The rain outside had softened to a distant murmur, like a tired beast finally settling on its haunches. Inside the cave-temple, the air smelled of wet stone, moss, and burnt incense. The flames of the butter-lamp shivered, reflecting in the river-stains on the wall like trembling gold veins.
Her voice became calm but frayed at the edges.
"In the middle of the flood, we ate whatever could be torn from the water," she said softly. "Leaves swept down from the mountain, half-rotted roots, even the bitter skins of fruits. When the water finally shrank back, it left behind a river. Not wide but enough to cut the land in two."
She lifted her fingers, remembering. "People came again. First tents. Then huts. Then the town. Some bowed to us, begging forgiveness. Some pretended nothing had ever happened. Human hearts…" she exhaled, "…they swing faster than prayer beads."
She paused. The boy watched her, waiting.
"In time," she continued, "the strangest thing happened. In the heart of that new-born river, something rose as time passed. A tiny island. Our people said the land was giving birth. That it wanted a new beginning." She smiled faintly. "We built a tall, white pagoda there. Then again created two stone gates at the both bank."
Her eyes dimmed for a moment, then cleared. "Ah… I got carried away. Let me return to the middle."
She shifted her legs slightly, beads rustling in her hand. She looked younger when she smiled.
"The priest who was father to me, taught me everything," she said. "How to chant without letting greed enter the breath. How to speak so my words would not cut. Even how to eat, slowly, humbly, gratefully. He was like a father to me after I grew aware of the world."
Her brows tightened. "We all lived under one roof, all of us. Laughed, teased, sometimes fought over silly things… but most days were peaceful. Some days Buddha blessed us, we found plenty of food. But some days were cruel. Nothing in the forest, nothing in the fields, nothing from the village except insults. I remember once, in hunger and heat, I cursed Buddha…"
She stopped, cheeks warming in shame.
"But he scolded me gently. 'Never blame Buddha for our misfortune,' he said. 'We are the bearers of our own knots. See how one forgotten meal twisted your heart, though you ate well for months. Misfortune is a reminder. Control your mind, child. Ask forgiveness from within.'"
She touched the beads, pressing them between her palms.
"After that, I never cursed again. Even when storms broke our roofs. Even when the river swallowed farms. People began visiting our temple then. Maybe karma softened. Or maybe their eyes finally opened."
She looked at the idol. Time glittered in her eyes like wet dust.
"Storms came, floods came, blessings came. Seasons circled. He grew older. I grew into a woman—beautiful, they said. Suitors came to the mountain, offering everything. But I had already chosen the path of Buddha. I refused. No one forced me."
Her voice drifted like a thread pulled thin.
She stopped suddenly, staring at the idol again. Her fingers moved in prayer without thinking, like muscle memory etched into her soul, water dripped like a ticking clock.
She abruptly asked, "Why are you so quiet? Is my story dull?" The boy blinked. "Didn't you say earlier not to disturb you?" She laughed, a soft, tired laugh that made the cave feel warmer. "So you're using my own words against me now?" He shrugged. "Then why stop? I'm listening. Tell me."
"Fine, fine." She shook her head. "Talking with you gives me a headache. Truly."
"Then endure it," he grinned. "I'm curious."
She sighed as if defeated. "Alright. Let me tell you something before I forget."
Her eyes lifted toward the shadows at the far end of the cave. "That island… the one in the river. You haven't seen it yet. But if someday you wander into those lands, ask anyone about 'Pingala.' That's the name they gave me." She smiled, but there was sorrow behind it. "If they remember at all."
The boy tilted his head. "Pingala…? That's your name?"
She nodded. Her face softened.
"It was once," she whispered. "Long before I became… this."
Her voice faltered. Her gaze locked onto the stone face on the calm, silent, unmoving Buddha idol, while her own eyes shone with tears that refused to fall.
"The island…" she whispered, "that island is not from this world. And neither were we."
