With a newfound resolve hardening his gaze, Narayan Savarkar made his decision.
He turned to Varun, a silent acknowledgment passing between them. "Very well," he said, his voice firm, "I will take you to our meeting point."
"But first, we must offer our respects." He turned towards the statue of Lord Shiva, his hands folded in prayer, and offered a silent, fervent invocation.
He then turned to the pandit ji, a respectful nod and a brief farewell passing between them.
With a decisive step, he led Varun out of the temple, towards the heart of their clandestine meetings.
As they walked, Narayan Savarkar, his mind still reeling from the display of power and the implications of Varun's confession, turned to him.
"Since when," he asked, his voice laced with curiosity, "have you resolved yourself to this path?"
Varun's expression shifted, a flicker of pain crossing his features. "Since two months ago," he replied, his voice low.
Narayan was taken aback, both by the visible pain in Varun's eyes and the brevity of his commitment.
Two months was a mere blink in the grand tapestry of their struggle.
He remained silent, choosing not to press further, sensing the depths of unspoken grief in his pained eyes.
They soon arrived at a house, its architecture resonating with an ancient Indian aesthetic—a blend of tradition and understated strength.
As they entered, a spacious courtyard unfolded before them, a hub of activity.
Men, some clad only in dhotis with their upper bodies bare, others in simple dhoti and kurta, sat on the ground, their voices low and intense, engaged in a serious discussion.
The sound of their footsteps drew their attention.
All heads turned, their gazes settling on Narayan Savarkar and the stranger accompanying him.
Varun, dressed in a pristine white dhoti and kurta, presented an image of simplicity.
Yet, his demeanor, his bearing, radiated a powerful intensity—a stark contrast to his unassuming attire.
As Narayan and Varun entered, the men rose to their feet, a gesture of respect towards their temporary leader.
Their voices, previously low and urgent, now buzzed with excited energy. "Narayan ji!" one of them exclaimed, his eyes alight. "We were just discussing the… the events. The Muslim princely states…" he had much to say.
Another man, his face flushed with a mixture of awe and disbelief, interjected, "It's… incredible! A complete and utter…" He trailed off, searching for the right word, his gaze shifting to Varun.
The others nodded in agreement, their expressions a mix of astonishment and a dark, almost gleeful satisfaction.
They were clearly enthralled by the news, their conversation revolving around the recent, shocking events.
The air crackled with a palpable sense of anticipation—a feeling that something momentous had occurred.
Their voices, a low rumble of excitement, filled the courtyard. "After these events," one of them declared, his eyes gleaming, "the Muslim League will be forced to silence.
They will sit tightly, afraid to provoke the… the Purger."
Another chimed in, a note of grim satisfaction in his voice, "Yes! The burden on our shoulders has lessened.
There will be fewer enemies to contend with, fewer battles to fight. The path ahead… it seems clearer now."