Suraj stopped to catch his breath. With the palm of his hand, he wiped the perspiration from his forehead. He brought out a water bottle from his backpack and took a gulp.
He had reached the end of the trail. The forest loomed all around him, dense with trees, bushes, vegetation of all shapes and sizes. The brown dirt on the ground below seeped into his shoes. His gaze swept across the forest, searching for a settlement for huts. One name echoed inside his mind. Zubin.
Zubin. The warrior whose name was taken by the locals in whispers, with no small measure of respect. The stories of his feats were folklore. Suraj had to find Zubin. He had to be trained by the master swordsman. He had traveled far and wide in his hunt, with no luck yet.
He sat down near the trunk of a large oak tree whose branches spread everywhere. He closed his eyes. The images of the rape were etched permanently in his memory. Suraj was eighteen at the time. His sister, Sapna, was twenty one, and had a fully developed body. It was just before midnight. They had gone to buy light bulbs for the home. Thiers was s safe neighborhood. Or so they had believed.
Four men jumped them from behind. Street thugs with unshaven faces and shabby clothes. Suraj remembered those faces well. They overpowered him easily with few hard punches. One of them held him down to the floor. He was almost unconscious. If only he had been fully unconscious. Because the scene that he witnessed after that left a scar that years of therapy couldn’t begin to heal.
Sapna’s high pitched screams pierced his ears. They tore her shirt, yanked off her jeans, ripped open her underwear. All the while, Suraj lay helpless, pinned to the ground, tasting blood in his mouth. One by one, they violated her on the ground. Penetrating her delicate body again and again. After the first one, her screams turned to whimpers and then died entirely. Suraj could still see the look on his sister’s face. Emptiness. Her eyes stared into space, sightless. Her complexion drained of all its color. She looked like a ghost.
Suraj stood up and shuddered. He tore off a nearby leaf and crumpled it inside his fist. His breathing became strained. Such visions of that fateful night haunted him. He had been too weak to defend his sister’s honor.
From that day, he had sworn to learn to defend himself against the evil that he knew existed in the world around him. He worked out at the gym with fanatic regularity. He made his body lean and muscular. He learnt Karate, Judo and Taekwondo. He participated in kick-boxing competitions, and frequently won. But still, Suraj was not satisfied.
He had heard some of his senior martial arts instructors mention the name Zubin. They had heard second-hand stories. Zubin was a warrior with no equal. Once, he had faced fifty opponents at a time and had not been defeated. During his travels to Japan, he had battled a reputed samurai fighter. Zubin had disarmed the samurai before he could even draw his sword.
Suraj knew instantly that he had to seek out this mysterious Zubin. Only a warrior of such caliber could train him adequately. Suraj would settle for nothing less.
Once committed to this single-minded goal, Suraj left no stone unturned. He asked every instructor, every fighter he knew about Zubin. One led him to another. His search led him to that forest where it was believed that Zubin lived as a hermit, in a small hut by himself.
Suraj had asked some locals about the location of Zubin’s hut. Their directions were vague and conflicting. After getting lost several times, Suraj had arrived at that point.
He wore his backpack on his shoulders and walked on. He checked his watch. It was noon. He had trekked since seven in the morning. He looked around him. Suddenly, his pulse quickened.
Up ahead to the left, he caught sight of a group of huts. He scrambled towards them. There were eight huts arranged in a neat grid. Each had stone walls and a slanting roof with square tiles. Suraj saw an old woman peering out from a window. He asked her if she knew where a warrior named Zubin lived. She stared at him for a long moment and then pointed towards a thatched roof in the distance, barely visible between the trees. Before he could thank her, she had slammed the window shut and disappeared from view.
Suraj jogged to the hut she had indicated. He went to the door. It was an antique wooden door, painted dull grey. There was no doorbell or handle. He rapped his knuckles on the door. No answer. Without warning, he felt the sting of a cold blade press against his shoulder.
Suraj considered pushing the blade away and spinning around, as he had learnt to in his martial arts training. But he thought better off it.
