The Sun was unforgiving, as unforgiving as she has been since the dawn of time. It was nothing new for Nalanda; a few deaths would be reported, another dozen or few would die of starvation; the merchants in their small guilds would discuss it and curse the inaction of the City Council; the Shudras would curse themselves for not their less devotion in the previous life to Indra and pray for his forgiveness. The slaves will only pray for death in this heat, thought Arid. Our traveller friend has dispised Aryavarth if not the entire Jambudvipa. He was born in Mahatal, a land long ravaged by ethnic tensions and wars. Nalanda felt like an oasis to our traveller. His foreign descent was visible from his blonde hair, the few glances he had received from the cloth merchants, and the usual sneer of his Yunani descent. He ignored all that, he wanted to start fresh, a fresh leaf; in Yunan he had the independence to practice trade, but here in Jambudvipa, his Jati was a Yunani-Shudra; being a merchant was out of question and anyhow he was note here for this. He wanted to travel to Tripura, where he could live as a Yunani outside the Varna system. But to begin with, he needed skills, at least two years of residence in Jambudvipa, and money. He had been roaming the city outskirts for a long time after the guards had thrown him out of the Bazaar when two merchants called him a thief and another accused him of flirting with his daughter, of which he was guilty only one. He needed a place and some food, and the little money he had on him would not get him any he knew. However, the Gods were generous today to him. He found a small shack of a home with room and food. An old cobbler had agreed to give me head above his roof for the week with food. When he reached the place, it was barely a roof and, as he guessed, too many heads. The old man had a boy, who was nothing but a pile of bones wrapped up in a sack by the looks of it. Before he could speak to the boy, the old man stopped me and said, "Yavan, you don't talk or complain; stick to the right corner, and I will call you for dinner". Arid was in too much of distress from the journey to contest. He first sat down in the corner and dosed off to sleep.
After a few hours had passed he woke up, the Sun had settled, the night was starting to fold. The locals had told him of an old lake, where he went to take a short dip, thanked the God of the lake for the water and came back. The food was simmering and brewing in the pot, and he was saying down in his corner. The child was still the same, covered with dirt bruises and marks, some fresh some old. He ate the porridge served by the old man, and slept in that corner.
The next day he woke up a bit late. He went outside for a bit, enquired about the old man and the child. The truth mixed with the rumors gave him a fare idea of the situation. The old cobbler travelled with the boy for his work; 'teaching' him the trade with a heavy hand every now and then; the children in the area were also not very kind to the boy. When the cobbler earned big he used to buy the local Soma and beat the boy black and blue. Arid was not shocked by all of this. Abuse was something very common nowadays; still he felt sad for the boy. This night he woke up observing how little food the old man have to the boy. He waited till the old man had fallen asleep and came close to the boy and put a candy in his hands. The boy looked towards him for the first time, tears in his eyes; he gobbled the candy in a second without a second thought. Arid felt sad, he was filled with remorse. He put his hand on his head and prayed to his God and whispered in his ears, "May Yeshu save you child". The remorse turned into grief, the grief turned into sorrow and the sorrow turned into anger and the anger turned into rath. A pull off emotions, and then breath and then life itself; Arid could not understand what happened. It was as if everything was being pushed out of him, first his emotions, then the air around him, then his skin, his organs, his blood; and finally his consciousness, everything was taken from him with that one touch. His last thoughts were, "But I showed mercy like you Yeshu".
The old man had woken up by now, the child was again out of control. Another life had been lost, and this time a human one. He had warned this man and still he talked. He knew he couldn't curse anyone, he took out an urn and sprinkled some ash while chanting a spell. The darkness inside the room feel into oblivion, but Arid was gone, not even an aiota of him was left. The child had grown too powerful and the methods left to control him were failing. His master had told him not to trust anyone and now it felt like he was out of options. The child had killed a few beasts every now and then, people kept his distance from the dirty pile of bones, and the traveller looked like the same kind.
Before the old man could think about another thought, he heard a bang on his door, and with it everything fell around him like a hurricane entering his house. Five men surrounded the house, a tall man in the middle with his sword drawn and tilak on his forehead, as red as the rage the alcohol had filled him. He demanded to know about the foreigner who dared to look on the women of the town. The old man fell to his feet and begged him, "Thakur Sahab the man ran away.... I don't take men like him..I apologise on his behalf.. nobody is here". The man kicked him and drew his sword straight inside the old man's chest. "This can not happen, I can't leave the boy like this...I need to..". The men dispursed cursing the Yavan, leaving a bleeding old man. With whatever strength he had, the old man dragged his dying corpse of a body towards the boy. The boy was lying there unconscious, a candy clutched in his hand. The old man kicked the boy near Arid's bag, where the urn was and started to draw a symbol with his blood and chanted a spell. With his last breath he only prayed, have mercy on the boy.