"Welcome to the eleventh chapter. In this part, I will describe an incident that I witnessed with my own eyes—one that involved my father. This event had a profound impact on our entire family.
When I was very young, my father left Bari village and moved to Firozabad city. My grandfather and uncle still live in the village. The reason for leaving was clear—the strange and frequent occurrences there.
You might think I've indirectly shared my address. Well, you're right. Since I am writing about true events, I don't want to manipulate the facts. You can Google where Firozabad is; it's world-famous for its glasswork and is one of the 75 districts in the state of Uttar Pradesh, India. So, now that you know the location, let's move forward.
After our family settled in Firozabad, an incident occurred with my father a few years later. I was about 13 or 14 at the time. My father was a wonderful human being; people never grew tired of praising him. He never discriminated among his children—a quality he maintains to this day. He was a man of principles who felt deeply hurt even by abusive language. If I started praising him, you would grow tired of reading, but the list of his virtues would never end.
But then, everything changed. His behavior began to shift drastically. It was as if his education and degrees had become meaningless. He started picking fights at home over trivial matters. A man who never even touched cigarettes or tobacco was now lighting a cigarette every 5 or 6 minutes. Even today, he still smokes. He started quarreling with people in the neighborhood, leaving everyone in shock. Even now, old acquaintances ask me, 'Son, how is your father? Is there any improvement?' I usually avoid these questions and walk away.
You might assume he fell into bad company. No. Our neighbors checked many times; they told us he didn't talk to anyone. He would sit at his shop, smoking incessantly, and if someone asked him what was wrong, he would talk strangely and start hurling abuses for no reason.
Gradually, we noticed another pattern. He would fight at home, but days later, he would talk as if nothing had happened. Sometimes we thought he was recovering because he would return to his kind, original self and even apologize for the fights. When we asked him, he would say he didn't remember anything clearly. During these 'normal' phases, he would stay away from cigarettes and tobacco. We were lost and desperate.
Finally, someone suggested, 'Looking at his condition, it seems like he is under the shadow of a spirit. I know a Tantrik; you should visit him.' I found it all nonsense, but my family wanted to try anything to save him. We went to the Tantrik, who said, 'He won't come to me willingly. I am giving you some ash (Rekh); mix it in his food. If it is a spirit, you will see a change, and then bring him to me.'
We started mixing it in his food. Slowly, he began returning to his old self. Seeing this transformation, we were convinced that some external shadow was controlling him. I, too, began to believe. We finally took him to the Tantrik, and for a while, he returned to normal.
But then, it happened again. This time, he stopped working altogether. There were days when my family and I had to go to sleep on empty stomachs.
That period was nothing less than hell for us. In this book, I am not just writing a story; I am writing the pain of my life. After witnessing such a dark time, I want to raise awareness. I want to show the thin line between faith and superstition. Due to the lack of money, I couldn't even afford school or tuition fees, and I had to stop my studies.
When I feel that my efforts have successfully made people aware, I will stop writing. I ask you again—do you have any logic for this? Please let me know in the comments; I am waiting.
Thank you!"