Jaban uncle placed the bundle of coins in Granny's wrinkled hands six tarn and fifty kari, the payment he had earned by selling the pills. The old woman weighed the coins silently for a moment, her expression unreadable, then gave a faint nod.
"Teach him, Jaban," she said.
The uncle gave a crooked smile, lifted his chin toward the yard, and demonstrated once, strong arms, quick legs, pulling himself up the trunk of the tall mango tree with ease. Then he dropped down lightly, dusting his palms as if it had cost him nothing.
"Now you," he told the boy, before sauntering away toward the gate, leaving the challenge hanging in the air.
Granny's voice cracked like the sweep she often carried. "You heard him. Grab the tree, boy. Hands and legs, up like he did."
He swallowed, stepped forward, and wrapped his arms around the rough bark. He pulled, legs trembling, scraping against the trunk as he tried to push himself higher. He barely rose a foot before his grip slipped. With a thud, he crashed back to the ground.
Laughter bubbled from the veranda. Then Jaban appeared again, arms folded. "Hold your legs tighter, don't slide like an worm. If you fall, you waste it all. Now, up again!"
The boy groaned, but obeyed. He clung to the trunk, dragging his body upward inch by inch. Sweat stung his eyes. His arms screamed. Just as he was about to slip again, Uncle shouted something strange.
"Chupi, go bite him!"
A shrill screech tore through the yard. Out of nowhere, a monkey came racing toward him, teeth bared, eyes glinting with mischief.
The boy panicked. He scrambled higher with all the desperation of prey running from a predator. His legs clamped tighter around the trunk, his hands clawed upward. The monkey leapt, swiping near his ankles.
"Only climb!" Jaban's voice roared. "If you fall, he'll bite you clean!"
The others burst into laughter, clutching their sides. Even Granny chuckled through her nose. The boy's heart hammered. The monkey jumped, shrieking, coming closer with every bound. Mala came and took that monkey more upward, seeing him not moving. In fear, the boy found strength he didn't know he had. His pace quickened, his body moving faster than before, driven by pure survival. He pulled himself up until, at last, his fingers gripped the first branch. He dragged himself onto it, panting, safe above the snapping little beast.
Jaban clapped. "See? Everyone learns when death's behind him. A boy with potential."
The boy clung to the branch, chest heaving. "How is this learning? Now come down" uncle asked, laughing. He gasped "how?"
Uncle grinned. "Either think like a man, or sit there like a monkey. Should I send it higher? Mala throw Chupi but again catch it."
The boy shook his head furiously. Slowly, carefully, he began to descend. His limbs ached, his body quivered. He slipped halfway, landing hard on his backside. A chorus of laughter exploded again. Mala slapped her thigh, tears in her eyes.
The boy dusted himself off, wincing but smiling back. "What's next?" he asked, surprising even himself.
Uncle's grin widened. "That's the spirit. Do it again when you have free time."
The boy nodded.
"Now," Jaban went on, his tone sharpening, "put on the rest of that armour."
The boy gathered the remaining pieces, slabs of iron strapped for legs. His body sagged beneath them, each movement suddenly twice as slow.
"Go on, full the feeder." He went towards the river and came back with water. Uncle said, pointing toward the feeder. "Climb."
The boy staggered toward it, body shaking under the load. He reached the bamboo poles, heart pounding again. Slowly, painfully, he placed his legs on the them. His balance wavered; the weight dragged him sideways.
"Balance, boy!" Jaban called, voice firm but not unkind. "Balance. You can do it."
He nodded, breath heavy, and nearly toppled, but somehow his body steadied itself. The bamboo poles swayed violently under his feet, each one threatening to throw him into the pond again. His arms flailed, his legs quivered, but he kept his balance, step by step.
"Don't focus on the path," Jaban Uncle called out, his voice firm but distant. "Your only goal is to hold yourself steady."
