The train ride to Assam stretched endlessly. I had only ten rupees in my pocket a small emergency note my mother had tucked into my hand with trembling fingers.
Around me, the world moved with ease. Tea sellers called out, vendors passed with hot snacks, and passengers bought whatever pleased them. But I just sat quietly, watching. I had nothing to buy.
All I carried were some stale chapaties and a bit of mango pickle the last spoonful from our home.
As I ate slowly, chewing without hunger, I thought of my younger siblings. How were they eating now? Were they missing this same pickle? This was the season we usually stole mangoes from the orchard to make new batches. I missed the thrill of it the chase, the laughter, the taste of rebellion for a cause. I missed home.
Outside the train window, I saw an old man playing with his grandchild. The sight hit me unexpectedly, and my chest ached.
My uncle, sitting beside me, bought two cups of tea. He handed me one, his face unreadable. Cold wind slipped in through the cracked window as rain began to fall steadily. The drops slid down the glass like slow tears.
A grandmother sitting nearby noticed I was shivering. She offered her shawl. At first, I refused, too shy to accept kindness from a stranger. But she insisted, and I was truly cold. I finally gave in. The warmth made my eyes sting. It was the only moment of peace I had felt since leaving home.
The land outside turned green and wide. For a moment, everything felt still. The train curved near a steep valley. I looked down. It was the deepest drop I'd ever seen. A strange fear crept into me. It felt like life itself was turning that way deep, quiet, and unknowable.
I began thinking of people I had lost. One of my uncles, who died young, worked in the salt pans. At his cremation, his legs didn't burn properly. People whispered that he was cursed paying the price for his father's sins.
I also remembered an old man from our village who had gone to Delhi to follow his dreams. He returned sick, coughing blood, his chest ruined by years of paint chemicals. He died alone with sores on his back.
I didn't want to die like that. Maybe that's why, when my uncle convinced my mother to send me away at fifteen, she said yes.
I had my own dreams. I wanted to send money home. I wanted to buy a bike like my cousin. I wanted to be someone.
My destination was the house of a man called Ustaad. My uncle told my mother I would be given food, clothes, and a place to sleep. No salary for now. Only work, learning, and some gifts during festivals.
I was told to respect Ustaad deeply to bow to his feet, to obey him. And also to be very careful around Chhota Ustaad. He had a quick temper. I was not to speak unless asked, never to raise my voice in front of him.
The train kept moving, but something inside me felt still. The mountains passed, the rain kept falling. I saw women working in the fields with their children tied to their backs. My throat tightened. I missed my mother.
We entered a tunnel. The first one had frightened me. I remembered holding my breath, heart pounding. This time, I stayed calm. The darkness passed quickly. I wasn't fearless, but something in me had changed. I was learning to be quiet. To be still.
When we reached the station, coolies called out, but none came to help us. Maybe we didn't look like the kind who could pay. My uncle and I walked, then took a three-wheeler. We reached the house of Ustaad after a short walk.
It was big. Outside, my uncle waved at a nearby shopkeeper who recognized my uncle and greeted him warmly. They began chatting, exchanging quick updates. Standing beside the shop was a woman she looked quiet, almost distant.
The shopkeeper's sister, Lila. My uncle asked her gently, "Has the matter with your in-laws and husband settled yet?" Lila gave a small, polite nod but there was sadness in her eyes. Her silence said more than any words could.
Then the shopkeeper turned to me and asked, "And who is this young boy?"
My uncle answered for me, smiling slightly, "This is my nephew. There was a vacancy at Ustaad's place, and he was looking for work, so I brought him along to assist."
The shopkeeper looked at me kindly. "What's your name, beta?"
"Vivek," I said softly.
After a moment, we reached the gate. At that very moment, Chhota Ustaad appeared. His eyes were sharp. He was angry. We were two days late. When I bowed to him, he stopped me. "No need to touch my feet," he said. "A bow is enough." He told my uncle that Bade Ustaad was in sadhna (meditation) and asked if I had been told the house rules. My uncle said I would learn quickly.
We walked to the courtyard tap. My uncle showed me how to wash both hands and feet a ritual I would have to follow every time. When I thought I had done enough and turned off the tap, Chhota Ustaad appeared and scolded me for skipping my feet. He wasn't loud, but his words were sharp. My uncle promised to correct me.
Inside, the house felt vast and strange. The gallery had walls filled with peacock feathers, a raised gaddi (thrown), trays of colored powders, and pictures of gods I didn't recognize. A small corner was set for worship. We were shown to a separate bathroom small, dark, clearly meant for servants.
In the kitchen, I tried to help. I washed rice, peeled vegetables. My uncle cooked for both of us. The utensils were dented and blackened, but the food was warm, soft, and full of flavor. That night, I felt fed body and soul.
After dinner, we cleaned a room where a ritual had taken place. My uncle told me not to touch any idols or sacred items. Some idols looked terrifying wide eyes, sharp teeth, strange weapons in their hands. While dusting a shelf, I found a glass bottle. Inside it was a snake, coiled and preserved. Its head was raised, staring outward. My knees buckled.
I dropped the cloth. My chest tightened. My uncle rushed to me. He helped me sit down, his hand on my back. He knew why I was afraid. My own father had died from a snake bite. People in the village had whispered that my mother was cursed that her soul had eaten her husband.
I sat against the wall in the gallery, shaken and silent. But the day wasn't over. My uncle reminded me: we had work to finish.
We prepared plates for Chhota Ustaad and his disciples. They ate without noticing us. Later, we lay down in the corner of the gallery to sleep. Music and strange chants echoed from deep inside the house. My uncle said Bade Ustaad was still meditating. He had been eating only light food, brought by a single disciple.
That night, the sounds from the rituals felt different louder, longer, heavier. My uncle closed his eyes like it was nothing. I tried. But I dreamt of a snake again. This time it was wrapped around my neck, cold and tight. I couldn't scream. I woke up in the dark, breathless.
And I thought: if this place was paradise, I would rather return to the hell I came from.