Chandru, a man who loved the sharp crack of a leather ball on a willow bat more than most things, was on 99 runs. The sun was a tyrant in the sky. He took a deep breath, his partner gave him a nod, and the bowler began his run-up. The world seemed to slow. The ball flew, Chandru swung, and a searing pain bloomed in his chest, brighter than the sun. The last thing he saw was the green of the cricket pitch.
He awoke not to the scent of cut grass, but of damp earth and fragrant, unknown blossoms. The air was cool and filled with a soft, blue-violet luminescence. Towering crystalline structures, like giant fungi, pulsed with gentle light around him. A river of shimmering silver liquid flowed nearby, and the sky above was a ceiling of rock from which glowing mosses hung like constellations. He was in Pathala Loka, the netherworld.
From the shadows, figures emerged. They were humanoid, but their skin shimmered with iridescent scales, their eyes were large and golden like a cat’s, and where their hair should be, a hood flared, patterned with intricate designs. These were the Nagas, the serpent people. One stepped forward, a woman of breathtaking beauty, a small, glowing gem resting on her forehead. “I am Manasa,” she said, her voice like the rustling of leaves. “You are the first mortal to fall into our realm in a thousand years.”
Chandru, ever the calm batsman, explained his sudden arrival. Manasa and the other Nagas listened, their curiosity overcoming their suspicion. They had heard tales of the “Over-World,” a place scorched by a single, hot star. Manasa decided that this strange, soft-skinned creature was no threat. “You may stay,” she declared, “but our world has its own rules. To earn your place, you must seek the wisdom of the sage Vamshi.”
The journey to Vamshi’s ashram was fraught with challenges. Chandru, guided by Manasa, traversed forests of glowing, crimson flora that sang when he passed. They crossed a chasm on a bridge woven from the living roots of a giant, subterranean tree. Chandru, used to flat cricket pitches, found his footing on the shifting, breathing bridge.
Their final obstacle was the Lake of Reflections. A massive, five-headed serpent, a Takshaka, guarded its shores. “To pass,” it hissed, its five voices a discordant symphony, “the mortal must answer a riddle. What has a mouth but never speaks, and a bed but never sleeps?”
Chandru thought of the world he had left. He thought of the rivers he had seen, their beds, their mouths where they met the sea. “A river,” he answered, his voice steady. The five heads of the Takshaka blinked in unison. A low rumble echoed across the lake, and the great serpent submerged, clearing the path. Manasa, who had watched from a distance, looked at him with newfound respect.
Beyond the lake was a simple cave, lit by a single, brilliant jewel that floated in the air. Seated in meditation was an old man, his skin the colour of ancient stone and his beard a cascade of white. This was the saint Vamshi. He opened his eyes, which seemed to hold the wisdom of ages. “I have been waiting for you, son of the Over-World,” he said.
Chandru told his story for the third time. Vamshi listened without interruption. When Chandru finished, the sage spoke. “You cannot return to a life that has ended. But death is not an ending, merely a change of fields. You have shown courage and wit. I will grant you a boon. You will not be a mere visitor here, but a part of this world. You shall have the Naga’s sight.”
Vamshi’s touch sent a jolt through Chandru. When he opened his eyes, the world was transformed. He could see the life force flowing through the glowing plants, the currents of energy in the air, the intricate patterns of existence woven into the fabric of Pathala Loka. He was no longer just Chandru, the cricketer. He was Chandru, the man who could see the soul of the netherworld, a respected resident of the serpent realm, his new, eternal home.
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