Ancient curses. A grieving husband. A demon that tells stories before it kills. Vikram and Betaal: Night of the Blood Moon reimagines the legendary Vikram-Betaal folklore as a gripping supernatural thriller where love, death, and immortality blur beneath a blood-red sky.
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‘Would you like to hear a fascinating tale before I slaughter you? Mercilessly, I’m afraid.’
The demonic entity, its eyes patient and unnatural, hissed this into the ear of the man it had pinned to the ground. Its long, sharp, rotting fingernail hovered above the man’s chest, eager to slice through flesh and bone.
The man said nothing, his breath harsh and uneven, eyes wide and unblinking. Sweat formed trembling beads across his forehead, trickling slowly down his temples.
‘Of course you would,’ the demon sneered, cracking a grotesque smile, which stretched the pale, rotting skin of its face so taut it seemed ready to split open.
Long ago, longer than your mind can stretch, there lived a prince in the northern valley, on the mortal side of the Vaitarani River.
His name was Daripodar.
One night, during a hunting expedition deep in an unfamiliar jungle, Daripodar passed by a massive rudraksha tree. There, he spotted something strange—a young ascetic, suspended upside down from a thick branch.
Startled, Daripodar halted the hunting party and sat beneath the tree, watching the man for hours. But the ascetic did not flinch or tremble. He hung there in perfect stillness, lost in deep meditation.
The prince’s attendants whispered that the man had been meditating in that position for years. Daripodar was mesmerized. He had never seen such complete control over the body or the mind.
Decades later, after the death of his father, Daripodar ascended the throne.
One evening, during another hunt, he returned to the rudraksha tree and was astonished to find the ascetic still suspended, older and frailer but deep in meditation.
Back at court, he summoned his ministers and subjects. ‘Whoever can break the ascetic’s determination,’ he announced, ‘will receive unimaginable wealth.’
The court erupted. The chief minister protested the extravagant reward, but the crowd cheered. Among them was Ruprekha, a cunning, beautiful courtesan, who boldly stepped forward.
‘Not only will I break his will,’ she declared, ‘I shall bear his child—and he himself will carry that child into this very court.’
Intrigued, Daripodar accepted her challenge, doubled the prize and gave her ten years. But he added a grim condition: if she failed, she would be publicly beheaded.
Ruprekha accepted. They sealed their vow with a betel leaf and she set off for the jungle that very night.
Days turned into weeks. Each morning, Ruprekha bathed in fragrant perfumes, wore tinkling ornaments and danced around the ascetic, hoping her charms would break his trance. But nothing worked.
Soon, she noticed how frail he’d become. His thin limbs, skin stretched tightly over brittle bones, his life barely holding on. Desperate, she prepared a sweetmeat from whatever she could gather and forcefed him, fearing he’d die and seal her fate.
Suddenly, the ascetic’s eyes snapped open. ‘Who dares disturb the sanctity of my eternal vigil?’ he demanded, voice weak but trembling with fury.
Feigning shock, Ruprekha replied softly, ‘I am the daughter of a god, descended to Earth. Your suffering was unbearable for me.’ Her voice trembled gently, eyes wide with practised innocence.
Gradually, the ascetic softened.
Over the following days, she brought him to her modest hut, caring for him until his strength returned. Then, one stormy night, Kama’s arrow found its mark. They gave in to desire, and soon after, Ruprekha bore his child.
Over time, Ruprekha grew genuinely fond of the ascetic, no longer desiring the king’s reward or youthful dreams of wealth. She abandoned her vow to King Daripodar, content with the simple life she’d built.
Years passed. Their son grew, but the ascetic struggled to provide for them, detached as he was from society. Misfortune struck again when Ruprekha fell gravely ill. On her deathbed, she begged the ascetic to ensure a better life for their child, urging him to bear their son on his shoulders to King Daripodar.
Confused, the ascetic honoured her last wish.
He arrived at court with their seven-year-old son perched on his shoulders. King Daripodar was ecstatic, immediately recognizing him, but the court burst into ridicule when the ascetic revealed his wife’s name and her claim to divine origin.
Though Daripodar offered the promised reward, the ascetic felt humiliated and betrayed upon learning the truth. He refused the riches, his voice trembling with rage as he cried out:
‘Who gave you the right to destroy my quest for immortality, you blasphemous king?’
Caught off guard, the king raised his hand to halt his guards. Stepping forward, he quietly replied, ‘My envy—of your resolve, your control.’ His words carried a subtle, twisted satisfaction.
The court continued mocking the ascetic, who turned away, burning with shame. But before leaving, he cast a final warning: ‘Not in this life, but in the next— or the ones thereafter—I will avenge this humiliation. Remember, King . . . my quest for immortality will be fulfilled when I sever your head in the presence of my son’s lifeless form, the child who carries the mark of the resolve you shattered, and ensure that nothing born of this betrayal remains.’
He left the king deeply unsettled.
Unable to bear the sight of his son, the ascetic, consumed by fury, burnt the child alive. Soon after, completing his final penance, he departed from this world.
Yet their story did not end there.
Their fates remained entwined, and ages later, all three were reborn. On the same night, at the same hour, beneath the same blood moon.
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