Dakini: K Hari Kumar Brings Tales On Power & Wrath Of Feminine Energies

While investigating a spate of unexplained deaths in a remote village, Mumbai-based journalist Mamta learns of the ḍakini: a bloodthirsty entity that haunts the surrounding forests, leaving mutilated corpses in her wake. As the villagers’ terror grows, so does their dangerous suspicion of women. With lives on the line, including her own, Mamta is dragged into a race against time—all whilst trying to escape her traumatic past, which threatens to turn her own mind against her.

Dakini is a thrilling depiction of human courage in the face of terrifying adversity, and of superstition dwarfed by the power of the supernatural. It is a tale that is not easily forgotten.

Here's an excerpt from K. Hari Kumar's Dakini

‘What you did was correct. Persistent persuasion makes a good journalist great, but please do not try that on me. At least, not tonight.’ Mamta imparted another important lesson to the intern. 

Mamta held out the iPad, a wan smile flickering on her face. ‘Here, you can have it.’ 

‘Nah, sleep calls. I have had a tiring day too. Though Rehan and I are used to the weird stuff, a corpse is a whole new level. I saw my first dead body. Now I need some rest. But you can read it if you are not able to find sleep anytime soon,’ Tara said, walking back to her bed. She dropped onto the mattress with a thump, and then curled up like a carefree brat. She pulled the blanket over her body, turned to face the wall, and said, ‘Goodnight, Mamta. I hope you feel better tomorrow.’ 

‘Goodnight, dear.’ Mamta replied and laid on the bed. 

Mamta stared at the ceiling, the memory of Olive Oyl and the kitten swirling in her mind like dust motes in moonlight. Was it just a coincidence, or did she really have a vision? She remembered the conversation with Father Simon at bandstand, where Olive Oyl’s topic was brought up last. 

But she found a way to tell you, to reach you, my child, that someone else out there needed you. Father Simon had called it God’s mysterious way of working. His words had comforted her and motivated her to take up Becky’s offer and come all the way to Birpoor. Then she gets a vision in her nightmare. Was the universe trying to tell her something? 

You are very fortunate because of the gifts that you still have. Use it for those who don’t. Father Simon’s words echoed in her mind. However, before they could settle down, she shook them off. There was no place for destiny or God in her heart. 

If there was a God, then her biological parents would have been alive; she’d have at least seen them. Where was the mystery in the cold earth that claimed her parents? 

If there was a God, then she wouldn’t have grown up in an orphanage but in a real home. Where was the divine plan in the orphanage walls that echoed with loneliness? 

If there was a God, then people like Celina and Paul wouldn’t have turned their backs on her. Where was the ledger of sins when vipers in human skin abandoned her in her hour of need? 

If there was a God, then her baby would have been alive and healthy. Where was the divine intervention when the foetus contracted the rare heart defect? 

If there was a God, then Mamta would have been a mother now. Mother. The word tasted like ashes on her tongue, a rusted knife twisting in her womb, a cruel reminder of what she’d lost— motherhood. 

Tragedy, when it strikes, it takes a piece of you. 

But then, another face flashed in her mind—Kuhu, brimming with the promise of motherhood. Yet now, that same promise hung by a thread, threatened by forces both seen and unseen. Mamta was sure that Kuhu was also dependent on the mercy of God. 

Another god. A different name. A different mask. A Mother Goddess. 

For, like Mamta, Kuhu too had been abandoned by the supposed mercy of the heavens, left to face the wolves alone. But Mamta wouldn’t stand for it. Not again. Rage, righteous and fiery, coursed through her veins. She had to act, and act fast. Kuhu’s husband, that monster, had met his end at the hands of a vengeful entity—the dakini, some called it, a demon to others. In that moment, Mamta found a twisted solace, not in the being itself, but in the embodiment of a fury that mirrored her own. A brutal justice, yes, but far more palatable than the deafening silence of a God who turned a blind eye to suffering.160 

Far away in the woods, Guththa’s burnt carcass was hanging upside down from the topmost branch of a muloni tree. His legs had been parted to allow the branch to hoop through, and his ankles were knotted up. Three cuts on his flesh to resemble the comb of a rooster. Ants were crawling all over his body, and his mouth was open wide. He had last breathed almost an hour ago.

Extracted with permission from K Hari Kumar's Dakini; published by HarperCollins Publishers