Arnesh lay on the ring's dusty earth, his breath shallow, his chest heaving as though every ounce of strength had been wrung out of him. The crowd whispered, their eyes already shifting toward the pig boy, who stood triumphantly, his fists raised, face red and swollen from exertion. The match seemed decided—at least to everyone else.
And then, as though nothing had ever happened, Arnesh stirred. He sat up, brushed the dust from his shoulders, and rose quietly to his feet. The movement was so casual, so strangely calm, that it unsettled the silence itself. He looked neither broken nor defeated. He was smiling with his lips.
Across the field, that woman, covered her mouth but could not hide the sudden laugh that slipped through. Her laughter was not loud, but it carried like a sharp crack through the tension. It was a strange sound at such a moment, a laugh that was not really joy, more like disbelief balanced on the edge of a secret. Her smile lingered like a pause stretched too long on her lips.
One of the generals narrowed his eyes and, with courteous restraint, asked her, "What happened, miss? Why are you laughing at a time like this?"
But she said nothing, only pointed toward Arnesh, who stood calmly in the middle of the dust, his eyes quietly challenging everyone who stared back.
The crowd, confused, turned their gaze. Nothing looked unusual—just a boy still standing in the ring. But her laughter made them restless. Another general, with sharper impatience, demanded, "What happened, miss? Why do you find this funny? My son has beaten him down again and again. So, that boy was already lost."
She shook her head and said, her voice still curved with laughter, "Hey, boy, that was a clever tactic. I like it. You are free, you can go now."
The crowd froze. The pig boy's triumph curdled on his face. She unsheathed her sword, let its gleam rest a moment against the air, then sheathed it again and walked toward the tree branch with her back to them. She waved casually, "What a fool you are, pig brother. You win, yes you win—but he can go now. You helped him to fulfilled his condition."
The pig boy's mouth hung open. "What does that mean?!" he shouted. His voice cracked with fury, desperation clinging to his words. "I won! I beat him! Everyone saw it!"
That woman only smiled, her silence sharper than a blade. "I am not talking about your win."
The general at her side exhaled as though struck by clarity. He understood. With slow dignity, he turned to his son and said, "She is right. You can go now."
That pig boy's face twisted red. "What does that mean?!" he screamed again.
The general rested a heavy hand on his head and whispered almost pityingly, "You foolish child. Look at where you are standing."
The pig boy looked down. His breath caught in his throat. The line marking the edge of the ring glared at him in mockery. He was totally outside. His victory was unsure but condition had been fulfilled, so he can go now.
The crowd erupted in murmurs, shock rippling like a wave. The boy stood frozen, his fists trembling, staring blankly at the ground.
Across the ring, Arnesh's hands moved in silent gestures, forming the question: "Can I go?"
The general nodded solemnly. "Yes. As the miss said, you all may go."
Jaban uncle, grinning wide, hurried to Arnesh's side and lifted him onto his shoulders. "What a sly brat you are!" he declared with pride. But then his brow furrowed, suspicion threading through his voice. "Yet tell me this—why is there no sign of punches on your body from the first five matches? Only the last thrashing left marks. What trick is this?"
Arnesh merely smiled again. He did not answer.
But then that woman's voice rang out from distance, calm and sharp. "He used his punches only to push himself out of the ring. Check his hands."
Jaban uncle pressed closer as Arnesh opened his palms toward them. Faint bruises and fresh brushes stained his fingers, marks not from being struck, but from striking the ground to control his fall, to manipulate his stance. Gasps scattered like leaves in the wind.
Mala tilted her head, half amused, half serious. "Little fox. If Jaban uncle were even half as sly, he'd survive battles much longer."
"Why, you—!" Jaban barked, delivering a swift punch to the top of her head. She yelped, staggering, but her grin did not fade.
"Uncle," she teased, rubbing the spot, "shall I tell him your secrets?"
