The tension didn't break easily in Nair Kalamandalam.But Ramanidharan knew exactly where to hit it.
He stood in front of Raaghav, mimicking Kottarathil Raama Varma's rigid posture, puffing his chest out dramatically."Netram! Netram! Ponmon, kannu thurannu pidikku!" he barked, rolling his eyes so hard it looked painful.
Raaghav stared for half a second.
Then he laughed.
Not a polite smile. A full-bodied, breath-shaking laugh—the kind that hurt a little but healed a lot. Ramanidharan took that as victory. He carefully removed the heavy kireedam, wiped the smeared chutti, loosened the costume piece by piece until his brother was just Ponmon again, not Ayyappa, not a vessel.
"Go bath," Ramanidharan said softly. "I'll handle the rest."
The kitchen came alive soon after. Maize puttu steamed gently, the smell warm and grounding. Chickpea curry simmered with coconut and spice. Ramanidharan cooked with muscle memory—food as an act of protection.
Outside, Kalamandalam Kaliyanandan Nair trained his disciples in silence, his face carved from stone, his mind already measuring the coming arangetram.
Inside the bathroom, water ran cold over Raaghav's shoulders.
He closed his eyes.
And then—he saw it.
Right there, reflected faintly through steam and dripping water—a humanoid shape, frozen mid-form, its body etched like stone, wings unmistakably butterfly. Not flapping. Not alive. Petrified.
Watching him.
Raaghav gasped and staggered back.
In a blink, it vanished.
Only his own reflection stared back—wide-eyed, shaking, alive.
"Just… imagination," he whispered. But his heartbeat refused to agree.
He dressed quickly.
In the dining hall, Ramanidharan fed him like when they were children—one spoon at a time, watching his breathing more than the food disappearing. Raaghav ate quietly, unsettled but grateful.
After the disciples left, the old man came.
Kaliyanandan Nair stood awkwardly at the doorway, hands clasped behind him. The authority was gone. Only age remained.
"Ponmon," he said softly. " and Ramanidharan… I spoke harshly. Discipline blinded me. Forgive me."
Raaghav shifted uneasily. His throat tightened."Muthuchaan… please don't say big words," he murmured. "It makes my chest feel heavy."
Silence fell.
Ramanidharan snapped.
"Big words?" he barked. "You want truth instead?"
He turned on his grandfather, years of restraint cracking open."We lost our parents because of this obsession! Your selfish heredity of Kathakali—always stage first, family later!"
Kaliyanandan Nair flinched.
"I don't want him dancing till he drops," Ramanidharan continued. "I don't want him to dance Kathakali. I don't want him to pursue BPA course. I want him alive, happy and healthy."
Raaghav reached out, touching his brother's arm, grounding him.
Ramanidharan's voice broke as he turned to him."Ponmon… I have only you. You are my only family."
He pointed back sharply."Not that killer kilava."
The words hit hard.
Kaliyanandan Nair didn't argue. He didn't defend himself. He simply stood there, smaller than before, the weight of tradition finally heavier than pride.
Raaghav looked between them—between passion and protection, between art and survival.
And deep inside him, something ancient watched again.
Not judging.Not interfering.
Waiting.