Copper pots clanged against iron trivets as Ayan wove through the chaos of the Gurukul's stone-walled mess hall. His hands strained under the weight of the massive cauldron, but he felt a surge of energy in his chest, an uncomfortable heat that he recognized not as exhaustion but defiance.
The overseer's voice barked against the kitchen like the crack of a whip, but Ayan's mind was elsewhere — on the narrow space behind the bronze rice pot where, for exactly seven minutes each day, he would become more than just a servant.
"Move faster, boy!" The overseer's command sliced through the oppressively humid air. "The Acharyas will not tolerate any delay in their midday meal."
Ayan quickened his pace without raising his eyes. "Yes, sir."
Steam billowed from the bubbling pots, forming ghostly shapes that dissipated against the sooty ceiling. The kitchen was a battlefield of sounds — knives against cutting boards, the hiss of batter meeting hot oil, and the rhythmic thud of pestles crushing spices in stone mortars. Ayan navigated through the discordant place with a practiced precision, his bare feet finding purchase on the worn floor slick with spilled water and vegetable peelings scattered around.
Unlike the other servants who shuffled around with downcast eyes, Ayan's gaze constantly measured distances, noted positions, and tracked the movements of every person in the room. Not from fear, though, that would have been the sensible response to the oppressively rigid hierarchy within the Gurukul. No — Ayan watched because observation was the first discipline of survival.
The overseer — a broad-shouldered man with a perpetual sheen of sweat on his forehead, and knuckles scarred from decades of kitchen work and enforcing kindly discipline — paced along the length of the long preparation tables. His bamboo switch tapped against his palm in a metronomic warning.
He tentatively tasted the lentil soup. "You there! The spice is overpowering. Do you think the Acharyas cannot taste your laziness?" His switch whipped through the air, landing squarely on a young boy's shoulders.
The boy's piercing scream filled the room as he clutched his back and fell down in a heap of pain. "I swear it wasn't me —"
With a grunt, the overseer grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, as he pulled him up. "Doesn't matter! There's a mistake and someone has to pay for it."
The boy cowered and picked up the pestle with shaky hands and started grinding again, a rivulet of tears tracing a winding path down his dusty cheeks.
Ayan's jaw tightened. His fingers curled firmly around the handle of the pot he carried. A fierce flame burned in his heart.
One day... One day, that switch would not fall so freely.
He set the cauldron down, wincing as his arms protested the sudden release of weight. He discreetly approached the younger boy and slipped a handful of roasted cashews into his pocket.
"For later," he whispered.
The boy's eyes widened in gratitude, and he nodded once before quickly darting back to his task.
Ayan smiled and returned to his own duties. He took three steps and then a quick sideways movement past the girl with tired eyes, washing rice. Two more steps, then a pause as the butcher's cleaver sliced through the meat with a sharp crack, like a small branch snapping underfoot. Five more steps, and Ayan reached the massive hearth, where he carefully lowered his burden onto the stones beside the fire.
"Water for the second rice batch," he announced, his voice a monotone drone lost in the steam and the clatter of the kitchen.
The fire tender — an old man with eyes clouded by cataracts — nodded without looking up from the carefully balanced flames he nursed. The tenders were the only servants granted any measure of respect in the Kitchen's established order. Their skill determined whether the meals emerged perfectly cooked or ruined beyond salvation.
Ayan wiped his palms against his rough cotton trousers and glanced towards the corner where the largest of the bronze pots sat upon its dedicated hearth. Behind it lay a narrow alcove — an architectural over-thought — where firewood used to be stored before a larger woodshed was built. Now it collected shadows and dust, ignored by all except the one servant who had discovered its potential.
The overseer turned away, distracted by a commotion at the vegetable preparation area. Ayan measured his opportunity with the precision of a Seer, meticulously calculating the alignment of celestial bodies. Three servants were between him and his destination. The head cook was bent over a spice box, his attention focused on picking the right one among two identical powders.
Now.
Ayan moved with a deliberate casualness toward the rice station, grabbed a wooden paddle used for stirring, and then slipped between the enormous pot. The heat from the fire baked his skin through his thin shirt, but he welcomed the discomfort. Pain was merely another teacher.
The alcove was barely four feet wide, with just enough space for a single person to stand without touching the rough stone walls on either side. Dust motes swirled in the thin shaft of light that penetrated from a crack in the ceiling. Acrid smell of old ashes and the metallic tang of his own sweat filled the air, thick and cloying.
Ayan placed the paddle within easy reach and lowered himself into a crouch. His breathing slowed and became deliberate.