His expression changed in an instant, slight panic flaring in his eyes. He leaned toward Arnesh hurriedly. "Don't believe a word she says! Do you hear me, boy?"
Arnesh nodded silently, a flicker of humour touching his eyes.
Jaban recovered himself and muttered in a gruff but meaningful tone, "Tomorrow, you will understand something new. Be ready to accept it with full body, mind and even soul. It might enlighten you or, make you go towards the something you never wanted."
Arnesh signed back without understanding, "I want to go down now."
Jaban set him gently on the ground. Mala joined him, walking side by side as they headed toward their home. Some villagers trailed behind with curiosity, while others stayed near the ring, still whispering about some other topics.
One boy called after them, "Hey, want to play near the ground tomorrow?"
Mala, without turning, replied, "Tomorrow."
And just like that, the two slipped into the twilight road.
...........
Granny was bent over the grinding stone that evening, the rhythmic dhup-dhap of the haman-dasta filling the room. The air smelled of crushed herbs, sharp and bitter, the way medicine always did in their home. She didn't even look up when she asked, "Mala, did you participate?"
Mala wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. "No, I didn't, Granny. But… he did." She pointed toward Arnesh, who sat awkwardly by the corner, fiddling with his hands.
Granny's head snapped up, her eyes sharp. "What? You let him fight?"
Mala fumbled with words, half laughing, half nervous. "Not me! That pig boy soldier dragged him in and forced him. But he… he won. Slyly."
"Won?" Granny's brows furrowed, as if the word itself was a stone too heavy to swallow. "How does a boy like him win? Foolish girl—you put him in that ring and made him fight, didn't you?"
"No, Granny!" Mala squeaked. "I swear! But he did win. Somehow."
Granny's voice turned stern. "Don't talk back. Do all my work here. Every last bit. If I find even a single lump in that paste, remember this club." She lifted the heavy pestle like a threat.
"Yes, yes…" Mala muttered quickly, retreating to the grinding stone. She shoved the heavy pestle into Arnesh's small hands. "Here," she whispered. "If you don't do it right, I'll get beaten—and then I'll beat you. So make it smooth. No mistakes. Ok?"
Arnesh nodded with the obedience. He pressed down on the herbs, but the pestle felt heavier than his arms. Still, he tried to hold it up.
By the time the sun melted into orange, Jaban uncle wandered in, humming as usual. He came to ask for the medicine batches—he had a market stall tomorrow and Granny's pastes always sold well.
He found both children crouched by the grinding stones. Granny glanced up only once, her eyes flicking from him to the children and then back to her work.
Jaban bent down to inspect. Mala's paste gleamed smooth, fine as river mud. Arnesh's… well, it was full of stubborn chunks that refused to break.
Jaban clicked his tongue. "Mala, you deserve another beating. You gave him the hard work. See? He can't even lift the pestle properly. He did not seem to be fully recovered yet."
"I told you to do it correctly!" Mala threw up her hands.
Arnesh clutched the pestle tighter, shaking his head.
"Give it here," Jaban said, reaching.
The boy shook his head again.
Granny's voice cracked like a whip: "Give him."
Reluctantly, Arnesh handed the pestle over. He shuffled back into the corner, sitting quietly, his gaze flicking toward the stick Granny kept propped there.
Jaban rolled his shoulders and began pounding the herbs himself. But when he looked up, his eyes froze.
There in the dim corner, Arnesh wasn't sitting idly. He had picked up a long stick of wood, thin and crooked. He was moving it, slicing the air in sharp arcs, clumsy but determined stance. His hand jerked and slipped, but the movement was very familiar.
Exactly like that girl on the tree branch.
He was copying her, every motion, even making the mistakes, like a robot who had secretly memorized each flick of her wrist.
Jaban blinked. Was he imagining it? His chest tightened with something strange—half awe, half fear.
Suddenly, he clapped his hands loudly.
Arnesh jumped, nearly dropping the stick. His eyes darted up, wide. "What?" he asked innocently, as if caught stealing sweets.
