~ "That boy was none other than the fragile child I once saw reciting sutras on the street."
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Ved donned the Rasoi Ghar; silence swept the kitchen. The sight itself was unbelievable—Ved, the prodigy, once again preparing food especially for Devansh. Students crowded by the windows, craning for a glimpse. Elders lingered just out of sight, feigning indifference, though their ears strained to catch every sound.
Whispers rippled from corner to corner.
Inside, the Bhavan was crowded, as there Ved moved swiftly—calm, composed, almost regal—as he kneaded dough, chopped vegetables with steady rhythm, and dropped pooris into hot ghee. Each golden puff rose like a small victory.
Opposite him, Devansh sat cross-legged like a king on his throne, awaiting tribute. Across the room, his grin spread wide, his eyes glittering as if the whole spectacle existed solely for his delight. Each time Ved set a dish before him, he clapped his hands in delight and devoured the food with frightening speed.
Steam rose, plates emptied, and still the boy demanded more.
"Another poori, brother!"
Again: "More sabji!"
And again, endlessly: "Feed me more!"
By the time half the cauldrons were scraped clean, Devansh was grinning through greasy lips, declaring. "This is the best service of my life! Surely Annapūrṇā herself guides your hands!"
From the shadows of the hall, unseen by the śhiṣyas, the Āchāryas had gathered. Some shook their heads in disbelief; others pressed their lips together to hide their smiles. Even Kulapati Vedānanda's stern expression faltered when Devansh roared for delicacies—his lips twitching with the faintest hint of laughter.
Once again, when Devansh gestured for more food, Ved nearly collapsed.
> Is your stomach a bottomless well? He thought bitterly.
With a huff, he dumped the remaining sabji and pooris into Devansh's thali, crossed his arms, and sat back in surrender.
Devansh devoured the feast with the joy of a conqueror; his earlier outrage was fake. But deep inside, it was never truly about his birthday. What he loved most was the guilty look on Ved's face, the way his brother scrambled to make amends. Teasing Ved was his favorite form of affection—though he'd never admit it.
The scene was chaotic, but outside, the solemn guardians of the Gurukula were doubled over like mischievous boys peeking at a village play. Shoulders shook, lips twitched, and quiet chuckles slipped past their dignity.
The great teachers of wisdom and dharma—watching two boys bicker like brothers over food.
Ved's patience finally wore thin. "Fine! Eat until you burst! But don't blame me if you can't stand tomorrow." With a faint smirk, he vanished into the kitchen once more.
The Rasoiya and his helpers, however, were less amused. Watching their storerooms emptied in a single sitting, they slumped to their knees in despair. Their faces were pale, lips quivering, but they dared not sob aloud, only stared hollow-eyed at the vanishing ration.
The śhiṣyas whispered in disbelief, those watching were equally horrified, and even the Āchāryas exchanged troubled glances.
> If this continues, the entire Gurukula's allowance will vanish in no time…
Then Ved reappeared, carrying a silver bowl of chawal ki kheer, topped with a single green fragrant leaf, not a regular ayurveda leaf. He placed it before Devansh with a sly, satisfied smile.
Devansh eyed the kheer, then at Ved's mischievous face. He sighed. "You really want me to eat this?"
Ved only gestured at the bowl, wordlessly insisting. Without reluctance, Devansh ate. The sweetness filled him, warmth spreading through his body until his stomach protested. He leaned back, finally defeated—
To everyone surprise, the kheer filled him completely.
But Ved wasn't finished. With a sly grin, he slid a fresh pile of laddoos onto his plate.
"These are a special compensation, made just for you," Ved said sweetly. "Eat them too."
Devansh stared at the mound, shook his head furiously, eyes wide, pleading like an innocent child. Gasps spread through the room. > Devansh, refusing food? Unbelievable.
But Ved scolded like a stern mother. "Don't waste food. Eat to your fullest!" His face bore a mock expression of anger, and his tone was sharp, but inside, he was laughing at the sight of Devansh recoiling.
"Eat!" He barked again, startling everyone present. The roles had reversed. The once-mighty eater now wilted before the cook's wrath.
