Light entered not as brightness, but as breath — seeping across the room like a hymn half-remembered.
On his wrist, the clasp pulsed once, testing his heartbeat, then blinked awake — neat blue text whispering reminders in rhythm with his pulse: Academy application draft due. Festival shopping. Messages from friends.
Kalki waved them away.
He rose. The floor cooled under bare feet, climate-grid hum adjusting to his steps. Outside, milk drones zipped along their routes, scolding in metallic voices: "Overdue credits… surcharge applied…" Their monotone announcements collided with temple bells — uneven, stubborn, as if trying to out-shout the machines.
Then, from far across the city, a conch rolled out from the Shiva temple. The sound pressed against his chest, deep and commanding. For an instant he couldn't tell if it came from outside, or from somewhere inside him. Beneath the conch, faint as breath on glass, a thread of flute stirred his ribs.
The machines delivered clarity. This was something stranger — alive with a color he did not have words for.
He shook his head quickly, as if to clear it, and stepped into the yard.
Ajja stood beneath the neem tree, spine straight despite his years. Beside him lay a heavy gada, its iron head catching sunlight in a dull glow. Long practice staves rested against the wall like young soldiers waiting inspection. And among them stood one staff unlike the rest — shorter, darker in grain, standing like an elder who needed no introduction.
Kalki's gaze lingered, then skittered away.
Ajja's arms rose, body moving through a slow arc of training. Each motion was measured, not muscle but memory. The hovering training orb chimed green whenever he held a pose long enough.
"You woke?" Ajja asked without turning.
"Mostly." Kalki stretched. The orb blinked red, projecting a crooked outline around him.
"Even machines say I'm hopeless," Kalki grinned.
Ajja's chuckle was low. His gaze flicked briefly to the old staff. "Machines measure balance. But wood remembers hands. A staff remembers who carried it. Strength, ra, is not only in muscle — it is in memory."
Kalki rolled his eyes, but the words dug deeper than he wanted to admit. Ajja never said Dharma outright, but somehow everything he said was about it.
From the kitchen, Amma's voice carried — firm but warm. "Kalki! Come quickly, before the dosas turn hard. You'll miss them hot."
Dev leaned over the railing, hair pointing in all directions like a rooster mid-battle. "Amma! Kalki still looks like a rooster that overslept!"
Kalki tilted his head, grin flashing. "If I'm the rooster, you're the feather stuck to its backside."
Ajja laughed so hard the training orb flickered in confusion, as if unsure how to measure mirth.
"Enough, both of you!" Amma scolded, appearing in the doorway, dish towel draped over one shoulder. "Save your jokes for after breakfast."
The smell of sambhar pulled them inside.
The dining table gleamed faintly, smart-alloy pulsing clean in slow waves. Still, old stains clung to it like grudges — turmeric circles, jaggery streaks, traces of years the grid could never quite erase.
One chair stayed empty. Ananya's.
Her photo on the wall — proud in her Academy uniform — watched over the table. Her smile was confident, her shoulders squared, eyes carrying the weight of someone who had stepped firmly onto the path expected of her.
Kalki avoided the photo at first, then found his eyes dragged back to it. Pride swelled in his chest, but beneath it lay a dull ache — a sting that her gaze always measured how far he had not climbed.
Nana folded his newspaper with deliberate precision, kurta still neat despite the morning bustle. His voice cut across the clatter of plates.
"Our ancestors fought not for land or coin, but for Dharma. They guarded it with sacrifice. That is why people still revere our name — and why they expect more from us. Their battles built the path you walk, ra. Do not walk it carelessly."
Kalki tore his dosa too hard. Sambhar spilled across the plate like a small rebellion. "With your lectures, Nana, even dosa feels like an exam."
Ajja muttered under his breath, "And punishments."
Dev stuffed chutney into his mouth. "Or Amma's slipper."
The table rippled with laughter, even Amma hiding a smile as she ladled extra sambhar onto Kalki's plate.
But Nana's gaze stayed sharp, as though measuring more than words.
Outside, festival prep swelled. Loudspeakers crackled with half-tuned songs, children rehearsed drumbeats that stumbled but never stopped, garlands of mango leaves drooped across doorways. The whole city seemed to hum in restless anticipation.
Yet beneath the clatter of cutlery and family banter, Kalki felt something heavier.
His hand drifted to the pouch at his side. Inside, the copper coin sat warm — too warm. Its lotus gleamed faintly, as though catching light not present in the room.
He curled it in his palm. The warmth spread into his clasp, letters stuttering, blinking in rhythm with his pulse, then breaking altogether.
Dizziness swept through him. Not sickness — but sound. A note pressed too deep for machines, vibrating through ribs and marrow.
For a breath, it felt like the coin was not metal at all, but a vessel of memory. As if it carried the echo of something older than the flood, older than stone, older even than the flute's last breath.
He clenched his fist. Plates clattered. Voices carried on. Nana lectured, Dev joked, Amma scolded gently.
No one else noticed.
Only the sparrow outside stilled mid-hop on the neem branch, head tilted as if listening. The leaves barely stirred, yet their veins seemed to hum.
The silence within Kalki did not feel like emptiness. It felt like attention.
And in that silence, he wondered — was this what Dharma felt like? Not law, not command, but presence. Waiting.
Waiting for him.