"Give me those herbs," Jaban said casually, as though nothing had happened. But his heart thudded.
When Mala leaned closer to him, Jaban whispered into her ear, voice hushed like a secret carried by the night breeze. "This boy… he has a good talent for martial arts. Should I teach him?"
Mala's eyes flicked to her grandmother, who hadn't missed a single word. Granny's hands stilled on the grinding stone. Her face carried that heavy, knowing calm she always had.
"Not yet," she said flatly. "Wait till tomorrow night. Let him understand the world first. Let him learn what he's holding before he swings it."
Jaban exhaled, a crooked smile tugging at his lips. He nodded slowly. "As you say."
In the corner, Arnesh had gone back to pounding herbs, face calm, but his fingers still itched with the memory of the stick's weight. His childish motions lingered in the air like invisible cuts.
The air was still heavy with the smell of herbs, crushed roots, and that damp earthy sharpness that clung to every corner of granny's house. The boy sat there, shoulders drooping, half-asleep. He sometime blinked again and again, eyelids stubborn, heavy. Uncle Jaban's voice suddenly broke through the quiet, sharp but almost playful.
"Hey—see this. This is how you make medicine!"
The boy lifted his head slowly, like a bird woken from a nap. His eyes had those dark half-moons beneath them, the kind that made him look as though he hadn't slept properly in weeks. He stared dumbly as uncle scooped some paste into his hand. And then, something odd happened. A faint vapour rose from the surface, curling like smoke from his hand.
The boy's drowsiness lifted instantly. He leaned forward, mouth half open. The vapour twisted and rolled across uncle's fingers as if alive.
"You want to know how to do this?" Jaban asked, eyes narrowing, testing him.
The boy nodded quickly, eyes glowing awake now.
But Mala's hand was faster than his answer. Thwack. She smacked him lightly on the head with the flat end of a spoon. "You moron," she scolded. "You can't do that. For this, you need years of experience!"
The boy rubbed his head but didn't reply. His gaze was still fixed on the vapour, following the soft swirl like a child staring at fireflies. After a while, he asked quietly, almost to himself, "What is this called?"
Uncle Jaban was surprised, because he wasn't expecting him to speak. His eyebrows rose. "Will… wait, wait... what? You can talk."
The boy nodded once. "I can. But I don't like to talk. So I sign."
"Why?"
The boy hesitated, staring down at his stained hands. "Because it will…" he started, but the words trailed off, lost in the room's damp silence.
Granny, watching from the corner, let her lips soften into a small smile. She stepped closer and tapped his shoulder gently. "Listen," she said by making same vapour like him, voice calmer this time, "this comes from practice. You will do it one day too. But for that you must believe in yourself. Understand?"
He raised his eyes, nodded again.
Uncle Jaban meanwhile poured the paste into a small clay pot. He sealed it with another piece of pottery, then closed his eyes. The boy watched with his whole body leaning forward, as if leaning would teach him faster. Jaban's chest rose, then slowly his hands glowed faintly, not light but heat, an energy. It pulsed from his body into the pot. The clay made a faint creaking sound, then settled.
"See? That's how it works," Jaban said, sweat shining on his forehead.
"Jaban, focus!" granny barked from behind, though there was a hint of amusement in her tone.
Uncle just grinned sheepishly, wiping his brow. The boy didn't grin. He sat still, eyes wide, soaking in every gesture, every motion like a sponge.
Three sand-hours passed. He didn't move, didn't yawn, didn't fidget. He just counted, watched, memorized. And when the pot was finally opened, a rush of warmth escaped, carrying a mixed smell—bitter, sweet, burnt. Inside lay 150 small pills, shining faintly, each in one of three colours.
The boy reached a trembling hand toward them.
"No," Jaban said quickly, hand snapping out like a whip. "Don't touch. They'll spoil. One wrong touch, and all is wasted."
The boy froze, then pulled back, nodding silently.
