The Silencer

What’s the first impression you want to give people?

Incidents keep happening time after time, and I knew that if I wanted to move fast, I had to do more of everything. I could not remain a silencer forever. A silencer observes, takes note, measures the surroundings, and moves through tall grass without stirring a leaf—always watching for the right moment, like the hidden strategy of dice in the Bhagavad Gita’s most painful climax.

And so the stories unfolded.

This morning came the vivid dreams.
For every cricket lurking in the background, another scene opened.

First incident.
Warlord Raul appeared as a grandfather, trying to cuddle a child-version of me. But as I came out of the trance, my tip nipple touched him. Disgust rushed through me. It showed his truth—an ego-mad man with no love for anyone. In his world, all women, even his own wife, existed only as slaves to his lust. He kept every woman under his feet. Behind him, the cricket lurked, clicking softly, exposing the corruption he tried to hide behind a false grandfather mask.

Second incident.
Music played, pretending that warlord Raul was some form of divinity. The cricket’s sound crawled up to my hand, urging me not to touch him. My inner self screamed, He is not divinity; he is deception. I listened. I pulled back. I did not touch the devil. My inner self replayed the same warning over and over like a video: lie… trick… lie… trick. The cricket agreed—its chirps sharp as blades, cutting through his illusion.

Third incident.
A couple stood in a studio, taking full-length photos. I blew my breath toward them, telling them, I am just a speck of dust. Why were they still thinking of me? Had they not moved on? Why try to pull me back down to their level? I told them I did not want to see their faces, their clothes, where they lived—whether it was the witch Garret or the townhouse witch Ulysses on some unknown road. I didn’t recognize their cars, their pictures, or even their names.

Then, suddenly, I was taken back to my one-year-old self—when I used to follow people everywhere, longing for their attention, wanting to belong. My inner self showed me the patterns. I forgave myself for that past pain, for the suffering I carried. I said sorry to myself for causing that hurt. I released the childhood mistake. I stopped following anyone. I moved on.

The moment I let go, my left foot swelling eased. My left hip rose, freeing itself from heaviness. I felt light. I felt unbound. The cricket, lurking silently, confirmed that the heaviness had been placed there by Xandra witch, warlord Raul, and their family—to keep me silent like a slaughtered lamb molded to their liking.

Fourth incident.
Rathe and Xandra witches appeared, showing female vaniga. I tried to guess the riddle hidden in the cricket’s lurking, but I could not understand its meaning. I saw Rathe herself—naked, covering her own vaniga, revealing her true image of self. Then they faded. Later, during my prayers, Xandra entered again, furious, ordering me to put holy ash on my vaniga. I saw clearly: she was trapped in her world. I did not need to join it. I live away from them, as a silencer who sees everything.

Fifth incident.
Xandra witch and warlord Raul crafted a story. In it, his wife invited a Hindu deity to their Baptist church, attempting to convert the deity to her faith. Their exorcist Baptist priest tried to baptize the deity but backed out. Their circle of friends whispered how Xandra and Raul had sinned against the deity, how they grew obsessed with destroying every Hindu presence through their Baptist obsession.
Behind their story, the cricket lurked—listening, judging, exposing.

Then came the next day, in the darkest hour before dawn.
My bright angelic light vanished—as though pulled to another side where Xandra and Raul stood. Xandra wore a black and white patterned sari, camouflaging herself with the face of one of her friends. The forest background was stolen from a picture frame in her home, crafted to appear as if she and Raul were at a fire camp.

They performed an illusion—burning something invisible, extracting “evil powers” they claimed were inside me. They pushed these powers into a granite statue of a naked baby boy.
At that moment, the heaviness on the right side of my body lifted. Another release. Another unbinding.

Then Xandra whispered to Raul,
“Do you think she will suspect what we have done?”
Raul replied,
“She will not notice.”

But the cricket lurking at their feet chirped differently.
Its sound was a warning, a truth, a witness.

Now I ask myself:
What is the first impression I want to give people, as a silencer who observes?

I move unseen, but I am no longer silent.
The cricket never leaves me—it lurks, guides, warns, protects.
And every untold, strange story finds its voice through its steady, mythic song.