Arun escaped death in Rishikesh, but a sadhu stole his youth in return.

The city of Kolkata was quiet that evening as the rains had just subsided, leaving behind a cool breeze that filtered through the curtains of my flat.

 Jogen sat across from me, a distant look in his eyes as he narrated this peculiar story about his old friend, Arun.            There was a sense of disbelief mixed with genuine concern in Jogen's voice, as he recounted the events that had transpired over the past few months.

 Arun had always been a deeply religious man, spending hours each day in prayer, fasting, and seeking guidance from holy men. But lately, his devotion had turned into desperation. His horoscope had predicted that he wouldn’t live past the age of 50, and as his 50th birthday drew closer, a sense of dread consumed him. His eyes searched for a miracle, something that could change his fate.

 One day, Arun had ventured to Rishikesh, a city nestled in the foothills of the Himalayas, known for its spiritual ashrams and mystic sadhus. The town, with its rolling hills and sacred river Ganges, was shrouded in an aura of timelessness. Pilgrims from all over the country came seeking salvation, wisdom, or—like Arun—a reprieve from their own mortality. 

 It was there, amidst the towering peaks and the gentle hum of temple bells, that Arun encountered the sadhu. He was an old man with long, matted hair, a face weathered by years of meditation, and eyes that seemed to hold the secrets of the universe. His ashram sprawled across the hilltop, surrounded by lush green forests and the distant echoes of the Ganges flowing below. The place was alive with the presence of devotees, clad in saffron robes, all seeking the teachings of the sadhu. The sadhu had told Arun that he could help him cheat death. There was a way, he said, but it required complete surrender. Arun, driven by fear and hope, agreed to follow the sadhu's instruction, leaving behind his old life for six months.

 The ashram was an expansive place, with stone steps leading up to a massive hall where the sadhu conducted his rituals. His chelas, disciples, worked tirelessly, maintaining the grounds, preparing meals, and chanting prayers, their voices merging with the sounds of the wind and water. Every morning, Arun would wake before dawn and sit in meditation with the sadhu. The first few days were difficult, but soon the rhythm of the ashram engulfed him. The sadhu had given Arun one specific rule: he was never to look at his own reflection. No mirrors were allowed. Arun complied without question, trusting the wisdom of the sadhu.

 Time passed slowly in the ashram, the days blending into each other, as Arun grew more absorbed in his practice. Yet, he began to notice something strange. His body felt different. He felt weaker, older. His joints ached, his hair turned gray. Concerned, he approached the sadhu, who merely smiled and assured him that this was part of the process, a transformation that was necessary for his salvation. The sadhu's words, spoken with such certainty, calmed Arun's fears.

 And then, one day, without warning, the sadhu vanished. In his place appeared a young man, clean-shaven and full of vitality. The young man bore a striking resemblance to the sadhu, but his eyes—those same eyes that had once held the weight of wisdom—now seemed alight with youth. The man instructed Arun to leave the ashram and return home. 

Confused and disoriented, Arun obeyed, but as he made his way down the hill toward the town, a deep sense of dread washed over him. He stopped at a local shop and, for the first time in six months, bought a mirror. The reflection that stared back at him was unrecognizable. His face was wrinkled, his skin sagged, and his hair had turned completely white. Arun had aged twenty years in the span of months.

 Realization dawned on him—the sadhu had stolen his youth. 

 The story weighed heavily on my mind as Jogen finished speaking. Arun, now back in Kolkata, was a shadow of his former self, looking like a man in his sixties rather than his forties. But I couldn’t help but note the irony. "By default," I said, trying to lighten the mood, "Arun has escaped the prediction. His danger of dying before 50 has passed. He’s aged, but he’s alive." Jogen nodded, though he still seemed disturbed by the thought of the sadhu and his dark magic. "It’s strange, isn't it? The sadhu helped him escape death, but only by stealing his years. He lives... but at what cost?"

 As I sat there, thinking of the sprawling hills of Rishikesh, the ancient ashram, and the enigmatic sadhu who had exchanged youth for life, I wondered if there were other such stories—hidden in the mist of the mountains, waiting to be uncovered.