There’s perhaps nothing purer in this world than the innocence of children. Their unfiltered honesty, their radiant curiosity—it can peel back the darkest corners of our soul, illuminating truths we’d never dare admit to our own shadows.
It was a lazy Sunday afternoon. I was sitting on a park bench, quietly observing the world. The trees swayed gently in the wind, a few joggers passed by, and birds chirped in the background. I was lost in thought until a soft crunching sound drew my attention.
Next to me sat a little girl—no more than four or five years old—cheerfully munching on a packet of chips. Her wide eyes sparkled with curiosity, and she was the kind of child who saw no strangers, only potential companions in every passerby.
She looked at me suddenly and asked in a bright, innocent voice, “Uncle, have you ever broken a rule?”
The question caught me off guard. Before I could answer, she continued, “I once took ten rupees from Mommy’s purse. I wanted candy, but she said no. I’m sorry now, but I didn’t tell her.”
She laughed, a pure, unburdened laugh that pierced something within me. Her confession was simple, yet brave. A child admitting her wrongdoing without fear, only honesty.
I smiled gently and replied, “Promise me you won’t tell anyone, and I’ll tell you the rule I broke.”
She nodded excitedly.
“My name is Sanjeet,” I said.
But that wasn’t always my name.
Chapter 1: Before the Flesh
Five thousand years ago, I wasn’t human. I was something else entirely—something feared, misunderstood, and bound by duty. I was a Yamdoot, a messenger of death, one of the countless servants of Yama, the Lord of the Underworld.
Not just any Yamdoot—I was Karta, a commander of ten thousand Yamdoots. My duty was to ensure that souls were collected when their time in the mortal world was done. It was a sacred task. We did not judge—we only delivered. But there was one rule etched deeper than all others into the very soul of the underworld:
“The Yampāsh shall never be used by anyone but Yama.”
The Yampāsh—the noose of death—was a divine weapon that bound a soul’s karma and carried it to its judgment. It held unimaginable power. Even the mightiest of Yamdoots dared not touch it.
Until one day… I did.
Chapter 2: The Summoning
I was summoned directly by Yama. That in itself was rare. Usually, orders were filtered through my sub-commanders. But this time, the task had to be done by me, personally.
A soul had gone missing. Not lost—but stolen. And not just any soul—a child.
“A child?” I asked, stunned.
Yama’s face, carved from ancient darkness and celestial fire, did not flicker.
“Her soul has been taken to Pātāl Lok,” he said. “You must retrieve her.”
“I will send my best—”
“No. You will go.”
I didn’t argue. If Yama himself was concerned, this was no ordinary matter.
Chapter 3: The Descent
Pātāl Lok was not Hell, as many believe—it was far older, a forgotten plane beneath the mortal realm, inhabited by creatures of ambition and hunger.
When I arrived, I sensed something was wrong. The usual decay and sorrow were replaced by… ritual. The air pulsed with energy, and at its center was an ancient well, carved in forgotten runes.
There, atop a jagged altar, lay the child. She was barely breathing. Kneeling before her was a woman—old, cloaked, and whispering incantations in a language older than creation.
“Step away from the child!” I thundered.
The woman turned her head slowly, her eyes glowing violet. “Too late, Yamdoot. This child holds a fragment of Mahāshakti. Her sacrifice will make me immortal.”
“You have no right—”
She laughed, but before she could continue, another presence entered the chamber.
A second woman—younger, but with eyes that burned like galaxies—emerged from the shadows.
“She is my granddaughter,” the woman declared. “You dare harm her?”
Even I, the Karta of Death, felt something primal rise within me. Her name was Samriddhi, and despite her appearance, she was far from mortal.
With a wave of her hand, shadows screamed. The ritual altar cracked. The Pātāl itself trembled.
“You dare touch our blood?” she said, her voice layered with otherworldly echoes. “We are not just descendants of sages—we are the keepers of the eternal flame.”
The dark priestess tried to fight her, but Samriddhi’s wrath was divine. The altar was destroyed, and the child fell into her grandmother’s arms.
But it wasn’t over.
Chapter 4: The Standstill
Ten thousand Yamdoots descended into Pātāl, surrounding the place. Samriddhi stood between us and the child, her aura a burning shield.
“We must take the soul,” I said, stepping forward.
“You shall not pass,” she replied calmly.
Behind her stood a figure—tall, silent, and draped in blue armor made of souls. He carried a curved blade and bore the mark of Yama on his palm.
I recognized him immediately.
“Aniruddh…”
He was once one of us—a Yamdoot who had chosen mortal birth to atone for his karma. But he was now something else—something more.
“She is our granddaughter,” he said quietly. “And she must live.”
Chapter 5: The Forbidden Weapon
Our powers could not break through their divine bond. Every attempt was repelled. Even my best warriors were reduced to ash.
In desperation—and in rage—I broke the one unbreakable rule.
I summoned the Yampāsh.
