Chapter 3: The War of Soil & The Cycle of 30 Days
We often speak in anger, thinking our words vanish into thin air. But what if the Universe is a silent stenographer, recording every curse and every cry? In Chapter 3 of my journey, I look back at the "War of Soil"—a chilling 30-day cycle where two bitter curses were fulfilled to the exact, terrifying letter. This isn't just a story about death; it’s a lesson on Vak Siddhi and the heavy price of the words we choose to weaponize.
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Chapter 3: The War of Soil & The Cycle of 30 Days
The Lesson of the Tongue
I sit here today, a grown man, and I still tremble when I think of this.
Sometimes, I doubt my own memory. Was it just a coincidence? Was it just bad timing?
But deep down, I know the truth.
Maa Devi was teaching me a lesson that I would carry for the rest of my life:
The tongue is not just muscle. It is a pen that writes your destiny.
We think we are just speaking in anger, just shouting words into the air. But the Universe is always listening. It takes our anger and turns it into a contract.
What happened next was not just death; it was a prophecy fulfilled.
The Courtroom of the 11th Day
It was the 11th day after my father’s death.
The rituals were done. The house smelled of incense and loss.
The room was divided into two armies.
On one side: My Paternal Relatives (Father's side)—the lineage, the status, the "Big House."
On the other side: My Maternal Relatives (Mother's side)—the "Bread and Rusk," the love.
And in the middle stood me. A 15-year-old boy who had just buried his father.
They asked me a question no child should ever have to answer.
"Which side will you choose?"
"Who will you live with?"
It felt like a courtroom, and I was the evidence.
I looked at the faces. I didn't see the money or the land. I saw the hunger I had felt, and the hands that had fed me.
I chose the Maternal side.
I walked away from the "Big House" of my ancestors and stood with the family that had saved us from starvation.
The Flashback: Words of Fire
But the real story of that day wasn't about my choice. It was about a Curse that was silently fulfilling itself.
To understand why my father died so young, you have to go back in time.
Years ago, after my Paternal Grandfather passed away, a war broke out in our house.
It was a war of words between My Father and his own mother (My Paternal Grandmother).
They fought like enemies. The anger was so deep, so hot, that it turned into fire.
In the heat of that argument, they spoke words that should never be spoken.
My Father, in his rage, pointed at his mother and screamed:
"I will never put soil on your grave! When you die, I won't be there!"
(In our custom, the son putting soil is the final duty. He was denying her salvation).
My Grandmother, in her fury, pointed back and cursed him:
"And I will never put soil on yours! I won't give you the final bye!"
They shouted these words into the air. They thought it was just anger.
But the Universe was taking notes.
Vak Siddhi. The power of speech. When pain speaks, God listens.
The Curse Manifests (Sept 8, 2000)
Fast forward to September 8, 2000.
My father died.
My Grandmother (his mother) was alive. She was right there in the house.
Technically, she should have been able to throw the soil, to say the final goodbye to her son.
But God is precise.
She was suffering from Paralysis.
Her hands—the same hands that pointed at him in anger—were frozen. She couldn't lift them. She couldn't hold the soil.
She sat there, helpless, watching her son go into the earth.
Her curse came true: She did not give him the soil.
The 30-Day Cycle (Oct 8, 2000)
But the script wasn't finished. My father's curse was still floating in the air.
"I will never put soil on your grave."
Exactly 30 days later.
October 8, 2000.
The cycle completed.
My Grandmother passed away.
She had only one son—my father. It was his duty to bury her. It was his right.
But he was already in the grave.
He wasn't there.
She had to be buried by her relatives—her brothers, her parents' side. Her own son didn't put a single grain of soil on her.
His curse came true.
The Divine Mathematics
I stood there, watching this play out.
September 8 to October 8.
Two deaths. Two curses. Both fulfilled to the exact letter.
It wasn't a coincidence. It was a message.
I realized then that life is not random. It is a script written by our own words.
I was 15 years old, an orphan, standing in the middle of a divine tragedy.
I had chosen my Maternal side, but I carried the heavy lesson of my Paternal side:
Be careful what you say. The Soil remembers.
(To be continued...)