Seven minutes.
That was all he could safely take before someone noticed his absence.
His fingers traced the familiar patterns in the fine layer of dust and ash on the floor. Circles within circles, their lines weaving into intricate patterns — symbols of power he had traced hundreds of times, yet their meaning remained obscure to him. These were only fragments of knowledge he had gleaned from forbidden glimpses of the training provided to the privileged disciples in the Gurukul. Yet, they were a comfort he found nowhere else — a fleeting sanctuary drawn in dust.
Shifting his weight to the balls of his feet, Ayan rose into the first position — back straight, arms extended, palms open. He moved through forms he had pieced together with observation, from the rare occasions when he witnessed the actual training sessions while delivering meals or collecting laundry. The movements were imperfect; he knew — pale imitations of the true techniques taught by the Acharyas — but they were his.
"A person's true nature reveals itself through disciplined movement," he had heard the Guru Durjaya tell his students. In this cramped, stolen space, he became someone other than the nameless servant who existed only to fulfill others' needs.
His muscles remembered the steps. Guard position. Strike. Retreat. Circular step. Defensive block. His body flowed through the practiced sequences; small, controlled movements in the limited space, a silent dance of growing confidence.
What would his sister Tanvi say if she could see him now? The thought brought a fleeting smile to his lips. She would probably scold him for taking such a risk, then ask him to teach her whatever he had learned. She was more often sick than not these days, but she more than made up for it with her indomitable spirit.
For Tanvi, he pushed himself harder. For her, he endured the daily humiliations of servitude. He searched for strength that went beyond what their circumstances allowed; for her.
A bead of sweat traced down his temple. Ayan completed another form, this one designed to potentially channel energy through the core of his body and awaken his kundalini.
No energy stirred inside him, just like the past three years. He sighed and vowed to try again tomorrow.
The rice paddle clattered against the stone floor.
Ayan froze. He held his breath — listening. The Kitchen symphony continued uninterrupted once again — no sudden stillness, no approaching footsteps. His time was up.
He grabbed the paddle, took a moment to collect himself, and centered his thoughts. The boundary between his secret practice and identity as a servant needed to be absolute — with no overlap — if he was to survive.
"Boy! Where have you gone?" The overseer's voice rose above the kitchen din.
Ayan emerged from behind the rice pot, paddle in hand. "Checking the bottom grain, sir. Sometimes it sticks if not stirred properly."
The overseer narrowed his eyes, but the explanation was practical enough to avoid suspicion. "The meal service begins in twenty minutes. Get those vegetable platters arranged."
"Yes, Sir."
Ayan moved towards the preparation tables, his posture once again adopting the slight stoop expected of someone in his position.
The remaining hours of kitchen duty passed in a blur of mechanical tasks. Ayan carried platters heaped with aromatic dishes to the dining hall where disciples and Acharyas sat in accordance to rank and merit. He kept his eyes lowered as he served, but his awareness remained heightened, his mind cataloguing fragments of information, noting which disciples commanded respect and which Acharyas wielded the most influence.
Knowledge was another form of strength. He collected it like others might gather precious stones.
As the sun set, Ayan cleared the last of the plates, his aching body a reminder of both servitude and secret training — proof that he was still alive, still human in a place that treated him as something less. Tomorrow promised more drudgery, but also seven precious minutes behind the rice pot — one step closer to saving his sister, and himself.
Ayan grabbed some leftovers, wiped his hands on a ragged cloth, and headed toward the servants' quarters to check on Tanvi. His stomach growled, but he vehemently ignored it.
He heard the soft, uneven snoring as he stepped into the hut, and his pulse quickened. In the dim glow of dying embers, Tanvi lay curled on her sleeping pallet, her breath shallow but steady. His eyes flicked to the tiny glass vial beside her—empty.
Ayan exhaled slowly, his chest tight with relief and something else. Not fear. Not yet. But close. This was the last dose he could afford. The medicine had bought her another night of peace, but beyond that…
He kneeled beside her, watching the faint rise and fall of her chest. Stronger than before. Less strained. The curse wasn't winning — at least not yet. Tomorrow, he'd return to the caverns, another desperate gamble in the depths to afford her next dose. He had no other choice.
His stomach clenched, the hunger a dull, familiar thing. He ignored it. He had already offered his fasting to the gods — an unspoken bargain in the dark. Let this work. Let her live.
Tanvi shifted, her breath deeper now, steadier. Ayan swallowed, the tension in his spine loosening just a fraction.
Tonight, she was safe.
Tomorrow, he would find a way.