me or with my destiny, which is already decided?" Turning back, he said. His golden eyes located the man, who was still looking a little haunted, standing by the smashed doorframe between the two rooms, staring at him with only half of his face illuminated by the light.

"No one's destiny is predetermined; it is an illusion created by people that gives them the opportunity to blame someone else for their actions." There was desperation in his words.

Raghav just stood there listening to all this, the tangy aroma of tea filling his nostrils, and for the first time, there was a different emotion in his golden eyes: pain, but it was limited to the eyes only.

"When was the last time you went to the place you used to call home? As far as I remember the stories you told me, someone used to wait for you there; you used to have a family. What happened to that family? Did it end, or was it never your family?" Raghav felt every word pierce him like a sharp needle. "You are just alive in the dead men's tale, wearing the cloak of anonymity." The man walked gently into the room, but as soon as he was in the sunlight, light red wounds appeared on his face, due to which he took his steps back.

"Raghav, beta Raghav!," That's when Mr. Bhat's calls for Raghav reached that room. 

Raghav turned back to the simmering tea, maintained the tea in that pot close at hand, and slowly poured the tea into the cup and glass.

"Now this serene land is my home," He remarked, holding the glass and cup with the smoke leaking out of them delicately in his hands, "And that voice... it's family." He forced a modest smile that must have taken a long time to appear on his face after saying this and started to walk away, right past the man who was still staring at him with a hateful expression on his face.

He came to a halt before the room's door and, "If possible, save this face of yours; we have to go out at night to inspect the peace of this city, which has become unnaturally disturbed. And if possible, close the door." Saying this, he went beyond the door and disappeared.