The laptop's screen glowed faintly in the dim room, casting dancing shadows across stacks of books and leftover snack wrappers. A news anchor's voice crackled through the speakers, polished and authoritative.
"...the government has issued a statement today expressing concern over the increasing number of Gifted individuals. With no regulatory framework in place, there's growing anxiety over how their unchecked powers may disrupt social order..."
The bathroom door creaked open.
Rohit stepped out, towel slung around his neck, droplets of water still clinging to his neck and hair. His T-shirt clung to his damp skin, and he moved sluggishly, as if gravity pulled a little harder on him than everyone else. He sank into the old wooden chair with a soft groan, rubbing his temples before turning his weary eyes toward the screen.
He didn't flinch. Didn't blink. Just stared.
The news shifted to a different story. An entertainment channel now, but the subject was eerily similar.
"Actor Rishi Verma, best known for his role in Rise, has now revealed his real-life ability to control water. Sources claim he awakened two months ago and is currently undergoing formal training at the Hyderabad Mana Regulation Institute..."
Rohit's brow furrowed slightly.
Another one.
Another person lifted above the world.
He leaned forward and placed his elbows on the desk, chin resting in his hands. His eyes didn't leave the screen, but his mind had already wandered far from it.
People—normal people—were awakening to power. Reality was shifting. And they weren't hiding it anymore. The world would be reshaped, not by governments or ideologies, but by individuals with the strength to bend nature itself.
And him?
He scoffed under his breath.
"Here I am… still stuck."
He reached toward the keyboard like he might type something, maybe search for mana awakening methods or study guides, but his fingers hovered above the keys... and then pulled back.
"I promised myself I'd start today. Just one chapter… just one mock test…"
His hand clenched into a fist, then loosened again as he slumped back into his chair. The wood creaked beneath him.
"But I failed again."
He rubbed his face with both palms, then looked at his reflection in the blackened screen of the laptop as it dimmed. His face looked rounder now. The angles had softened, swallowed by time and lethargy. Eyes dull. Hair unkempt. Shirt stretched around his belly.
"Till when will I be part of this vicious cycle?"
He rose from the chair slowly, walked to the bed, and sat on its edge. The mattress dipped beneath his weight. He stared at the floor—dusty, scattered with socks, a pen, and an unopened packet of multivitamins.
"I sound miserable. Pathetic."
He lay back on the bed, eyes to the ceiling. One hand rose into the air, fingers spread, as if reaching for something invisible just above him.
"But I've become afraid. Afraid of things… people… even connections."
His hand slowly dropped back down, landing beside him like a fallen branch.
"Maybe… maybe I secretly don't want things to change. Maybe I want the world to stay frozen… because if it changes, it leaves me behind."
He swallowed hard, a dull ache blooming in his chest.
"But I also don't want to give up."
His voice was barely a whisper.
"I just… don't know what to do. Where to begin. What to aim for. And if any of it would even matter."
He closed his eyes.
His breathing slowed.
The darkness behind his eyelids felt too comforting, like a void that invited him to stay. Just disappear. Quietly.
His lips moved without sound.
"I've grown fat… unattractive… forgettable. If I were to vanish, who would even care?"
His body felt heavy. His arms were limp. His mind, foggy. Slipping into something that didn't feel like sleep—it felt like surrender.
And then—
A flicker.
A whisper in his mind, ancient and familiar.
A verse, rising unbidden from the depths of memory:
"Aprakāśo 'pravṛttiś ca pramādo moha eva ca, tamasy etāni jāyante vivṛddhe kurunandana."
(Gita 14.13)
"Darkness, inertia, delusion, and heedlessness—these arise when tamas predominates."
He didn't even believe in it back then, but now… it hit him like a slap.
Tamas. The inertia of spirit. The dullness that makes you forget who you are.
Sloth wasn't just a sin. It was a sickness of the soul.
And then… another voice stirred within. Not scripture, not memory—something deeper.
"You were not born for sleep…
but for struggle.
Not to rust in idleness…
but to rise in flame."
His eyes shot open.
The ceiling above looked the same. The room still smelled of old socks and damp towels. The news anchor's voice continued in the background, talking about international mana laws and registry protocols.
But something had shifted.
A spark.
Just a flicker. A tiny warmth in the chest.
He blinked, slowly, and let out a shaky breath.
"I still have people who care about me," he whispered, his voice cracking. "My mother. My father. My friends—even if I push them away…"
He stared at his hand—chubby fingers, bitten nails, dry knuckles—and clenched it into a fist.
It was still his hand.
Still capable.
Still his.
He wasn't a hero. Not yet. He was still fat, still broken, still scared.
But there was something in him now that hadn't been there for a long, long time.
A spark.