The boy blinked. "Not from this world?" She nodded slowly, as if each movement weighed mountains. "We came from somewhere else—somewhere I cannot remember. Perhaps I've forgotten. Perhaps forgetting is a mercy. One day, long ago, the earth beneath our village cracked open with a roar so loud it drowned the mountains. Half the land rose like a slab pushed by a giant hand. We ran, thinking the world was ending." Her breath trembled. "We fled to nearby lands to beg… only to be caught in a storm that fell from the sky like a punishment."
She closed her eyes. "And then… we landed here. A land untouched, hostile to humans at first. The soil refused crops, the river carried bitter water, the forest had beasts with eyes that gleamed like curses. But humans…" she exhaled a humourless laugh, "…humans bend nature until it breaks. We survived. We rose again."
The boy listened silently, letting her memories unfold on their own.
"We built our little village once more. Huts, farms, small boats. Then one day soldiers arrived. That's when we learned we stood under a king's rule." She wiped at her cheek though no tear had fallen. "We didn't mind. If he had forced us to leave, we would have simply wandered somewhere else. But instead… we were allowed to stay. We received food, tools, seeds. People from nearby villages came to trade. Some helped us plow. Some taught us how to smoke fish. Slowly, our lives warmed again."
She smiled faintly at the memory. "My father… he said he could no longer bear to watch villagers toil and then give portions of their hard-earned food to beggars like us. He laid down his bowl, stepped out of the pagoda, and began working. He plowed, fished, planted, shoulder to shoulder with everyone. He laughed when people mocked him. 'Domestic life is bitter,' he said, 'but bitterness is also a teacher.' And everyone laughed with him."
Her smile faded. "Years passed. Then cultivators began visiting our valley. They said our land was blessed, rich in spiritual essence, surrounded by waterfalls and pink-flowered gardens that bloomed even in winter. Some villagers were chosen to join them. But most refused, saying if too many left, who would protect the village? Still… a few went."
She looked down at her palms, flexing her fingers as though holding ghosts. "Life rose. Life fell. Seasons spun. About five years passed… then news arrived: the kingdom had fallen. The capital burned. Armies scattered. The king's banners torn down."
The boy straightened, listening intently.
"We panicked," She whispered. "We prepared boats. Food. We were ready to sail away before war reached us."
Her breath hitched.
"But…"
She paused, swallowing something bitter.
"But time was cruel. Just like before. Just like always."
"They came," she said quietly. "I don't know who they were. Or maybe I've forgotten their true faces. All I remember are the masks, red demon masks like the ones worn during the harvest festival in the neighbouring town. But theirs… theirs looked alive."
She shivered.
"That night… the sky was dark. No moon. No stars. Only torches. They fell upon the village like wolves that had tasted blood before even landing their claws."
The boy's jaw tightened. Stones beneath them felt colder.
"They destroyed everything," She whispered, voice barely audible. "Homes broke like dried leaves. Boats shattered. Fires spread. Screams filled the air so thickly it felt like breathing smoke."
Her hands trembled in her lap.
"My father… he tried to protect me. He stood before me with nothing but a wooden staff. They cut him down like he was nothing. One moment he was calling my name, the next—"
Her voice cracked.
"I watched my brothers fall. My friends. People who had laughed with me, shared harvests with me, prayed with me. All gone."
She drew in a ragged breath.
"At the end… I ran. I ran until my throat felt torn. I ran until I couldn't feel my legs. But they caught me."
The cave grew impossibly still.
"They tied me. Dragged me. Laughing through those demon masks. They—" Her voice shook violently. "They took everything from me. My dignity… my breath… the last pieces of my hope. I survived, but I wished I hadn't. They left me alive so I could understand suffering. A mortal kind of suffering. A suffering that no prayer could soothe."
Silence swallowed the cave whole. Her eyes, shining with grief older than centuries, lifted gently toward the idol again. "That night," she whispered, "I learned that mercy… sometimes gives birth to monsters."
She said no more. Only the slow drip of water in the cave answered, marking time like a heartbeat that refused to stop.
