Aaah!!!
Not again.
My head. Splitting. Nails driven inside, hammered, deeper, deeper. I clutch my skull, but it only gets louder. Lamps sway above—two flames, three, I can't count. Smoke pours into my nose. Thick. Bitter. Ghee.
I want to vomit. I don't.
"नासदासीन्नो सदासीत्तदानीं"
Whose voice? Not mine. It crawls through my ribs. Teeth rattle. The hall shivers. Or maybe it's me.
Stop. Please.
No one listens.
I try to stand. Legs fold. Knees smack stone. Pain shoots up. I press harder. As if crushing my skull will silence it.
"कामस्तदग्रे समवर्तत"
Desire. A flame. Crimson. Flickering in the dark. It breathes. It leans closer. I can't breathe.
Fourteen years. Four wasted. Since twelve—stopped. No spark. No progress. Just failure.
Practice harder.Still a child.Patience.
Patience is rot. Patience is death.
What if I'm cursed? What if I'm broken? Forgotten by gods, by fate, by even myself?
Father's voice—"My genius." Liar. Dead liar. My chest hurts. I hear his laugh. I see his hand on my shoulder. Gone. Left me in this body that won't move forward.
Mother—stone, never cracked. She raised me after. She endured. She made me promise. Endure. Endure. Four years later, I'm crawling in circles.
The yantra on the wall—glows. Shifts. Lines breathe. I can't stop staring. They move when I move. They know I'm watching.
Flame again. Crimson. Tapas. Mocking me.
Light. Dark. Noise. Silence. All crash at once. I don't know what's real.
I slam my fist against stone. Skin splits. Blood. Warm. At least this is mine.
"Enough!" My throat tears. Echo dies. Silence.
Then again, the whisper:
The beginning. The end. The same.
I collapse. I don't know if it's sleep or death.
Dark.
Dreams crawl in. Father's face. Mother's silence. The crimson flame. A forest. Cold. I shiver even inside sleep.
When my eyes snap open, the pain's duller. My mouth tastes of iron and smoke. My body aches.
Oh.
No.
I forgot.
Water. From the river.
Clean the gurukul hall.
Water the herbs.
If I don't, Mahajan will banish me again. Cold forest. Two days. Maybe longer this time.
I drag myself upright. Limbs heavy. Head ringing. My chest feels hollow, ribs rattling like empty clay pots. I stagger to the doorway. Outside, the sky's still dark blue, fading at the edges. Dawn is near.
River first. Always river first.
The path's rough. Pebbles bite into my feet. I don't care. The air's wet, cool. My breath fogs. Crickets hum, then vanish as I approach water.
The river moves slow this morning, a thin mist hugging the surface. I kneel, scoop water into the clay pot. Hands tremble. Some spills, soaks into my clothes. Cold. Sharp. My teeth chatter.
I fill it halfway. Heavy enough already. I hoist it against my shoulder. My muscles ache. Fourteen years of training, and still, a clay pot feels heavier than mountains.
Pathetic.
Halfway back, my vision doubles again. For a moment, the river isn't water but a streak of light. Thread. Vibration. My head throbs. I almost drop the pot. I steady myself, teeth clenched. Keep walking. Don't fall.
The hall. Empty, except for lamps burnt to black stubs. I set the pot down. My hands sting with cold. My legs won't stop shaking.
I pick up the broom. Straw rough against my palm. I sweep slowly, dragging dust, ashes, scraps of burnt offerings. The floor whispers. Not words—just a sound. Like it remembers every step, every failure.
I blink hard. My vision blurs. The broom feels heavier than the pot.
I hear Mahajan's voice in my skull: "A hall must shine if the mind must shine. A dull space makes a dull soul."
I sweep harder, as if I can beat the dullness out of me.
Dust rises. Catches in my throat. I cough. Eyes water. My arms ache.
Done. Not clean enough, never clean enough, but done.
Herbs. Outside again. Rows of clay pots, green stalks reaching for dawn. Leaves wet with dew.
I carry water pot to pot. My arms shake with every pour. Some spills. Too much. I curse under my breath. If roots rot, Mahajan will know.
He always knows.
The herbs shimmer strangely in the light. Or maybe it's my vision. Their leaves blur into patterns. Threads. Strings. Like the yantra lines. Moving. Watching.
I blink. Gone. Just leaves.
I rub my face. Tired. So tired.
By the time I finish, the sun's up. My clothes stick to my skin. Sweat, river water, I can't tell which. My chest heaves. My head still pounds.
I slump against the wall. For a moment, I close my eyes. The whispers creep back. Softer this time. Not outside. Inside. Etched in me.
I press my hands to my ears. Doesn't matter. The sound's in my blood.
Father's voice again. "My genius."
Am I?
Or just broken?
The yantra on the wall flickers in the corner of my eye. My heartbeat quickens.
Maybe today Mahajan calls me. Maybe today I ask again. Why did I stop? Why no progress?
He'll answer the same. "Patience. Practice. You're still a child."
I'm seventeen. I'm not a child.
But maybe I'm nothing.
Maybe that's worse.
And the day begins.
The same. Always the same.
Pain. Chores. Whispers.
The beginning. The end. The same.