Forged from the tears of Shiva and the breath of death itself, the Yampāsh was the soul-chain, the judgment cord.
I hurled it toward the child.
Time froze.
The cord wrapped around Samriddhi instead.
She smiled.
And then she whispered, “Jug-jug jiyo, meri bacchi…”
May you live through all ages, my child.
With that, she offered her soul in exchange.
The Yampāsh respected the sacrifice. It did not claim her by force. It wrapped around her gently, and carried her to her Lok—the realm of the blessed.
Aniruddh, her husband, walked into the shadows with her, his blade laid down forever.
The child survived. Her soul healed. And I… I was cast down.
Chapter 6: Punishment
For using the forbidden weapon, I was stripped of my Yamdoot form.
Yama said, “You chose emotion over duty. You broke the one rule no Yamdoot can. You will now suffer as mortals do—birth, pain, death—and remember everything.”
I was reborn as Sanjeet.
In this life, I remember all my past. Every scream. Every soul. Every mistake. And this is my final life. After this, my essence will dissolve into the ether.
Chapter 7: The Child
Back in the park, the little girl listened with wide eyes.
“You’re funny,” she said. “That’s a good story. But you're fibbing, right?”
I smiled sadly. “Maybe.”
She scrunched her face. “So what happened to your army?”
I turned my gaze to the horizon.
“They're still waiting,” I whispered. “Like statues. Bound in time. When my cycle ends, they will rise again. And we will walk the shadow-paths together.”
Just then, the air shimmered.
Behind the girl, trees bent unnaturally. Shadows darkened. And for a moment, just a blink—ten thousand Yamdoots stood in formation, stone-like, waiting.
The girl turned, then blinked again. Gone.
She looked back at me. “If you’re not lying… you were really brave.”
I smiled, fighting back tears.
“No,” I said. “I was afraid. But she… Samriddhi… she was brave.”
The girl reached into her chip packet and handed me the last one.
“Here. You can have it. Because you were sad.”
I took it, my hands trembling.
And she asked once more, “When you become Yamdoot again, will you take me?”
I knelt to her level. “Not until you’ve lived fully, made your own stories, and broken your own sacred rule.”
She giggled and ran off to her mother.
Epilogue: The Final Dawn
That night, as the stars whispered their silent hymns, I found myself walking through a forest that wasn’t quite real—more memory than matter.
And there he stood.
Aniruddh.
His back was straight, his eyes steady—just as I remembered from those forgotten ages. The one who taught me how to collect souls without judgment, how to hold the balance between fear and fate.
“Still walking the path of questions, Sanjeet?” he asked, a trace of warmth behind his grave tone.
I bowed. “Guru. I have come to seek punishment.”
He looked at me. “For what crime?”
“I broke the sacred rule. I used the Yampāsh. I disobeyed Dharma. I let mercy outweigh the ledger.”
A long silence.
Then he spoke, not as a Yamdoot, but as a father, a seer, a soul who had walked farther than I ever had.
“Tell me, Sanjeet, what is duty without discernment?
What is law without love?
The rule you broke—was it for pride, or was it to preserve something greater?”
I looked down. “It was to save the child. But the rule was not mine to bend.”
He nodded slowly. “And yet, it bent—not to your will, but to your intention.”
I clenched my fists. “But I changed the order. I disrupted the cycle.”
He stepped forward.
“There comes a moment in every eternal being’s journey,
where duty must confront doubt.
Where we ask: do we follow the path, or question where it leads?
You did not abandon Dharma—you transcended it, Sanjeet.
For the first time, you saw with the eyes of a soul, not a collector of souls.”
My eyes stung.
“I didn’t know I was capable of mercy.”
“You were always capable. But pain sharpens obedience. Love unearths truth.”
He placed his hand on my shoulder.
“What you broke was not the rule.
What you broke was the silence the rule had created for millennia.
You gave voice to mercy. And in that, you fulfilled your highest duty.”
A soft wind passed, carrying with it the scent of old worlds and closed chapters.
Then he looked away, toward the horizon, where light bled through darkness like forgiveness through sin.
“Your cycle ends soon,” he said.
I nodded. “I’m not afraid. But… will you be there?”
He smiled, the first I’d seen in lifetimes.
“Just as I guided you once through the shadows of death,
I will return to carry you across your own.
A guru must never forget the path he led his disciple on.”
I bowed, deeply.
“I am honored.”
He turned, already fading into the mist of dream and memory.
But his last words stayed.
“When you breathe your final breath, Sanjeet,
you won’t fall.
You will rise.
For you broke the rule not to defy—but to honor the spirit behind it.
And mercy… mercy is the oldest law of them all.”
When I awoke, the sky outside my window was silent, a soft prelude to dawn.
I knew then—my time had come.
But before I return to the cycle, I had to tell someone.
And that little girl… with her innocent question and her candy-stained fingers… she became my confessor.
The only one who knows the full truth.
That I was a Yamdoot once.
That I broke the rule.
And that in doing so…
…I became more than what I was.
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