The fakir then proceeded to tie the loose end of the thread ball to Ayushee's right toe.
“Whatever happens, whatever she says or does, don't interfere,” babaji said, turning to look at Mrs. Bajaj.
“She'll be fine, won't she?” Mrs. Bajaj responded with a steady stream of tears trying to overtake each other.
The fakir merely touched her head again and pointed skywards.
“Trust in him,” he mouthed.
“We'll be waiting outside. Whatever has to happen will happen tonight,” he added in a slow but confident manner.
He then moved out, his followers in tow to face Mr. Bajaj who had walked out of the room to shed tears in private, not wanting to show his weak side in front of his wife.
The fakir placed a hand on the man's shoulder and rubbed him gently.
“It's not a mental problem, Mr. Bajaj,” he said smiling slightly into a shocked face.
Sleep had eluded them for the better part of the night but Mrs. Bajaj sensed her husband's tiredness take over as he closed his eyes. She lay there, staring at the ceiling, watching the shadows take over their room when she heard the first sound of footsteps. They echoed across the silent house as the small pair of feet descended the stairs. Mrs. Bajaj quickly climbed out from the bed and peeked out through the bedroom door. She could clearly discern the figure of her daughter in the dark hallway, gliding towards the door as if in a trance, her face shrouded behind a veil of loose hair. Mrs. Bajaj gaped open-mouthed as the latch on the main door slid down on its own as Ayushee neared the exit.
“Ayushee's gone outside, get up,” Mrs. Bajaj said, shaking her husband out of his nascent slumber.
“Huh? What? How did you allow her?” he shot, pushing his frame out of bed.
“No, we can't stop her. Babaji asked us not to interfere, whatever happens,” Mrs. Bajaj said, trying to catch a glimpse of her daughter from the window.
“To hell with your babaji. He is mad and so are you,” Mr. Bajaj cursed in rage and stormed out of the room towards the main door.
“Wait… wait… please don't,” Mrs. Bajaj shouted, rushing from behind.
As she ran out of the house, she could make out her husband running behind their daughter who by then had almost reached the banyan tree that stood out menacingly in the moonless night. Before her husband could reach the gliding figure, three men in saffron robes intercepted him, holding him back as he struggled in their grip. One of them untangled himself from the mess and quietly followed something not quite visible in the darkness on the grass. As Mrs. Bajaj squinted, she could just about see the black thread slowly slithering forward. Not bothering to converse with her struggling husband, she followed the thread behind the fakir's disciple.
“Pooja, don't go there!” Mr. Bajaj warned and one of the disciples clamped his mouth, requesting him to be silent.
As they went further into the darkness, she saw a shimmer of white turn behind the huge tree and disappear out of sight. A minute later, they cautiously crawled behind the same spot and Mrs. Bajaj was surprised to find no one there. No alleys, no undergrowth, no alternative paths in the surrounding made the discovery of the girl's disappearance all the more mysterious. She swallowed the goblet of tears, muffling her sobs with the back of her hand.
She almost screamed when she felt a firm grip on her shoulder. The fakir emerged from behind in his white robes. Placing a finger on his lips, he signaled for her to keep quiet. Slowly, he pointed towards the lower bark of the tree, just above its mighty roots. Mrs. Bajaj narrowed her eyes, confused at what she was being asked to look at and then she stiffened as she saw the narrow dark opening between the tree and the ground where the thread had disappeared. The hole resembled a dingy black cave, dreadful and obnoxious.
The fakir slowly looked up at the sky. Somewhere in the woods an owl let out a long doleful hoot. The Godman looked at his disciple and nodded once. The man immediately pulled out a flask in each hand from the black cloth bag on his shoulders. Placing the bag near a bush, he started pouring the vicious liquid forming a circle around the tree. Mrs. Bajaj felt the strong acrid smell of kerosene take over her olfactory senses as the man emptied the flask on the roots of the tree. As the realization of the act dawned upon her, she shook her head and rushed towards the fakir.
“No, no… my daughter's in there… don't burn it,” she said. Babaji caught her hand and pulled her back.
“Nothing's going to happen to your daughter,” he assured, calming her down.
He looked up at the sky once again and nodded to the disciple. The man threw a large matchbox at the fakir who caught it neatly with one hand as it whizzed past his face. He shut his eyes and began chanting strange words, his fingers moving to light the matchsticks that seemed to be healthy torches of bright flames, emanating a sweet fragrance. He threw the burning sticks, each at an end of the tree and watched as the fire engulfed the lower half of the gigantic banyan. Another long hoot echoed across the wood and Mrs. Bajaj's stomach twirled, imagining her daughter inside. She shut her eyes and looked down, addressing the almighty.