The boy clenched his jaw and moved forward, each step a battle against his own weight and the armor that dragged on his limbs like chains. The water below reflected his trembling figure, mocking him with every ripple. He was close now, almost at the end of the line, and then, with a loud crack, one bamboo slipped out of place.
The boy fell.
The water exploded upward, drenching him in a cold embrace. His body ached from every wound he had earned the past few days. His skin was raw, his bones screaming. Uncle's voice came, calm and unbothered:
"Very close. Go again."
The boy dragged himself out, mud clinging to his body, his knees bleeding where broken skin met sharp edges of bamboo. He said nothing, only fixed the poles back into place and began again.
Each attempt ended the same. He would climb, wobble, strain, fall and rise again. The bruises grew darker, the cuts deeper, but his face carried only smile. When Jaban asked him, after a particularly hard fall, "Does it hurt much?" the boy only smiled weakly. Without a word, he picked himself up, carried another batch of bamboo to the feeder, and started over.
From the veranda, Granny watched, her hands still busy husking rice. Her eyes, however, were sharp with concern.
"He is reaching well," Jaban said, stroking his chin, his eyes fixed on the boy. "If the armour weren't so heavy, he might've already done it. Don't you think, Granny?"
The old woman shook her head, her voice stern. "Yes, but his body is still too young. He is only seven. Pushing too hard, and he'll break for good."
Jaban chuckled. "No. Look at him. His body heals too quickly. Didn't you say he woke up by afternoon even after a whole day of training? His wounds will heal naturally. His body is tougher than you think. See for yourself, tomorrow, most of those wounds will already be fading."
Granny didn't reply, but her eyes lingered on the boy, who was now hauling himself up again with trembling arms, face pale yet steady.
Mala quietly set aside a portion of food for him. Her hands moved slower than usual as she stirred the pot. "Poor fool," she muttered, though her eyes softened when she glanced at him through the smoke of the hearth.
That time he ate without complaint. His body sagged with exhaustion. After some rest, the air shimmered under the cruel noon sun. He walked to the yard and found Granny and Jaban Uncle laughing together about something only they understood. But when they saw him, the laughter stopped. Jaban straightened, his face slipping back into seriousness.
"Hey, come here," he called.
The boy obeyed, stepping into the training ground. In the centre stood a thick tree trunk, taller than him, its radius wider than his own chest. It looked immovable, ancient, a wall of nature itself.
"Do you see that trunk?" Jaban asked.
The boy frowned. "When did it come here?"
"Don't talk too much." Jaban's tone cut the air. "Punch it with full force. Thousand times, more will be much better. Even if your hands bleed, don't stop."
The boy hesitated, staring at the unyielding wood.
"Mala," Jaban barked. "Count it properly. I have work to do."
She rolled her eyes but obeyed, standing to the side with a stick to mark each strike.
And so it began.
At first, the boy's fists landed with small thuds, barely shaking the trunk. His hands reddened quickly, the skin swelling. The sun glared above, burning the sweat into his cuts.
One hundred punches in, his knuckles were raw. Two hundred, blood smeared the bark. Three hundred, his arms felt like dead weight, barely lifting. But he kept going.
By five hundred, his body shook violently, each strike weaker than the last. His breath came in ragged gasps. His blood, mixed with sweat, dripped down the trunk, painting it with crimson streaks.
Mala flinched, on her counting slower. Granny watched from the doorway, no emotion on her eyes.
But Jaban only stood with arms folded, his gaze never wavering.
"Don't stop, finish it now or never it will happen." he shouted.
The boy didn't. At seven hundred, he was barely lifting his arms, striking like a man possessed. At eight hundred, he could no longer feel his fists, only the dull fire of agony. By nine hundred, every punch was a scream torn out of his body.
And at last, when he reached a thousand, he collapsed to his knees, forehead pressing against the bloodied wood. Only the trunk stood unchanged.
...