His head sagged a little after that. Sleep crept back in, heavier this time. He tried to keep his eyes open, but the room blurred, colours mixing into fog. Granny shook her head softly, pulled a folded sheet from the shelf, and draped it over him. Mala, quietly humming, took him on his bed.
When the morning sun came, he woke groggy, hair sticking to his forehead, mouth dry. For a moment he wondered if last night had been a dream. The smell of herbs still hung in the air, but sharper, fresher. He turned his head and saw Jaban already at work, shaping another set of pills, hands steady, back straight, like dawn itself had called him to duty.
"You're awake," Jaban said without looking up. "Go on. Brush your teeth. After that—training ground."
The boy's heart jumped. Training. He remembered suddenly, fully awake now. He scrambled up from the bed, splashed water on his face, rubbed his teeth in a rush, and sprinted out.
The boy ran with all his might, his eyelids still felt heavy from the broken sleep of last night, dark circles carved under them like bruises of weariness. Yet the moment he reached the training grounds, the sleep was gone. The place was alive, already full. Almost everyone had gathered—students lined in groups, and even generals in iron-grey robes sat on tall chairs, watching with folded arms and unreadable faces.
Then, as if out of thin air, that woman suddenly appeared, commanding, almost playful. Her voice cut through the air:
"Take all those bowls and fill that big pot! Whoever does it first will get a reward!"
The boys and girls rushed forward like hungry dogs, their hands snatching at the bowls. But then a strange cry rose from the crowd.
"These bowls have holes in them!" one shouted, holding up his leaking bowl like it was cursed.
"Yes, yes, holes!" another howled, as streams of water dripped on his legs.
But she only folded her arms and smiled slyly. "Then use your fingers to block them. Quick! If you're late, you'll lose your prize."
And just like that, the crowd exploded into motion. They dashed toward the riverbank like wild horses, splashing and stumbling, pressing fingers desperately against the holes. Some cursed. Some laughed. Some even tried to use their elbows. From a distance, it looked less like training and more like a comedy show.
Everyone was so focused on the leaking bowls, so frantic to be the first, that none of them even noticed the huge pot standing silently in the corner, the very goal of the trial.
She smiled again, watching the madness. Even the generals chuckled, whispering behind their moustaches.
But then, she felt some one behind her. She turned her head and saw that boy was there. The same boy who had defeated the red-clothed one earlier. He was not running with them. Just standing. His blindfold shadowed his eyes, yet somehow his presence was heavier than all the chaos around them.
"Why aren't you going?" she asked, tilting her head. "Don't you want the prize?"
The boy did not answer with words. Instead, he made a simple gesture, as if asking her to come with him.
Curious, she followed him behind the pot. There, at its base, hidden from careless eyes, was a large hole. The boy bent down, scooping some soil in his hands. He was ready to patch it up.
But she caught his wrist and smiled. "No. That's the challenge. You have to fill it as it is. Do you understand?"
He looked at her, then nodded once. Without hesitation, he turned and ran toward the river.
"Remember!" she called after him, her voice carrying across the field. "Be steady. Don't lose hope."
The generals had been watching, their faces now serious. She walked back and spoke to them softly.
"That boy has good qualities — thinking, decision, quick judgment. He might be a good seed. But…" one of them sighed. "…he is not of our birth."
One general grunted, stroking his beard. "One should not leap into battle until one knows how it will end."
The boy, meanwhile, worked without pause. Time passed quickly. His bowl leaked like everyone else's, but unlike them, he stayed calm, he adjusted the way he carried it, balancing, shifting his fingers just enough to slow the loss. By the time the sun burned overhead, that big pot was only one-fifth filled. The others had long given up, their arms tired, their backs aching. Some sat on the ground muttering curses at the stupid bowls.
"Why does it have a hole, miss?" one boy whined after pouring his third useless trip. "The water is coming out like crazy!"
