Many years ago, my father told me a story. A story about a group of Brahmins called the Havyak Brahmins, and their appetite for flesh.

Years ago, there lived a young man, a friend to my aunt, and to another man, who happened to be a Havyak brahmin.

The story goes, this brahmin boy invited his friend over for dinner and the friend agreed. When they were served food by the woman of the house, the father of the young man noticed that something was wrong. He had realised that his wife had served their guest, his son's friend, poisoned milk.

The Havyak brahmins, apparently, believe that if they kill a man, the rest of the man’s living years are transferred to the killer. So the mistress of the house plotted the death of her son's friend. She found a way to extend her own life.

Knowing what was about to happen, the husband, very calmly, picked up the boy’s glass and drank the poison.

He died immediately.

After my father died, I asked my aunt, my father's sister, about these brahmins and if she knew anything about them.

She didn't really know anything about them, but she'd heard stories about these brahmins. Apparently the brahmins trapped and killed people in their houses, stole all their belongings, and disposed their bodies. These were basically highway bandits who invited their victims home.

I don't know what story to believe.

Where my father’s story was personal, my aunt's story seemed to be more superficial.

Both painted the Brahmins in a bad light.

And I started wondering about stories and how they change with each person's retelling of them.

There must be some truth to these stories, however nominal the beginnings may be, that lead to something so scandalous. Each story teller injecting his own hopes and fears into the story while retelling it. And now we have this, almost urban legend, that says - stay away from Havyak brahmins or you will regret it.