Mala hurried over, crouched beside him and quickly wrapped his hands with strips of cloth. "Enough. Let's play today," she whispered, looking at him with worry. "Stop here."
But Arnesh only shook his head, tears mixing with sweat, voice rough as he muttered, "No… I need to practice."
Before Mala could argue, Jaban uncle stepped forward with a laugh. "Practice is done. Come on, we're going to catch fish. No training now."
He clapped his big hand on Arnesh's head as if sealing the matter. Mala, relieved, darted inside and returned with two small hooks and some thin string, her excitement bubbling as if she had been waiting for this. Together they went to the far edge of the field, where the grass grew tall and swayed in the lazy breeze.
They crouched low, pulling at the damp mud until wriggling earthworms revealed themselves. Mala held one up with a mischievous grin. "Little brother, see? This is how you cut them. Not too big, not too small." She threaded the worm onto the hook with delicate fingers, then demonstrated the throw, the line arching into the still water with a soft plop.
Arnesh tried to follow, though his aching arms made the motion clumsy. "Is this… part of training?" he asked, half serious, half hopeful.
Both Mala and Jaban reached out at the same time and tapped the top of his head. "In life there are other things than training, just like climbing the tree." uncle said, his voice gentler than usual. "You're still not strong yet, when your mother comes back what you will see her. But don't worry, strength isn't the only thing that matters. Knowing how to live… that matters too. Show her you can fight and even know other things also."
For the first time that day, a smile tugged at Arnesh's lips. His body still ached, but the weight inside his body still lightened. He nodded.
Mala grinned at his answer, then whispered dramatically, "But don't put too much bait on the hook, or the fish will eat and escape. Be clever."
They all sat together in the warm silence, grass brushing against their legs, the surface of the water rippling softly. From time to time, Jaban adjusted his line with calm patience. Hours of fighting and shouting were replaced by the quiet song of wind and the occasional splash.
After a while, uncle pulled up a small silver fish, grinning proudly. Arnesh, however, sat staring at his still line. "Why isn't the fish coming? Should I go forward and check?" he asked with childlike frustration.
Uncle glanced at him and said, voice firm but calm, "Why is your mind running here and there? Training is not just for the body, it is for the mind. Right now, you are restless because of pain, because mosquitoes bite you, because your thoughts are scattered. But listen, your goal is simple: to catch the fish, focus on it. If you let your mind run after every itch, every bite, every thought, then you will never catch it. Lose your mind, and you lose your focus. Lose your focus, and you lose everything. Even if the whole world burns around you, you must see only the hook."
By the time his words settled, Jaban's line tugged and he pulled another fish out, smooth and steady. Meanwhile, Arnesh yanked his own line with excitement, only to find the worm half-eaten and the fish gone. Uncle burst into laughter, shaking his head.
"See? You looked at me, not your hook. You wanted the reward, but not the patience. You celebrated before the fish was caught. And so it escaped. Remember, boy: even victory demands silence until it is in your hands."
Arnesh pouted, but quickly fixed another worm on the hook and threw it back into the water. He watched as the thread swayed wildly in the rippling current. Jaban pointed at it and said, "Let the current play with the hook, let the fish play with the worm. Patience is not weakness, patience is a weapon sharper than any blade. The one who waits, always wins."
..............
The sun was already bending toward the west when Mala returned, her steps soft against the grass. She had a bucket swinging from her hand and her braid swaying as if even the air couldn't hear her coming. Arnesh, who had been staring at the still water, blinked at her sudden arrival and whispered, "Why are we hiding to catch fish? Why like this?"
Jaban uncle's gaze stayed on the water, but his voice lowered. "Because we are lower class. Remember this, boy—we can cultivate plants, till the soil, grow the food. But catching fish, that is for others, same class but they are known different class. If anyone sees us here, it will be very bad. The rules are strict, whether fair or not. So, be careful. Always, always be careful of the world around you. Someone can come at any time, from anywhere. Just like her." He pointed his chin toward Mala. "See how she came quickly, silently, and you didn't even notice? That's the kind of awareness you must learn."
