The next plunge into Maya’s soul was different. Armed with Katha’s stark purpose, I felt a grim resolve settle over me. I still felt the pain, the terror, but underneath it was a new layer: the cold focus of a surgeon dissecting a disease. This was my work now.

We arrived at the eighth city, Vichitrapur. The name means “The City of the Strange,” and it was a fitting name. It was a place of surreal, nonsensical horror. The sky was a swirling, sickly green, and the ground was soft and spongy, like walking on raw flesh. The buildings were twisted into impossible shapes, leaning at angles that defied gravity.

The punishment here was not one thing. It was a chaotic, unpredictable assault. As I was dragged through the strange streets, a Yamdut would suddenly stop, its face contorting into a monstrous caricature of a laughing clown, and tickle me. It sounds absurd. But the tickling was not playful. It was a relentless, agonizing assault on my nerves, a torment that bypassed pain and went straight to a kind of maddening, hysterical panic. I writhed and gasped, unable to breathe, my body convulsing with an agony that had no name.

Then, just as suddenly, it would stop. Another Yamdut would appear, dressed as a benevolent-looking saint, and offer me a beautiful flower. As I reached for it, the flower would transform into a venomous scorpion that would sting my hand, sending a fire of poison through my veins.

This was Vichitrapur. A place where nothing made sense. Where mercy was a mask for cruelty, and pain came from the most unexpected places.

“This city is for those who lived a life of deceit and hypocrisy,” the thought from Katha echoed in my merged consciousness. “For those whose actions never matched their words. For the politicians who promise progress and deliver corruption. For the gurus who preach piety and live in luxury. For the parents—like you, Dimple—who preach honesty to their children and then lie on their taxes.”

Memory. I am Dimple, at a parent-teacher meeting. I am listening to Maya’s teacher express concern about her falling grades, her withdrawal. I nod, my face a mask of maternal concern. “Yes, we will work on it,” I say. “We’ll spend more time with her.”

Memory. I am Maya. I am telling my friends I’m going on a “digital detox” for the weekend, earning their admiration for my discipline. In reality, I spent the entire weekend binge-watching a mindless TV series, ashamed of my own lack of self-control.

In Vichitrapur, every hypocritical act was paid for. The city itself was a manifestation of a life lived without integrity. It was a nonsensical, chaotic place because a life of hypocrisy is a nonsensical, chaotic life. The toll for entry was not flesh or blood, but sanity. And I paid it over and over again.

Index of: Journey Of Hell: The Unforgotten Promise

• A Warning to the Reader
• A Mother’s Testimony
• Chapter 1 The God of Small Betrayals
• Chapter 2 The Sins of a Mother
• Chapter 3 The Soul and The Body
• Chapter 4 the Road of a Thousand Regrets
• Chapter 5 A Desert of Burning Rage
• Chapter 6 The Prison Before Birth
• Chapter 7 A River of Self
• Chapter 8 The Twelve-Day Ghost
• Chapter 9 The Refusal
• Chapter 10 The Universal Law
• Chapter 11 The City of Hounds
• Chapter 12 A Forest of Lies
• Chapter 13 The Weight of the World
• Chapter 14 The Price of Meat
• Chapter 15 The Question of Hope