~ "A forgotten taste. An old master's voice... And a ring heavy with oath."
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The sun had already slipped behind the western canopy of the dense Vanjipura woods, its descent painting the heavens with a soft wash of copper, amber, and dying gold. The world seemed to breathe slower in that hour between day and night — that brief, aching pause before darkness took its reign. The shadows of the day stretched longer now, spilling into the courtyards of Vidyānanda Gurukula like silent ink, mingling with the ochre blush of the evening sky.
From the south-east kitchen, a warm fragrance drifted lazily on the cool air — spices roasted in ghee, grains toasted for tadka, hints of jaggery melting into milk. It was the kind of aroma that wrapped itself around the senses, the kind that made the mind forget philosophy, discipline, and rules, and think only of food.
Kulapati Vedananda, the head of the Gurukul, had been returning from the evening discourse at the Saraswati Bhavan[1] when he noticed a curious sight. Inside the Rasoeeghar — the great kitchen hall — stood a boy, his robes dusted with flour, his hair damp and unruly from heat, and his cheeks smudged faintly with soot. A faint, sweet aroma still clung to his sleeves.
The Kulapati's sharp eyes softened for only a moment before narrowing slightly.
"Why" he asked in a voice that was calm but edged with quiet authority, "are you in the Rasoeeghar instead of the Rasoiya?"
The question seemed innocent, but his gaze — honed by decades of reading both scriptures and human hearts — shifted, almost imperceptibly, toward the head chef who stood in the background.
That glance was enough.
The head chef, a man accustomed to bustling between cauldrons and commands, suddenly froze. The blood drained from his face, and an uncharacteristic stiffness gripped his posture. He did not need the Kulapati's voice to know that this was no casual inquiry.
For in that single pause, memory struck him like a slap — his mocking laughter earlier in the day, the way he had dismissed the boy as nothing more than a mischievous shishya with no real skill, the haughty challenge he had thrown out without thought: "Try cooking if you think you can — but don't ruin my kitchen!"
The sting of that arrogance now settled heavily in his chest.
Before the silence could curdle into reprimand, Ved stepped forward.
He bowed respectfully, palms pressed together. "Acharyas and Kulapati-ji," he began, his tone steady, "Rasoiya-ji has cooked for us tirelessly — three times a day, without complaint. He keeps the utensils clean, the kitchen in order, and never truly rests. So today, we thought — why not give him a break, and let him enjoy a meal made for him for once?"
He glanced toward the head chef with an expression that could be either kindness or a quiet challenge. "Didn't we, Rasoiya-ji?"
The kitchen fell still. Even the soft bubbling from the great pots seemed to fade for a moment.
All the eyes now shifted to the head chef for answer.
"Didn't we?" Ved pressured the head chef to agree with him.
The head chef cleared his throat, his voice a touch too quick. "Ahm… yes… yes, this naughty trio insisted on taking over the kitchen today. At first, I was… concerned. But Ved's… ah… adorability… well, it won me over."
A pause followed.
The statement was absurd. No one believed it. But the way the head chef forced the words out — trying to save face while also yielding ground — was enough to make a few lips twitch in suppressed laughter.
Ved blinked. Wha— "Adorable?" He took a deliberate step closer to the chef, his brows furrowed. "Do I look adorable to you? From which angle? Look again. Carefully."
He jabbed a flour-dusted finger toward his own face, tilting it from side to side as if offering an exhibit in a courtroom.
Unfortunately for him, the smudge of soot on his nose, the stubborn tuft of hair sticking up like an unruly flag, and the faint flush on his cheeks made him resemble less a fierce kitchen warrior but more an impish kitchen spirit fresh from some folktale.
His glare — intended to intimidate — only deepened the accidental charm.
The effort to suppress laughter broke somewhere among the gathered crowd. A ripple of chuckles rose from the Acharyas. Even the stoic Kulapati's lips twitched. Devansh, standing nearby, covered his mouth, his eyes dancing with mischief.
"You… you all—" Ved muttered, his face growing warmer by the second.
"Oh, where's the masala chaach?" Devansh interjected, his tone deliberately light, "Let me help you cool down."
"You—" Ved began, pointing a floury finger.
"I'm hungry too, Ved." Devansh interrupted smoothly, taking the head chef's arm. "Come, Rasoiya-ji, let's serve everyone first. Then we'll eat ourselves."
With proper bows, they exited the Rasoeeghar and rejoined the others. Plates were filled, laughter returned, and as masala chaach was served to all, the air in Vidyānanda Gurukula became lighter — less ceremonial, more like a family gathering.
Later that night, under the indigo hush of a star-pierced sky, the meal had ended. Dishes were cleared. The soft clinks of cleaned utensils and the faint, satisfied murmurs of shishyas still echoed in the distance. The sacred grounds had begun to quiet. Most students had already retired to their dormitories, their silhouettes disappearing into the corridors of knowledge and dreams.
Ved and Devansh took a slow walk around the Gurukul, laughter echoing through the corridors. The stone paths, lit with dim oil lamps, glowed softly like fireflies beneath their feet, their shadows weaving between the golden halos of the oil lamps.
"Bhukkad[2]. Khaddu[3]. Today you're like hungry Krishna — ready to devour everything." Ved teased.
"Why would I leave such a delicious dawat[4]? Today's meal was amazing. You seriously outdid yourself." Devansh replied, patting his stomach with great satisfaction. "But who is this Krishna? Have you met him?"
Ved slightly slapped his forehead, realizing. > This is a different universe from mine. Maybe here their name differ.
He cleared his throat, making an excuse. "This is a phrase used in Northern side."