She only laughed, her teeth flashing. "Then make the water fall in such a way that the water you lose is less than the water you put in. If you can do that, you'll win."
Another shouted in desperation, "Let me just plug the hole with mud!"
Her eyes glimmered with amusement. "Someone already tried. Don't bother."
Some cursed her under their breath, others scratched their heads, and a few even threw their bowls aside.
But some one kept running. By noon, almost everyone are already falling. She said "See this is only filled 1/5, when you will fill it totally. Yet, you are sitting like, you have done more work than field work." None said anything on her question. She said "now go, eat food, then come in one hour, if anyone late, he can't participate in next training." Some started to run, some parents came there with food, some opened their food to eat in there. she said "don't eat too much, or you will not able to practice"
Arnesh sat under the tree, eyes wandering aimlessly as though searching for something only he could see. The others laughed, chewed loudly, some sprawled on the ground like hungry dogs. She paced nearby towards him.
"Go home and come back," she said flatly.
He raised his hands, shaping words in the air. I told them not to make my food.
She narrowed her eyes. "Then you can't train in the next hour."
He frowned. Why?
"Hunh," she scoffed, a sharp, mocking sound. "Because your body will be weak. You'll collapse in seconds. Pride doesn't make your stomach full. There is one more thing, you are from..." Suddenly she saw a man came with food bowl.
Jaban uncle appeared, carrying a clay pot wrapped in cloth. He placed it before Arnesh. "Take this. Eat."
Arnesh dug in without hesitation, stuffing rice into his mouth as if it were a battlefield prize. She stood above him, her lips tightening in anger. Hatred stirred in her chest, not hatred for him as a person, but hatred for some unusual, can not be describable. She went away.
Jaban only chuckled grimly. "Now it will start. Be careful, boy." He asked "what for?" Uncle said nothing, he did not speak an silence was between them.
After some time, all boys and girls started to come. Those stayed there, came to ground quick, Arnesh also went there standing last. She walked to the training ground and slammed her heel into the dirt. "Stand up. Enough of this softness."
The students gathered, sensing something heavy. She adjusted her stance, speaking not to them but to the air itself, as though the earth had ears.
"The legs are slightly wider than the shoulders. The measure is not random—it is five of your own foot lengths. Feet parallel. Knees bent outwards. Back straight. The lower back curves, never collapses. Weight divides evenly. If you do it correctly, your body will root into the ground like an oak. Even if an enemy hooks low, you will not fall. Two of you, face each other and stood like that."
She demonstrated with precision, arms extended forward. Then she turned her palms inward, flat as stone slabs. From nowhere, two bowls rested on their hands. Mud filled them, water poured until they threatened to overflow. The bowls quivered, yet she did not.
Her eyes flicked to Arnesh. "Come here."
He froze, but the silence of the circle forced him forward.
She shoved his feet into place, slapped his knees outward until they locked into the brutal angle. His thighs screamed instantly. She gave him a bowl for one hand, heavy with mud, then placed a rock in his other palm. Two more rocks she balanced on his knees. Finally, she pressed a larger stone onto his head.
The weight dragged at him immediately, his body trembling. He clenched his jaw, trying not to shake.
"This," she said coldly, "is your punishment. For arrogance. For not listening. I told you to go away but you did not go. So, it will create a problem for you from now on."
"Stay," she ordered, voice like iron. "Root yourself. Grow into the ground. If one stone falls, you will repeat it with double."
The sun hung above like a merciless overseer.
.........
The smell of burning sticks lingered in the training yard. Smoke curled upward in lazy lines as the group of students shuffled about, sweating, panting, clutching their bowls like tired donkeys. She yawned wide, covering her mouth with the back of her hand, then stretched and let out a devilish smile.
"Hey—you're falling!" she snapped suddenly, eyes flashing. One boy staggered under the weight of his bowl. "If you fall, I'll make sure to pound your door all night long. You'll never sleep again. So don't fall until I say."
