The morning sun arrived without warning. I woke up only when my uncle called my name. I stood up at once, still half inside the dream where a snake had coiled around my neck.
My uncle was already ready, wearing freshly washed clothes. He handed me a towel and some neat clothes. I didn't know where he arranged them from, but I took them, folded my bedding, and went to the servant's bathroom for a bath.
When I reached the kitchen, many disciples were already helping my uncle. They were preparing prasad offering food for the deities. The air smelled of ghee and warm spices. I joined quietly and helped by chopping dry fruits. The rest of the work I didn't know well, but I tried my best.
After the prasad(sacred food) was prepared, it was taken to the gaddi(thrown) room, where the idols were arranged.
I stood outside watching. Chhota Ustaad was leading the ritual, instructing his disciples. My uncle also helped.
After everything was offered to the idols , music began to play. The scent of sandalwood, rose, and camphor filled the room.
We stood silently in the gallery corner. At the end, we were given prasad. I copied my uncle while receiving and eating it.
All day we were working. I helped in cleaning the rooms. I still avoided the uncovered almirah. The fear of what I had seen there hadn't left me. My uncle cleaned that part himself.
We took food three times that day, and though the utensils were old, the food was good.
At night, I was lying in my corner near the gallery. I heard the sounds again tantra rituals I was getting used to. But this night was not like the others.
I saw through the gallery that a young girl was crying and smashing her head against the wall. Chhota Ustaad and his disciples were performing kriyas(tantra practice) on her.
The girl's father, a man of strong presence, kept pleading, "Please save my daughter. You helped once before, but she was only better for a short time."
For the first time, I saw worry on Chhota Ustaad's face. He shouted orders, sweat on his forehead. He kept yelling that he would perform the kriya again, that this time he would trap the spirit forever. His voice grew louder with anger.
"I will bottle the spirit!" he cried. "I will torture it for crossing the line! It dared to return to this house. I warned it the last time! This ghost won't leave alive."
The administrator grew more furious. "Then why is my daughter still like this? Why do your kriyas fail? Do what must be done, or I will break open the walls and call Bade Ustaad myself!"
Chhota Ustaad shouted back, "He is in sadhna(meditation)! He must not be disturbed!"
But the administrator refused to listen. "I will pay whatever you ask! I will fill the feet of the gods with gold, but save her!"
Chhota Ustaad was burning with rage, but the situation had gone out of his control. One of the disciples was sent to call Bade Ustaad.
Silence returned for a while. Then, a deep voice came from inside.
"What has happened to my girl?"
Bade Ustaad walked slowly into the room.
The administrator fell silent. Before anything, Bade Ustaad bowed deeply before the thrown. Then he looked at the girl and walked to her slowly.
The girl, who had been screaming and throwing herself against the wall, stopped.
She looked at him. Her eyes filled with tears. And then, she began to cry like a child again no longer like someone possessed.
Chhota Ustaad and his disciples stood back. One of them tried to hide a bottle behind a cloth. Bade Ustaad sat on the floor near the girl. He placed his hand on her head.
She calmed. Her breathing slowed. Her face softened. The room filled with silence.
The administrator dropped to the floor, overwhelmed. He took off the necklace from his daughter's neck and brought out money.
"Take this," he said. "Take it all. Just tell me she will be alright."
Bade Ustaad smiled. "Leave it at the feet of the one who helped her."
The man placed the necklace and the money at the idol's feet. Later, the necklace was put around the neck of the female deity.
When he turned to leave, Bade Ustaad looked at Chhota Ustaad.
"We do not trap spirits in bottles," he said calmly. "That is not our way. We calm them and send them where they belong. Trapping them is against the dharma(rules) of this house."
Chhota Ustaad bowed slightly. His face looked hard to read.
When Bade Ustaad walked back toward his room, he passed close to me. Something inside me moved without control. I ran and bowed at his feet.
My uncle and others tried to stop me, but I had already done it.
Bade Ustaad looked down and said something in his own language soft, almost like a whisper. I didn't understand the words.
He walked away.
The next morning, when I was helping in the kitchen, one of Chhota Ustaad's close disciples looked at me and laughed quietly.
"You think he blessed you? He just said you are made for this for sweeping and mopping floors."
I felt a sting inside. But I didn't say anything.
Later, my uncle whispered, "Maybe it means no one else can do what you're meant to do."
We didn't know then what those words really meant.
Later that day, I got a chance to take tea to Bade Ustaad. I held the cup carefully and went to his room. He looked at me and smiled.
"There are many hands that serve," he said, "but only some are called by the throne."
I didn't understand. But something in my chest stirred.
That was the day everything inside the ashram began to feel different.