With a sudden pause, Devansh asked. "You promised to take me to your new home. When will you keep that promise?"
Ved chuckled. "Alright, alright. I will. Just don't start nagging like an old woman."
Before the conversation could drift further, an elderly figure collapsed ahead of them — the Granthika-ji[5], keeper of the library scrolls, his frail arms clutching a precarious stack of ancient granthas[6].
"Granthika-ji!" Devansh rushed forward, supporting him. "Are you alright?"
Ved stepped forward too, but Devansh turned quickly. "You go. Take the eastern path, turn left at the Saraswati Grantha Bhavan. I'll see Granthika-ji to his quarters."
With a nod, Ved took the quiet path alone.
The route was lined with flowering shrubs whose blossoms glowed faintly in the lamplight. Their petals swayed gently, whispering with the breeze. The distant temple bells marked the passing of the prahar.
Yet, beneath the serenity, Ved felt it — the prickling awareness of eyes upon him.
Without turning, he spoke into the cool air. "Why are you following me, Rasoiya-ji?"
From behind a tall tree, the head chef emerged sheepishly. "How… how did you know?"
Ved tapped his temple lightly. "I just knew."
The chef laughed awkwardly, stepping closer. There was something almost childlike in the way he looked at Ved now — not the arrogance of earlier, but a hungry curiosity.
"Tell me," the chef asked hesitantly, "how is my master? Are you his descendant? A disciple, perhaps? You… you remind me of him so much."
Ved lifted a hand. "Wait. Breathe. One question at a time."
With more serious but gently. "Your master never left you. He's been with you these years… as your shadow. But he was angry before — because of how you treated others."
"What!" The chef's voice sounded surprise. "He hasn't left me? Truly?"
Ved nodded. "He's been watching… and waiting."
The chef's eyes glistened. "Can I… can I talk to him? One last time?"
Ved drew a deep breath. For a moment, the air seemed to shift. His posture changed, his spine straightened, and his hands found their way to his hips. When he spoke, his voice carried the weight of a different soul.
"You fool! What have you done with the legacy I left you? Have you forgotten that the real ingredient in every meal is not spices, but the emotion you stir into it?"
The head chef fell to his knees, trembling yet smiling through his tears, for even the sting of his master's scolding felt like a blessing.
"Master! You're here!"
"What are you laughing at? Look." Ved — or the voice within him — smacked the chef lightly multiple times on the head. "Idiot! You think joining a big Gurukul means your duty is over? Where's your humility?"
"Master, please stop! I know my mistake. I'm no longer a thirteen-year-old boy! Look at me — I've grown old! I'm a renowned chef of Vidyananda Gurukula, one of the most prestigious gurukuls in Vanjipura now!"
Ved paused. His tone softened. "You once dreamed of becoming the renowned Gurukul's head chef. And now you are. I am proud of you."
His tone grew gentler still. "Thanks to this child, I can rest. My time is over."
Suddenly, Ved gasped, staggering back slightly as if something had been pushed. A faint wind swept between them.
"Thank you…" came a whisper, fading like mist. A tear rolled on Ved's cheeks as if he had relived the head chef's master's life in these few minutes.
The head chef remained still for a moment, his eyes wet but full of peace. "Where is my master?" he asked softly, already knowing the answer.
Ved looked upward. "He's free."
The chef bowed low. "Thank you, Vedshree. For everything." He turned and walked away — his steps lighter, his shoulders unburdened, disappearing into the lamplight with the quiet dignity of a man finally at peace.
But peace was short-lived.
Just as Ved resumed his path, a soft thud behind Ved drew his attention. Near the Saraswati Grantha Bhavan's steps, the Mahā-Granthika[7] — the highest keeper of knowledge in Vidyānanda — had collapsed.
Ved rushed forward. "Are you—"
"I'm fine..." she cut him off sharply, pushing herself up. But as she steadied herself, her gaze caught on something — the ring on Ved's right hand.
It was a simple bronze band, unremarkable at first glance. Yet, when the lamplight struck it, faint engravings emerged — an ancient sigil, its curves and lines older than most scriptures, a language long vanished from mortal memory.
Her breath caught. She seized his wrist. "Where did you get this? Where is its owner?"
Ved's voice lowered. "He… he died. I performed his cremation."
The Mahā-Granthika's eyes widened in shock.
"I'm not its rightful owner." Ved continued quietly. "But he entrusted it to me, along with his responsibilities. If you wish, I will return it as you look more familiar."
He began to slide the ring off his finger.
"Stop!" Her voice was sharp enough to cut the night air. "If he gave you this ring, it means he trusted you. That ring carries more than metal — it carries his soul, his will."
For a moment, neither spoke. The night seemed to lean in closer.
Then, to Ved's utter shock, the Mahā-Granthika bowed before him. Her voice was steady. "From this moment, you are my master. This servant is at your command."
Ved stepped back immediately, flustered. "What—what are you doing? Please, don't!" He tried to stop her, placing a hand on her shoulder. "You're like my elder. I can't accept this!"
He turned, stepping away in discomfort.
But when he looked up, she was in front of him again.
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[1] Saraswati (Grantha) Bhavan: Saraswati (Library or Book) Hall – The Gurukul's grand library, dedicated to the knowledge or books.
[2] bhukkad – An overeater or foodie.
[3] khaddu – Colloquial term for a round or chubby foodie person.
[4] dawat – A feast or celebratory meal.
[5] Granthika(-ji) – Librarian or keeper of manuscripts.
[6] grantha(s) – Sacred texts or manuscripts.
[7] Mahā-Granthika – Head-chief librarian or head keeper of sacred texts.