The morning after my nihilistic breakdown and Katha’s stark clarification, I woke up… different. The fear was still there, a cold stone in the pit of my stomach. The phantom pains still echoed through my limbs. But underneath it all, there was a new, hard resolve. Hope was a lie. Peace was a distant dream. But purpose… purpose was real. My job was to witness, to write, and to build a shield of merit for my family with every word of this testimony. I would not falter again.

When Katha came, I was sitting on my bed, waiting. I met her gaze, and for the first time, there was no pleading in my eyes. Only a grim readiness. I nodded once. She touched my forehead.

The plunge was as violent as ever, but my landing was different. I was still Maya, still in this place of torment, but Dimple’s new resolve was a thin, but present, armour around my consciousness.

The Yamduts dragged me into the next Naraka. This one was called Vaishasan. It was a vast, blood-soaked courtyard, like the grounds of a great, macabre temple.

In the center, great sacrificial fires burned, but they gave off no warmth, only a thick, black, choking smoke.

“This Hell is for those who use religion for pride,” a Yamdut’s voice boomed. “For those who perform great sacrifices and charities not for God, but for show. For those who kill innocent animals in the name of a hollow ritual, seeking the respect of men rather than the grace of the divine.”

All around the courtyard, other souls were being tormented. They were dragged to great wooden posts, like the ones used for animal sacrifice on Earth. The Yamduts, acting as priests of this dark temple, would tie them up and, with a chilling, ritualistic precision, begin to butcher them as a sacrifice is butchered.

They dragged me to one such post. They bound my hands and feet. One Yamdut held my head back, while another approached with a long, curved knife.

“For every life taken in vanity,” it hissed, “a part of you is forfeit.”

The knife sliced my throat. It was not a quick death. It was a slow, gurgling agony. I felt my spiritual lifeblood drain away, my vision fading to black, all while feeling the cold, clinical satisfaction of the Yamdut performing its duty.

Then, I was whole again, back at the start of the courtyard, ready to be sacrificed anew.

And the memories came. Not with the sharp sting of a spike, but with the slow, dawning horror of understanding.

Sacrifice. I am Dimple. I am organizing a huge puja at our home. I have invited everyone who is anyone in our social circle. I am not thinking about God. I am thinking about the food, the decorations, the clothes. I am thinking about how impressed Mrs. Sharma from next door will be. I remember snapping at Rohan because the flowers he ordered were not exotic enough. The entire ritual was not an act of devotion. It was an act of social climbing. An offering to my own ego.

Sacrifice. I am Rohan. He is at his company’s annual charity gala. He makes a large donation, not because he cares about the cause, but because the CEO is watching.

He smiles for the camera as he hands over the oversized cheque, his heart full of pride, not compassion. A hollow sacrifice.

Sacrifice. I see a memory that is not mine, but a universal one. A man, a king on Earth, performs a great animal sacrifice. He has hundreds of animals slaughtered, not for sustenance, but to display his power and piety. He believes he is earning merit. Here, in Vaishasan, he is tied to a post, and the souls of the animals he killed are now the tormentors, each one taking its turn to slice a piece from his soul, their eyes burning with a perfect, righteous vengeance.

Here, in this hell of hollow rituals, I understood that the intention behind an act is everything. A prayer whispered in a closet with a pure heart is worth more than a million-rupee donation made for show. A simple meal shared with a hungry person is a greater sacrifice than a thousand animals killed for the sake of pride. The Law does not look at the size of the offering. It looks at the heart of the offerer. And for those whose hearts are filled with anything other than pure, selfless love for God… the knives of Vaishasan are waiting.

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
• Chapter 16 The City of Strange Torments
• Chapter 17 The Road to the Court
• Chapter 18 An Interrogation Before Judgment
• Chapter 19 The Hall of Judgment
• Chapter 20 The Book of Deeds
• Chapter 21 The Currency of Hell
• Chapter 22 Tamisra, The Hell of Darkness
• Chapter 23 The Anatomy of a Jailer
• Chapter 24 Andhatamisra, The Betrayer’s Hell
• Chapter 25 Raurava, The Hell of the Hunted
• Chapter 26 Kumbhipaka, The Cook’s Hell
• Chapter 27 The Question of a Beast
• Chapter 28 Kalasutra, The Burning Plain
• Chapter 29 Krumibhojan, The Hell of Worms
• Chapter 30 Sandash, The Hell of Pincers
• Chapter 31 Taptasurmi, The Hell of Burning Lust
• Chapter 32 The Sin of the Eye
• Chapter 33 Vajrakantak Shalmali, The Hell of the Thorny Tree
• Chapter 34 Vaitarni, The River of Broken Duty
• Chapter 35 Puyoda, The Ocean of Filth
• Chapter 36 Pranarodh, The Hell of Suffocation
• Chapter 37 The Ghost in the Room
• Chapter 38 The Nihilist’s Bargain