Devansh forced down a bite of laddoo, then collapsed dramatically on the table. "Please, Ved… I can't eat another crumb."
"Or then don't come to me again." Ved said, turning away with exaggerated coldness.
After five long minutes, Devansh had only managed to finish one laddoo, his face pale. Just as he thought he would perish, Ved chuckled softly. With a flick of his fingers, the towering pile of laddoos shimmered and vanished into thin air. The illusion dissolved.
"Next time," Ved said with a smirk, patting Devansh's head, "don't mess with me." He slipped a stomach-relief pill into his mouth, then pulled his arm over his own shoulders and carried him out of the Bhog Bhavan.
He dropped Devansh unceremoniously onto his bed.
When Devansh awoke some time later, the air felt different. He sat up slowly, realizing he wasn't in his own dormitory. But the prāṇa in this room was thicker, denser, and even more vibrant than any other Panch Tatva member's room in the Gurukula.
His gaze shifted—he saw a figure seated cross-legged in meditation, breath steady, aura calm yet vast.
It was Ved.
Prāṇa flowed into him, yet instead of vanishing, it seemed to reaccumulate, pooling again in the courtyard as though drawn by unseen currents.
Devansh's eyes widened. This was no ordinary method. What he witnessed will shake the foundation of the Gurukula.
He chuckled slightly as he noticed Ved's different prāṇa attractor arrays on the walls, in places where they couldn't be seen.
Later, when the laughter had quieted and the taste of kheer still lingered, Devansh's thoughts slipped elsewhere—to memories far darker, older, etched in him since childhood…
When I was little, barely five years old, my earliest memories were not of warmth or safety but of survival. I remembered every detail with clarity, as if etched into my soul the very day I regained my consciousness of the world. I was not a child who belonged in the way others did. In the Sen family, where lineage and pride dictated every breath, I was treated not like a son but like a servant—more accurately, like a free worker expected to exist quietly in the background.
The palace was vast, with sprawling courtyards, decorated halls, and corridors lined with incense and ambition. But my place was far from such grandeur. I lived in the gaushala, the cowshed tucked behind the palace walls, where the smell of hay and dung became more familiar to me than the fragrance of sandalwood and camphor that perfumed the main chambers. The laughter of noble children never reached me. My lullabies were the distant bells tied around the necks of cattle.
Yet every time everything changes the days the head of the Sen family, Upasāmanta[1] Satyavrata Sen, returns to Vañjipura. His presence was like thunder over dry earth—imposing, unshakable. Whenever he was near, the entire palace seemed to rearrange itself, bending to his will. For the first time in my life, I was treated not as an expendable shadow but as a child of the family. His acknowledgment was enough to shift my standing, even if only slightly. The others, who once dismissed me, suddenly tempered their cruelty in his presence. But still, I lingered in the gaushala, for habit and silent decree tethered me there.
One afternoon, my fate veered in a direction I could never have imagined.
I was seated on a carriage beside Upasāmantī[2] Vrinda Sen, one of Satyavrata Sen's wives. Her beauty was matched only by her ambition, and she carried herself with the grace of someone whose every move was calculated. She had but one aim: to secure the attention of her husband, to carve a permanent place in his favor. Every action she took seemed aligned toward that end. That day, she had chosen to parade through the streets, perhaps to display her influence, perhaps to remind the people who commanded power.
As the wheels of the carriage rolled over the stone-laid roads of Vañjipura, I saw him.
He was just a boy then—four years old, one year younger than me. Small, thin, and fragile, his frame seemed almost breakable. His head was bowed low, lips moving ceaselessly as if he were muttering to himself. Yet when I leaned closer, straining my ears against the clatter of hooves and wheels, I realized he was reciting. Not childish rhymes, not idle mutterings, but war sutras—ancient knowledge embedded in the verses of the Arthaśāstra[3], the Dhanurveda[4], the Śukranīti[5]. His voice was soft, but his rhythm steady, precise, unwavering.
Something stirred in me at that moment, thin and fleeting, like the whisper of a half-forgotten dream. A thread of familiarity tugged at me, fragile as spider silk but unbreakable.
