22. RAKSHASA
RAKSHASA
Andhra Pradesh, India
Two things added fuel to Uriah’s burning hatred.
One, he’d given the boy everything, and in his turn, the boy should have been Uriah’s loyal servant for life, obeying his every command.
Two, Uriah couldn’t stand another betrayal.
As he spied on Drasko who held Alfred’s little daughter in his arms and told her the secret that wasn’t his to tell, despite the spawn’s small brain in comprehending it, Uriah wanted to burn the two of them right there and then.
The Crimson Tear secret did not belong to her !
Uriah retreated into the dark night with a clear plan in mind.
Rakshasa, the vicious tiger, legendary in the area, had long been roaming the villages by night, searching for prey.
For years, the villagers had left offerings to Rakshasa in the jungle.
For years, Rakshasa had come to feast, sneaky and unexpected, hence yet not captured. The arrangement worked out quite fine.
Well, not anymore.
Oh, Uriah knew just what he had to do. Every time men tied an offering to a tree in the forest, two men hired by him came afterward and stole it. Enough times done, and Rakshasa, by now entitled, angrily searched for its usual prey.
Hungry for weeks, it struck again. A mother with a baby from the village was eaten by the monster, only their bloodied clothes left behind.
A tragedy to their family. A shock to the terrified locals.
But Uriah gloated at the news. His plan was working. The next one would be an atrocious death, but righteously deserved by the spawn of a traitor.
And soon, it was time to bring in the killer.
It was a stuffy August night, darker than any before, when two of Uriah’s men stole the sheep from the jungle, like they had done a number of times.
They slaughtered the poor thing and painted a bloody trail from the jungle right to the village where Asha and Rupesh lived, who, as usual, had brought Alfred’s daughter in for the night.
The slaughtered sheep was left by their house, blood soaking the grass, its presence unnoticed but the scent already luring the striped beast out of the woods.
There was one thing Uriah hadn’t counted on—Drasko and the fate that always put him in Uriah’s path.
That night, Drasko walked over to Asha and Rupesh’s for chai and usual talks and the promised fairy tales for little jaan .
He decided to stay the night and lay, as always, on a mattress on the veranda.
The red tile was cool during the summer heat, and the occasional breeze swung the garments drying on the laundry ropes.
Drasko was half-asleep when a roar echoed through the village.
His eyes snapped open.
Another roar came closer, a distant scream making the hair on the back of his neck stand.
“If only you stay quiet,” they said, “Rakshasa’s fury will spare you. If you are inside, its hunger will feast on whatever it can find outside.”
But little did Drasko know about the offering left behind the house, the blood smeared around, luring the beast, its hunger insatiable at the familiar scent.
Drasko wasn’t afraid that night—he remembered clearly. Not for himself at least. But the sight of the monstrous shadow of the beast striding across the yard made his insides turn icy cold.
It wasn’t the blood that made the beast angry but the humans who had dared take away their offering. And the only human Rakshasa sensed was Drasko.
Ready to spill blood, the beast lunged at the terrace, determined to avenge the broken offering cycle.
They named the tiger in honor of mythological demons.
They named Drasko in honor of the evil tiger.
The two were a match, for the tiger’s hunger was as strong as Drasko’s determination to keep little jaan safe.
At fourteen, he already was as strong as a tiger himself.
As fierce. And when the tiger roared at him, pausing at the steps, ready to attack, Drasko snarled and grabbed a sharp poker, determined to win.
The tiger swung its giant paw at him.
Drasko slammed the poker into the roaring tiger.
Enraged, it lunged at him, slashing Drasko with its monstrous claws.
Drasko got up and struck back.
The tiger roared and pawed again, razor-sharp claws slicing Drasko’s skin.
Drasko roared in pain but struck back, his green eyes full of anger as they stared into the same green eyes of the tiger.
And then Rakshasa’s eyes moved. The beast bared its fangs at someone behind Drasko—little jaan standing in the doorway.
She wore her little cotton kurta , her childish eyes angrily blazing at the monster who dared hurt her Drasko.
“Go! Awaaaay!” she shouted, throwing her diamond bangle at the beast.
With a roar, the tiger pounced at her.
For years afterward, Drasko would think of it as the single most terrifying moment of his life. It cut off his self-preservation instinct as he threw himself at the deadly beast in order to protect the only thing he loved.
His roars mixed with Rakshasa’s. The searing pain from the razor-sharp fangs tearing through his flesh mixed with the fury with which he stabbed the tiger.
Until they were like one.
Until his white kurta was soaked with blood, its shredded pieces flapping like white flags among the striped fur of the beast.
Then everything went quiet.
Minutes later, the locals rushed through the gates toward the terrace, torches and guns in their hands, only to find the giant tiger who had terrorized them for years speared by a poker, dead on the floor, in a pool of blood.
Underneath his monstrous form lay Drasko. His body had been ripped by the steel claws. The side of his face was shredded. His blood laced with that of the beast, two shades of red pooling on the floor in a macabre marble pattern.
And next to them sat the little girl, her legs folded under her, her trembling fingers caressing Drasko’s hair. Tears spilled down her cheeks as she begged for him to wake up.