Arnesh frowned, watching his sister's quiet grin. "So now you are saying… not just to focus inside, but also outside?"
Uncle chuckled, the lines of his face creasing deeper. "Exactly. I myself was caught at least ten times before, standing here with a hook. Only saved because some kind hearted people let me off. But if I had been alone…" He left the thought unfinished, eyes narrowing at the wind that shifted through the grass. Then his hand flicked up in warning. "Wait. Someone is coming. Quietly, pack your things."
At once, they reeled in their hooks, trying to move with the clumsy stealth of children sneaking sweets. Their hearts raced as they ducked through the tall grass, making as little sound as possible. From the distance, voices grew clearer. Arnesh peeked back and saw three figures approaching—their clothes finer, their gait slower, marked by the air of authority. Beside them was a woman from the village, walking proudly, and behind them trailed a handful of others.
Uncle's whisper was sharp, urging them onward. "Those are high-class people. Next week is the festival, and they've come to gather mud for the puja. If they catch us fishing here, it will stain us worse than wounds. Quick now. Move, silent as shadows."
Together they crept away, slipping into the underbrush until the sound of water and laughter from the high-class group filled the space they had just left. Only when they were far enough did the three of them break into quiet smiles, their eyes glancing at one another with the thrill of a narrow escape.
Arnesh, still brimming with restless energy, turned to them and asked in a whisper, "What are we going to do with the fish then?" His stomach twisted with curiosity more than hunger.
Mala patted his shoulder. "Eat and come now. Don't think too much."
"But…" he hesitated, rubbing his aching arms, "I don't want to."
From inside the house, the steady sound of grinding spices carried to them. Granny was squatting near the stone grinder, pestling turmeric and ginger into a rich paste. Without looking up, she spoke, her voice firm but kind. "See here, boy. Vegetables fill your stomach, but they don't fill your bones. Fish will give your body the strength it needs. Training breaks you, but food rebuilds you. You don't want your body to hollow out, do you?"
Arnesh lowered his eyes, caught between stubbornness and her undeniable tone. "Go and bathe," she added, her hands never pausing over the paste. "Then come back and eat. Don't argue. One day you will thank me when your strength does not betray you."
The night air was cool, the faint scent of damp earth drifting in from the fields. Mala sat cross-legged in the courtyard, her small hands carefully pressing turmeric paste into her brother's swollen arms. Arnesh winced but did not pull away. The sting of medicine was nothing compared to the ache in his muscles.
Jaban uncle stood nearby, his shadow looming tall against the dim glow of the oil lamp. His voice carried the weight of both authority and farewell. "Boy, I have something to say before I leave."
Arnesh looked up, his tired eyes alert again.
"I will not be here for one week. The paddies need cutting, and there are other works waiting." His tone was steady, but there was no softness in it. "From now on, your everyday duty is this: grab those rocks and run the yard as fast as you can, with all the loads. Then push-ups and sit-ups until your body refuses to move. After that, ten thousand downward slashes—no less. Rest only when your arms tremble too much to hold the blade. Then, you'll fetch water for both the feeder and the pool. Equal share. Make sure neither runs dry."
Arnesh swallowed, already feeling the weight of those numbers pressing into his chest.
"At noon, you will climb the trees," Jaban went on, "not slowly—like a monkey running upward. You punched today, so tomorrow add the kicks. Five thousand each foot. When blood comes, wash it away, and continue. And listen well—after that, you'll do fishing. Do not get caught. If they see you, you're done."
Mala's eyes flickered toward him, worry hidden beneath her usual calm. But she said nothing.
Jaban's voice deepened. "Mala, you'll watch after him. At night, it is your choice, rest, or fight with her."
