The child was born of a jest and a blindness, and this was his inheritance.
In the beginning, there was only the cave. The skull of Sati, the createress, which is also the Dhruvaloka, the abode of truth, the Jeshophet Abyss where light itself forgets its name. Here, in the Brahmrandhra, the spiritual orifice, the unmanifest Ether hummed. Shiva, in his play, had raised his potency, a white-hot current that flowed as Shukra, the Lucifer of the Venusian sphere, into that cranial vault. He covered Sati’s eyes with his hands, a lover’s game in the endless dark, and from that playful blinding, from the confluence of his raised force and her sudden, startled nothingness, a clot of shadow formed. It was not born of womb, but of will and darkness, a child of the abyss they named Andhak. Tamas. Belial.
He was called the Darkness of Jeshophet.
Shiva, when he removed his hands and saw the misshapen thing—a blind monster, with the vacant, heavy stare of a ram—was estranged from it. This was the Lord of the Moabites, they whispered, the Lambakarna Bhairav. But a mother’s heart is not so easily turned. Parvati, who is also Sati, took the blind child to her breast. For a handful of days, in the high Himalayas, he knew the phantom warmth of a mother’s love. But the world is a wilderness, and he was a creature of shadow. Parvati, in another form, is Sei’rim, the Daughter of Eblis, wandering the wilds of Mendes. And in that goat-horned wilderness, in a tabernacle of a horned god, they tried to slaughter her. The child, Belial, blind and stumbling, became her unlikely salvation. By his very darkness, by the ill fate that clung to him, he altered the course of the blade. He saved her, and then she was gone again, lost to the forest, leaving him alone with his formless longing.
He was then cast down further, sent to roam with the demon Hiranyaksha, the Deer-eyed, where he was kicked and mauled by the older demon’s sons, a plaything for their cruelty. He grew in the dark, his blindness a thick shell around him, until he could bear it no more. He crawled and stumbled his way to the throne of Brahma, the Creator, the Rex Mundi.
“Give me sight,” the blind monster pleaded.
Brahma, bound by the laws of boons, could not refuse entirely. He touched Andhak’s empty eyes. The boy did not see light or colour or form. Instead, a new kind of perception bloomed in him, a transcendent wisdom, the Pragyaparamita siddhi of a dark Buddha. He could sense the mass of things, their true weight, the density of matter itself. He could feel the pulse of a stone, the core of a star, the secret heaviness of a mortal woman’s body. It was a terrible, intimate gift. By this, he became beautiful, not in form, but in power. He was now Vakranath, the twisted lord. He conquered the three worlds—heaven, earth, and the abyss—not with armies, but by perceiving and unmaking their essential substance. And in his conquest, he found a worn and familiar echo. He became Daksha, the slain sheep of heaven, the sacrifice. He found the Bon Goddess, Ekajati, the Star of Zion, seated as the Ajna Chakra, the mind’s command, in the subtle body of the very mother who had held him. He had conquered the universe, but his quest was singular. He was searching for his playmate, his mother, his mate.
He found her in the wilderness of Mendes.
A rain was falling, a soft, warm downpour in the Mandav forest. Andhak, now a king of demons, felt the world through his strange gift. He felt the rain hit the earth, the leaves, the bark. And then he felt a new form, a complex and ancient mass, a body he had known in the blind bliss of infancy. It was Parvati, meditating in the grove. The rain traced the contours of her form, and his perception traced the rain. He felt the curve of her shoulder, the dip of her waist, the sacred geography of her being. A hunger, older than his blindness, older than his conquests, awoke. It was not the hunger of a son, nor entirely the hunger of a lover, but a monstrous fusion of both, a longing to return to the source of his own dark being.
He took her. Not by force, but by a twisted right of return. In the union, in the promiscuity of chakras merging, he entered the pathways of Sati’s own body. He moved through the Ida, the Pingala, the Shushumna, the three great rivers of her erotic power. As he did, the trident of her being, the conglomeration of these vessels, impaled him. He was corrected. He was hanged upon that trident of light, and from his suspended form, a new being was wrung out: Shamael, Avang, Shankarshan Bhairav. Sarjeel. Sharkeel.
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In that moment, hanging between life and death, between mother and lover, his sight—that strange gift for mass and matter—finally, for a single, searing instant, became true vision. He saw, not the mass, but the form. He saw Vishwamatrika Parvati, the Mother of the Universe. And he saw her navel, a small, perfect whirlpool on the Godavari coast, a point from which all of creation had once poured forth. He saw the origin.