Upasāmantī Vrinda Sen noticed him too. Her eyes, always searching for opportunities, lingered on him. She was captivated, not only by the boy's strange brilliance but also by the possibility he represented. Adopting him as her son, she believed, would elevate her stature in the eyes of Satyavrata Sen. She expressed her desire aloud, intent on claiming him as her own.
But when the boy finally raised his head and their eyes met, something changed. His gaze, though bright in form, was hollow in essence. His eyes were dim, lifeless, as though the very will to live had been extinguished within him. He carried the air of someone who walked with the dead, a soul that had no anchor in the world of the living. The sight unsettled her. For a heartbeat, I thought she might abandon the idea. Fear flickered in her eyes. Yet her ambition was greater than her dread. Despite the deadened glow in his gaze, she persisted.
And so, he was taken in.
He was given the name Ansh Sen, folded into the Sen family under Vrinda's name. It was not long before he revealed his talent, this time in Ayurveda. He understood herbs, roots, and remedies in ways that baffled even the learned. With his success, Vrinda gained recognition before Satyavrata Sen and earned his fleeting favor.
But destiny rarely unfolds in straight lines.
At the age of nine, Ansh began to suffer. At night, his body would betray him—paralysis would seize him without warning, leaving him weak and strengthless for days at a time. It was as though his very life force flickered, struggling against an unseen weight. Whispers spread through the palace:
Was he cursed?
Possessed?
Or merely weak?
And then, when he was thirteen, disaster struck. His aushadhi shala—the medicine chamber in his courtyard—erupted in an explosion that shook the entire wing. Flames licked the walls, smoke coiled into the sky, and the air reeked of burnt herbs. Many feared it was the end of him. But when he was saved, lying amidst the fire pool, covered in soot yet alive, something about him had shifted.
The boy I had once seen as dim and aloof now shone with an unfamiliar brilliance. His aura was no longer stagnant. It surged, vibrant and commanding, as though some invisible had been shifted. His presence unsettled those around him, for they could not name the change. But I—I recognized it instantly.
The familiarity I had felt years ago crystallized into certainty.
The one I had been searching for, across lifetimes, across the ebb and flow of birth and death—had returned.
Ansh Sen was no ordinary person. Beneath his disguise, beneath the dimmed eyes and fragile frame, lay the soul I had known, the soul I had been waited for return. His light had merely been veiled until now. And with that realization came clarity: I could no longer stand by passively. I had to protect him, guide him, shield him from the poisonous web of the Sen family.
When the opportunity arose, I acted. I helped him fake his death. Together, we wove the illusion of his demise, ensuring no suspicion remained. The palace wept, some with sincerity, others with relief, while Vrinda's ambitions crumbled into dust. Before the head of the family, I greeted and delivered the words that severed his ties to the Sen name:
"Ansh Sen… he is no more."
For a fleeting moment, I thought I saw something in Satyavrata Sen's expression—not grief, not shock, but a weary sigh, a hand lifting to rub at his temples as though dismissing a minor irritation. With a simple gesture, he signaled me away, and the matter was closed.
But Ansh was not gone.
From that day forward, he lived under a new name:
Ved Arya.
I often wondered why he chose it, why he hid behind a known identity rather than stepping into the light of his rebirth.
Was it caution?
Was it strategy?
Or was it simply his nature to remain unbound by titles and bloodlines?
Whatever his reason, it was not mine to question.
All I knew—all I swore to myself—was this:
No matter what face he wore, no matter what path he walked, I would be there.
Through every storm, every shadow, every battle yet to come, I would walk beside him. For he was more than a friend, more than a brother. He was the one soul my own had recognized through the veils of countless lives.
And I was ready to follow him, even if it meant walking into eternity.
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[1] Upasāmanta: A feudal title meaning vassal lord or viscount.
[2] Upasāmantī: The wife or consort of an Upasāmanta.
[3] Arthaśāstra: Ancient Indian treatise on statecraft, economics, and governance.
[4] Dhanurveda: Classical science of warfare, archery, and martial training.
[5] Śukranīti: Ancient text on political ethics, kingship, and administration.