Arnesh sat in silence, trying to measure the mountain of work laid before him. Later, after Jaban left for a moment, the children sat by the fire. Mala had cleaned and split the fish, removing the bones with swift strokes. She washed the flesh, rubbed it with turmeric and ginger, and laid it on the hot stone to roast. The smell filled the air, sharp and rich, making Arnesh's stomach growl despite his exhaustion.
When the fish was ready, they ate quickly, sitting on the floor as the lamp flickered. Mala asked between bites, "Do you like it?"
Arnesh nodded, chewing carefully. "Yes. Very good in taste."
Her lips curved into a smile. "If you can catch more, we can eat like this often."
He smiled faintly, still chewing. "Then I'll catch them."
Jaban returned, wiping his hands on his dhoti. His eyes fell on the boy. "Remember, when you fish catch them quickly, without sound or disturbance. And remember this, if someone tries to stop you, smash your way through. Your life is your own. Protect it with everything. You live not for death, but to survive."
Arnesh sat quiet, digesting both the food and the words. After a pause, he asked softly, "What is my progress?"
Jaban tilted his head, studying the boy. "A battle cannot be won in one thought. Have you surrendered so quickly?"
Arnesh shook his head, lips firm. "No. I asked because I want to do harder from tomorrow."
Uncle's eyes gleamed with pride. "Good. Then know this, your progress is steady. Your lower body is stabilizing. But balance is the key. Without balance, all your strength scatters like sand."
The boy nodded, though his eyelids had grown heavy. Before long, he slumped where he sat, breathing deeply, fast asleep with the taste of fish still on his tongue.
Jaban's expression hardened as he watched. His voice was low when he turned to Mala. "He sleeps… his mental strength is nearing its limit. The breaking point is close. Only after the mind breaks does the real training begin."
Mala looked at her brother's small form, curled in the dirt, his bandaged hands twitching even in sleep.
Jaban rested a hand on her shoulder. "I leave him in your care now. Fight with him sometimes, but don't rush. Let him master the basics. The time is short… war is coming."
.........
Last word before he was going...
Granny's hands never stopped moving over the rice husks, but her voice carried a weight that made even the wind pause. "Yes… he's doing too much. He wants to learn everything so quickly. Balance is coming into his body, yes, but it still needs time. His legs are stronger, but without good food, this training will break him. Look at him, his body takes in so little, yet he still trains like this."
Jaban uncle grunted, nodding as his eyes followed the boy's sleeping form. "You're right… he needs better food."
That night, deep past midnight, the boy stirred awake as though nothing had happened to him all day. His body, bruised and swollen, did not complain, his spirit carried him out of sleep. He turned his head, seeing Mala and Granny breathing softly beside him.
His gaze drifted to the window. Outside, the clouds were thick and restless, blooming like dark flowers across the sky. The wind pressed against the hut, whistling through the cracks. A strange unease stirred in his chest.
Then a voice broke the silence. "For five days, this will continue…"
He froze, eyes wide. "When did you wake up?"
Granny's face turned toward him, her eyes reflecting the faint moonlight. "My sleep is lighter these days. I wake often." Her voice was low, almost blending with the storm outside. "From tomorrow, the rains will come. It will make your practice harder. But remember this—" her tone sharpened, "—a war is coming."
The boy's lips trembled. The word itself felt heavy, alien. "What… is war?"
Granny's stare drifted past him, out the window, into memories she would never fully share. "War is nothing but the play of kings… or fools. They sit on thrones, drunk on glory, while we—" she touched her chest softly "—we are the ones who suffer. Their battles burn our homes, take our food, bury our children. Remember that. And don't sleep tomorrow at evening. Evening sleep brings bad signs. Instead, you will learn from me. I'll teach you how to make medicine. Only the basics… enough to keep hope alive."
The boy lay quiet, his thoughts heavy. Then, in a whisper, he repeated to himself three times, as though engraving it in his heart: "War is a fight between two fools… and we are the ones punished."
Sleep claimed him again, while outside, the wind howled like a warning.