The boy waited for her trembling breath to settle. The cave air had grown colder. He finally asked, softly, "Those people… were they demons? Or humans wearing the faces of demons?"
She didn't answer at first. Her tears shimmered in the torchlight, making her look like a statue cracking under time's pressure. The boy regretted speaking and quickly murmured, "Ah… sorry. I didn't mean to disturb you. Please… continue only if you want."
But she whispered before his apology even finished. "Even a demon knows when to kill and when not to," she said hollowly. "But those men… they were demons clothed in human skin. Demons made by their own greed, their own delight in breaking lives."
Her tears finally escaped. The boy, flustered, reached out and gently wiped them with the back of his sleeve. Then, clumsily but earnestly, he pressed his hand over her mouth to stop her from speaking through pain.
"I don't know the measure of what you felt," he said, voice small but steady. "I can't understand it. But… don't cry. Even if you cry, the past won't change. It already hurt you once. Don't let it hurt you again."
His words were childish, unpolished, but honest. That honesty made her smile unexpectedly through her tears.
"Don't worry," she whispered, removing his hand gently. "It happened long, long ago. I may not remember every face, but the hurt… that stays. Buddha said one must release the past. But attachments… they haunt even after death."
She glanced at him, eyes reflecting the golden lamplight. "Didn't you say death is beautiful? Then tell me—" her voice trembled, "—where did you find beauty in mine?"
The boy opened his mouth. Closed it. The silence stretched thick and heavy between them.
She let out a soft laugh that sounded more like a sob. "You see? Not every death is beautiful."
Her voice darkened, each word falling like ash.
"They killed even a newborn child. Just two days old. A mother who had barely escaped death in childbirth…" Her's hands curled tightly. "They hurt her in ways no human should be touched. They made her watch her child die before her eyes."
"You said birth is beauty," she whispered. "Then tell me—where was the beauty that night?"
The boy lowered his gaze. He had no answer.
She inhaled shakily. "But I've learned this much, beauty is not in the moment of death or birth. It lies in the warmth near you when you are about to die. When someone holds your hand so you don't leave the world alone."
She closed her eyes. "When I was on the brink of death… no food, no water, abandoned among corpses… a monk appeared."
Her expression softened. "He wasn't like us. He shone. Truly shone. A radiance, faint but real, like morning sun trapped inside his skin. When he heard what happened to the devotees of Buddha… he grieved. The very air shivered with his sorrow. Even the trees bowed from his anger."
Her fingers traced the beads of her mala subconsciously.
"He said he was a disciple of the Great Buddha himself. A traveller from the same lineage. He lifted me from my agony. Cleaned my wounds. Fed me. Taught me how to breathe without drowning in hatred."
She smiled faintly. "He gave me strength. Real strength. The strength to stand again, to move again, to live again. He taught me cultivation, taught me chants, taught me how to see the world without letting past pain blind me."
She folded her hands on her knees. "With him, I became whole again. I became a cultivator. A monk. A guardian of the dead. He stood beside me when I buried my father and my brothers. He lit the incense with trembling hands… and we wept together."
Her breath fluttered. "Then one day, he said, 'I must journey south. If fate allows, I will return and take you with me to a new land.'"
Her throat tightened at the memory.
"Before leaving, he placed a small wooden root in my hand. 'If danger ever comes,' he said, 'destroy this. Heaven will hear you.' He also told me that five months later, a cave would reveal itself near the riverbank. 'Hide there if needed,' he warned."
She looked around the cavern they now sat within.
"And this cave… this is the one he meant."
The boy's eyes widened slightly. He touched the cold stone beside him with new respect.
Her's voice grew softer, almost embarrassed. "I don't know when it happened… but somewhere in those days, living under one roof with him… something grew in my heart."
Her cheeks warmed faintly, even through the sadness.
"A feeling I had never known before. Not even when surrounded by my father or brothers. Something… frightening and gentle at once."
The boy blinked, confused. "Feeling? What feeling?"