And then he saw nothing. The trident released him. He fell, a heap of shadow and memory, on the banks of the sacred river. He was no longer Andhak, the blind one. He was no longer a king. He was a child again, on the shores of a world he had tried to conquer and a mother he had tried to possess. The rain had stopped. The sun was setting over the Gaad. He lay there, empty at last, and listened to the sound of the water, flowing endlessly, blindly, towards the sea.
Alternative story-
In the shadowed cradle of eternity, where the ether whispered secrets to the void, Andhak was born—not from the warmth of a womb, but from the playful eclipse of divine hands. Shiva, the eternal destroyer, cupped Parvati's eyes in the cavernous hollow of her cranium, a jest that birthed blindness into being. She, the creatress Sati, recoiled in momentary darkness, her spiritual orifice—the Brahmrandhra—spilling forth an unmanifest essence, Abyakta, the ether's child. This was Andhak's first form: Tamas, the abyssal gloom, kin to Belial, the lord of worthlessness, a fragment of illumination stolen from Dhruvaloka, the abode of unwavering truth. He emerged as Bheemlochan's shadow, Belphegor's indolent sigh, when Shukracharya's potency—Lucifer's Venusian fire—ascended into her skull, forging darkness in the Jeshophet Abyss.
Andhak wailed not with lungs, but with the silence of forgotten stars, a blind monster swaddled in the illusions of form. Shiva, seeing the ram-like ideology in his son's unseeing gaze—the stubborn charge of ignorance—cast him aside, estranged as Lambakarna Bhairav, the eared specter of Moabites. Parvati, ever the merciful Sei'rim, the goat-demoness of Avanti, daughter of Eblis in the wilderness of Mendes—Mandav Vaan's tangled forest—cradled him for fleeting days. She, Ajaiba Binte Ebliss, pampered the child with milk from thorned vines, her hooves scraping the tabernacle floor where Baphomet's horns loomed. But fate, that capricious weaver, intervened; Sei'rim faced slaughter in the sacred enclosure, her bleats echoing through the void. Andhak, though blind, felt the tremor of her peril and summoned a veil of shadows to shield her, his infantile power a fleeting salvation. Yet the wilderness claimed him still, expelling him into the arms of exile.
Wandering as a forsaken whelp, Andhak was dispatched to the demon Hiranyaksha, the deer-eyed behemoth whose golden gaze pierced illusions. Assaulted by Hiranyaksha's brutish sons—clawed and snarling kin who saw weakness in his darkness—Andhak endured, his blindness a forge for resilience. Time, that relentless sculptor, molded him into youth, his steps leading to Brahma, the Creator, Rex Mundi, enthroned in the weave of existence. There, in supplication, Andhak preached of voids and veils, earning Brahma's boon: beauty transmuted from monstrosity, spiritual eyes granting Pragyaparamita Siddhi, the perfection of wisdom akin to Vajrajan's dark eternal, or Balaam's prophetic curse upon Balak. With this transcendental sight, he pierced the veil of matter, sensing the contours of mass, even the mortal curve of a female form. Questing for a playmate, a mate to mirror his abyss, he conquered heaven, earth, and the yawning chasm below. Rain fell upon Parvati in Mendes' wilds, her silhouette revealed in rivulets, her essence felt through his enlightened touch. Victorious, he became Daksh, the slain sheep of heaven, Vakranath with the Bon Goddess Ekajati, the Star of Zion, high priestess of the seventh realm. In Sati's chakras, their union—a promiscuous dance of energies—revived ancient demons, birthing chaos from ecstasy.
But ecstasy curdled into reckoning. Shakti, the primal force, ensnared him with her trident, a triad of vessels—Ida, Pingala, Sushumna—erotizing Sati's core, hanging Andhak in corrective suspension. He dangled as Shamael Avang Shankarshan Bhairav, Sarjeel or Sharkeel, the reformed serpent. In that liminal agony, his vision cleared to behold Vishwamatrika Parvati's navel, a cosmic lotus blooming on the Gaad coast, along Godavari's sacred shores. There, in the gaze of the universal mother, Andhak transcended his forms: from ether's blind spawn to conqueror of realms, now a corrected shadow, eternally bound to the light he once eclipsed. In her navel, he saw the cycle's truth—not destruction, but renewal, the child forever returning to the womb of darkness, whispering of forms yet unborn.