The threat was absurd, but the tone was deadly serious. Nobody dared to laugh and even they straightened their bowls wobbling in trembling hands.
After two more sticks of burning, she stretched again and said, with a cruel sort of casualness, "Each of you put down those bowl in there and stand in line, like the morning. Now. Move it."
They scrambled. Dust rose. Feet slapped against the ground.
"Not you," she said suddenly, pointing her finger like a spear at him. "You, just stand there. Like you are."
He stared back at her silently. Something flickered in her eyes, a feint smile she tried to cover with her usual sternness.
"Do you all see those bags?" she shouted at the rest.
Heads turned. Nearby, rocks had been cut and piled up in uneven mounds, sharp edges gleaming in the sun.
"Teacher…" one of the boys spoke nervously, "do we… have to carry them?"
"Yes!" Her voice cracked like a whip. "I like clever boys, go take them quickly. Run around the field until I say stop. Anyone late will double the run. And you—" she turned back to him, "—you stand up. If those fall, I will make you run triple. Don't spill water."
He nodded. No protest. No sigh.
The rocks weren't that big for him, so he bent low, picked up two, balanced them on his head, and tucked one carefully under each arm. Then, with the bowl still steady in his hand, he gathered two more. Finally, he carried the last few toward her like a beast of burden.
Her smile, which had earlier been proud, dimmed suddenly. Something in her expression shifted—maybe doubt, maybe pity. Still, she barked coldly, "Join them. Take the other rocks too. Run."
He obeyed again, grabbing five more and jogging toward the group, his small frame straining under the weight. Suddenly, she thought something and a bitter laugh came out.
"Listen!" she shouted, her voice slicing through the air. "If anyone makes him fall, he can go home now."
A roar of cheers exploded. The students grinned like hunters given permission to strike. To them, this was a freedom. All they had to do was knock him down, and he will be free from today's training.
"And you," she said coldly, glaring at him, "if you fall… don't ever come back. Not here. Never."
The air thickened with dust and heat as the run began. He managed half a lap, every step steady, the weight of the rocks digging into his shoulders. But envy is heavier than stone. Before he could finish even one lap, the fat boy slammed into him with deliberate force. He staggered, fell hard onto the dirt.
Silence cut through the cheering.
She appeared before him in an instant, her face like stone."From now on, you are out."
His lips trembled. "Why?""Because I told you. Loser. Get out! Also you are from lower class."
He tried to rise, but her foot lashed out, kicking the rocks aside, shoving him away from the yard.
Laughter broke out. Cruel, loud, unrestrained. Even the generals watching shook their heads in disgust.
"A boy like him can never be a martial artist," one sneered. "It his birth, low class bastard."
From the fence, villagers jeered."Go home, lower-class bastard!""Martial arts are for higher blood, not pigs like you!""Ha! Carry your rocks back to your hut, donkey boy!""Look at him, still pretending to be calm. Fool!"
The curses rained down like stones, and not a single hand reached to help him.
He walked. Step after step. Eyes burned into his back, mocking, delighted in his fall.
One boy cupped his hands and shouted, "Hey! Maybe you can be our water-boy next time. But don't spill, eh?"
Laughter roared again.
But inside his mind, another voice whispered, steady and strange. What is lower class? Why should it decide who I am? Is it really so bad? What even is it?I will ask Sister now.
.........
So, tell me—what is this thing you call the lower class?
Is your sacred system of class a blessing or a curse?Was it carved by the hands of gods, twisted by demons, or built by our own cruelty?
Does it serve any true purpose… or is it nothing but a mask for oppression?
Why must the weak always be broken beneath the strong?If power alone defines worth, then tell me—what value does compassion hold?
If birth alone seals destiny, then why are we given the torment of choice?
Is all this suffering a path to growth… or simply the architecture of tyranny?
And tell me this—if silence carries its own kind of strength, can it rise high enough to shatter the chains of your laughter and your scorn?"
For knowing it, read Nirbindra.
To be continued…