A hoarse voice behind him demanded, “Your business?”
“I have come to talk to the warrior, Zubin. I want to train with him.”
A brief pause, before the voice responded. “I don’t teach. Go away.” The blade lowered and the man stepped past Suraj into the hut and closed the door. This movement happened so fast that Suraj didn’t catch a look at him.
Suraj knocked again.
“Go away I said.” The voice commanded.
“If I could only talk to you for a minute…” Suraj began.
The door cracked open an inch. Two unblinking white eyes bore into Suraj. “Don’t disturb me again.” The door slammed shut.
Suraj stepped back. He knew he had found the right man, the one teacher who might make him into a real warrior. He had spent too much energy in his search to go back. Filled with a sense of anticipation, Suraj decided to sit outside the hut, ten feet from the door, and wait. He would wait until Zubin accepted him as a student. Or until he died outside that hut.
An hour passed. Two hours. Six hours. His body became stiff. He could no longer feel his arms or legs. Night fell in the forest. Suraj remained unmoved. A fit of shivering came and went. He grew drowsy. Sometime in the night, his head fell back and he toppled over. He awakened and painfully forced himself back into sitting position.
Morning came and he became hungry and thirsty, but the feeling passed. Memories from the rape flashed in his head. Sapna’s lifeless face crystallized before his mind’s eye. He sat up straight, his resolve turned to steel. Night came again. His tongue ran across parched lips in search of water or even saliva.
The second morning, Suraj wasn’t sure he could move if he wanted too. Time ceased to have meaning. He drifted in and out of awareness.
A voice echoed from somewhere above. “Alright, you win.”
The voice grew louder. “Get up. I don’t want your corpse creating a stink.”
Suraj tried to rise, but his limbs wouldn’t respond. A bucket of water was emptied upon him. He couldn’t tell if the water was hot or cold. He looked up to see the expressionless face of Zubin. The cheeks were hollow, the skin wrinkled. A black scar smeared across the forehead. A thick heap of snow-white hair covered his head. It was the face of a man who had been everywhere and experienced everything.
Two powerful arms lifted Suraj and ushered him inside the hut. It was a dark little room. One small cot in the corner. A pair of low stools constituted the only other furniture.
“Sit there.” Zubin pointed towards the wooden fireplace. Over the fire, hung a large iron cooking pot. Inside it was a steaming vegetable soup.
“Take some.” Zubin indicated some bowls lying on the floor. Suraj slowly ingested each spoonful of soup as though he had never eaten before. When he finished, Zubin told him to wash the bowls in the sink.
The old warrior studied Suraj. “I may agree to teach you. We’ll see…” He showed Suraj the supply of grains and vegetables. He pointed to the toilet. He told Suraj that he was to clean the toilet, sweep the floors, make the food, wash the clothes and serve Zubin in every which way. Suraj nodded.
Over the next few days, Suraj did his best to please the quiet warrior. Zubin didn’t communicate much, apart from an occasional grunt when he tasted his soup, which Suraj prepared. Without any comment or complaint, Suraj performed all the chores asked of him. He slept on the cold floor of the hut every night.
Two weeks passed and Zubin said nothing about training him. Suraj grew impatient. He addressed the warrior one day after his meal. “Master Zubin…”
“Not Master Zubin. Just Zubin.”
Suraj nodded. “I’ve done my best with my duties. I hope they have been to your satisfaction.”
Zubin grunted.
“I need to know whether I have earned the right to train with you.”
Zubin made no attempt to reply. His gaze penetrated Suraj in a way that made the hair on his skin stand up.
Suraj cleared his throat. “I cannot delay so much. I have to learn to fight.”
Zubin continued to glare at him.
Suraj pleaded with his eyes. “You promised to teach...”
“I promised nothing.” Zubin retorted. He stormed out of the hut.
Suraj clenched his fist. What a crazed manic. Was this guy really a master warrior? Or were all those stories fiction? Was he wasting his time there?