She smiled weakly. "The kind of feeling that makes you pray someone will never go too far. The kind that makes waiting feel like a slow death."
She lowered her gaze.
"When he walked away, I felt like a bird with clipped wings, stranded on a road with no direction. I pleaded to go with him. I begged him not to leave me behind."
Her knuckles whitened.
"But fate," she whispered, "was cruel. Crueller than any demon. He walked away, and I stayed back… clutching that wooden root like it was my last breath."
She exhaled, her voice filled with a quiet, defeated ache.
"I waited. Days, weeks, months. I waited like a bird waiting for a sky that never opened again."
The cave grew deathly still, holding her sorrow as if it too felt her loss.
Her eyes softened as though watching a distant dawn only she could see.
"I waited underneath a neem tree. Every morning, every evening… I sat there. Sometimes chanting, sometimes crying, sometimes simply breathing. The world kept turning, but I kept waiting."
The boy said nothing. The cave held its breath with him.
"One dawn," she continued, "while sitting beneath that neem tree, I met a sage. An old man with skin wrinkled like dried bark and eyes sharper than fresh-cut steel. He approached without a sound and simply said, 'Your hands are restless. Let them work.'"
She let out a faint laugh. "Like that, he taught me how to carve wooden dolls. How to give shape to my loneliness. Every doll I carved… felt like a piece of myself. A gift from him."
She paused, gaze drifting into the darkness as though retracing old steps.
"Eventually, he left too. He said, 'My life still carries unfinished burdens. Forgive me… but I cannot stay.' And then he walked away." Her smile dimmed. "Strangely, I did not feel the pain I felt when my master left. Perhaps because I had learned what separation means. Or perhaps… because my heart had already broken once."
The boy swallowed.
"After he left," she went on, "I remembered my master's words. He told me to find a hidden place, a shelter where heaven's will might reach me one day. That is how I found this cave. I began to come here often—sometimes for prayer, sometimes to hide from the memories, sometimes simply because sitting still was all I could do."
She exhaled, voice lowering to a tremor. "And then… I waited again. Years slipped by like grains of sand in a broken hourglass. I waited so long I forgot how many seasons had passed. My hair grew long, my dolls piled like a small forest around me. I kept thinking, 'He will come back. He promised.' But promises… sometimes sink deeper than bodies."
Her tone darkened.
"One day, a monk appeared out of nowhere. At first, I thought that he was my master. Their robes were similar, their posture alike. But when he lifted his head… his eyes were different. Empty, sharp, observing everything without warmth."
She hugged her knees slightly. "He wandered around the graveyard for many days, silent, unblinking. He watched the graves as if listening to the dead breathe. I avoided him. I didn't want to grow another attachment. One day he saw me sitting beneath the neem tree. Without a word, he knelt and began digging."
The boy frowned. "Digging? Why?"
"I thought he wanted to bury something or, someone. So I told him, 'If you want to do that, go to another place. Do not disturb this spot.'"
Her lips curved faintly. "He didn't argue. He simply pressed his hands together in a mudra, whispered a prayer I could not understand, and left. I was relieved. And… guilty. I didn't want to talk to him. I didn't want anyone near me. I was tired of feeling."
The cave's incense smoke swirled softly around her as she continued.
"A month passed. I stopped seeing him. I assumed he moved on."
Her shoulders trembled slightly.
"But one evening, when I walked near the crematorium to clear my mind… I felt a presence. Heavy. Cold. Watching. And when I looked—there he was."
Her voice dropped to a whisper.
"He had not left. He was sitting in a dark corner, his entire body smeared in white ash, as if he had become one of the dead."
She shivered.
"That day," she said slowly, "another storm began to brew around me… and I didn't even notice it."
She stopped speaking and bowed her head before the Buddha idol, whispering a small prayer. Her voice echoed softly, weaving with the cave's silence.
Then, mid-prayer, she said quietly, "The man you met… the one on the cliff? Yes. That was him. Was not it? Don't worry, he… was a master to me as well."
To be continued...