Suraj decided to stay the night and re-think the situation in the morning. That night, Suraj was awakened with a blow to his head. He rubbed his head, and looked up to see Zubin standing over him, holding a wooden staff. The man’s face was blank, with no trace of anger or hostility. He turned calmly and returned to his cot.
Suraj stared after him. So Zubin was insane then. Suraj considered gathering his things and leaving. But it was already night. He would think more clearly in the morning.
As soon as Suraj drifted off, whack. Pain in his midriff. He woke in panic, looking around. He glimpsed Zubin’s back as the old man trailed off.
Suraj slipped back into an uneasy sleep. Just before dawn, he received another thumping strike and a new bruise, this time on his knees. Suraj stood up and stretched out. He took some cold water and numbed his aching body. He walked around the forest.
The sun ascended above the trees, illuminating the sky. Suraj looked at the bright yellow orb and thought of his sister and of her violent attackers. He decided to stay at Zubin’s hut.
That day and every day for the next two weeks, each time Suraj was distracted or preoccupied with some thought, Zubin would smack him. The strikes were quick and silent as the wind. Suraj tried to defend himself but the old man was gone before he could even react. Pain became such a constant for Suraj that he forgot what it felt like to be free of it.
Frequently, Suraj wanted to end the abuse. What the hell was going on? He was there to train to fight. Not to be beaten like a stray dog. He reminded himself that he was not a prisoner. He could pack up and walk out anytime.
But something kept him there. Call it a hunch. Maybe this was a kind of initiation ritual that all potential students had to go through. Maybe it was a test of sincerity. Or maybe the man was stark, raving mad.
Day and night, the blows rained down. Ten, twenty, even thirty every day. Meanwhile, Suraj continued with his chores and slept with his eyes half open. He never knew when or where the next strike would come. He tried to hit back but the old warrior was too quick for him.
Two nights later, Suraj jerked awake without knowing why. He looked around and didn’t see a thing. An idea occurred to him.
Suraj stood up and tip-toed to Zubin’s cot, feeling his way through the darkness. It was time to turn the tables. He stood over the cot and silenced his breathing. He lifted his hands, grinning at the anticipated surprise he was about to cause. With full force he brought both his hands down.
He struck the meshed frame of an empty cot. He cursed under his breath. Where was Zubin?
His hair stood on the back of his neck. He started to swing around but it was too late. The tip of the wooden staff landed heavily on his buttocks. Zubin stood there, his eyes glaring down at him. Suraj cringed and contorted his face. He massaged his behind and crawled back to his spot on the floor.
Suraj didn’t sleep the rest of the night. Even in daylight, he felt a constant state of nervous alertness, expecting a blow at any moment.
Then it happened. One evening, Suraj was stirring the soup in the cooking pot. Without thinking or even realizing it, his arm abruptly lifted the steel lid of the pot above his head. A metallic clang sounded out as the wooden staff came whipping down on the lid. Suraj was himself surprised at his action. He spun around to see a trace of a smile on Zubin’s lips.
Then it happened again. And again. Whenever Zubin came to strike him, Suraj would find himself raising an object or his arm to fend off the blow or ducking out of the way. He never thought about it. It just happened.
Suraj woke up one day before dawn and swiftly rolled over to one side. The staff came down on the floor at the exact spot where he lay a moment ago. Suraj jumped to his feet. His eyes met those of the master.
A broad smile spread across Zubin’s face.
Emboldened, Suraj asked. “Does this mean my training can begin?”
“No,” Zubin replied. “Your training is over.”
Only then did Suraj grasp the scope of the lesson that he had been given. All those attacks, all the time the master had been teaching him to move instinctively, to react without thinking, at speeds that the mind cannot process, to stay alert at all times and not get lost in random thoughts. There was method behind Zubin’s apparent madness.
Suraj smiled. He gathered his belongings and prepared to leave. He stood outside the hut and bowed down on his knees before the master, in a gesture of gratitude. Zubin brought his staff down and planted one final, delicate blow on Suraj’s shoulder blades. Without a word, the master turned and disappeared inside his hut.
