By mid-morning, the house had transformed into a festival command center. Pots clanged, bells argued with milk drones, and somewhere in the hall a garland gave up on its hook and collapsed onto the floor.
Dev bounded in first, hair already festive in its own directions, tapping his clasp with the drama of a war general."Mission brief uploaded!" he declared. "Amma says procure the following, or face consequences ranging from stern glance to slipper."
The list shimmered into projection between his palms. Amma's notes glowed in italics, unmistakable.
"Item one: marigolds — fresh, not funeral. Item two: mango leaves — not the chewed ones the cow rejected. Item three: jaggery blocks — the dark kind, not that suspicious golden sugar pretending to be cultured. Item four: ghee." Dev paused. "Underlined twice. And there's even a glaring cow emoji. I think the cow is judging me."
Ajja lowered his paper, eyebrows climbing. "The cow is usually right."
Dev scrolled dramatically. "Item five: saffron — not shameful orange color. Six: turmeric — whole roots, not powder born in a factory." He flicked again. "Sub-list: rangoli powders, lamps, wicks, camphor, and—" he squinted. "Tamarind that remembers trees. Amma! How exactly does tamarind remember trees?"
From the kitchen, Amma's voice sailed out, authoritative as any queen's: "If it looks too neat and sits too quiet, it forgot where it came from."
Dev pointed at Kalki. "You, rooster. You have the face of a man who can negotiate with tamarind."
Kalki groaned, but the list synced to his clasp anyway. "This is your neatest handwriting?"
"Doctor-level," Dev said proudly.
Nana sniffed dryly from behind his newspaper. "Prescribe thrift to the vendors instead."
Ajja folded his own paper, smile creasing his face. "Take the shorter staff if you go swinging at prices."
Kalki clipped the list into his clasp and stood. "If bargaining fails, I'll charm them with Dev's handwriting."
Dev saluted solemnly. "And if you see kites, buy two. If Amma asks, the second one is for religious reasons."
"Which religion?" Kalki asked.
"The one where brothers share kites."
Amma appeared at the doorway wielding a ladle like a scepter. "Bring everything back before the sun thinks you abandoned us."
Kalki grinned, slipped his sandals on, and stepped into the lanes.
The street had turned itself inside out. Bamboo frames stretched shade across stalls. Marigold garlands drooped like golden rain. Loudspeakers crackled songs older than most of the buildings, their rhythms clashing but never stopping. Children darted through legs with kites half-tied, powder bursting from their palms. The air brewed its own incense — sesame oil from frying pans, smoke from camphor flames, and jaggery melting into sugarcane froth.
The festival was everywhere — woven into fabric, painted across faces, thundering in drums. Yet beneath the noise Kalki felt it again: a faint tremor, like something waiting for him to listen.
At the Temple Gate
The stone arch of the temple loomed ahead, its carvings garlanded in mango leaves. Beneath it sat a beggar woman, palms cracked open, eyes hollow with hunger. She whispered not chants but need.
A priest in spotless robes swept past her, counting donations that blinked across his digital slate. His voice boomed louder than the bells:"Prosperity! Progress! Dharma protected!"
Kalki slowed. The words scraped against his chest. The beggar's hand had been waved aside, empty as ever, while her prayer drowned beneath slogans.
And behind the booming words, something colder slithered. A whisper too faint for others, but sharp enough for him:Hunger is your fate. Gold is your god. Call it Dharma, and they will believe.
Kalki's jaw tightened. He stepped past, unsettled.
The beggar's palm stayed raised, trembling like a question no one dared answer.
Near the dye barrels, a group of academy aspirants leaned against a cart, their lists glowing in neat projection. Their sandals looked newer than their ideas, but their voices carried confidence sharpened for an audience.
One spotted Kalki."Ah, the philosopher arrives!" he announced. "Tell us again what you wrote — trees carry messages through their roots." He pressed his ear theatrically to the ground. "Quick, maybe the neem outside your house is gossiping about you."
Laughter burst around him.
Another leaned in. "No, no — remember his essay? Silence carries truth deeper than words. Very profound, Kalki. Perhaps the examiners will award you marks for poetry."
A third tilted his head mock-thoughtful. "Yes — a whole new department: Forestry and Fairy Tales. Kalki as founder, dean, and sole student."
Their laughter wasn't cruel enough to draw stares, but it was practiced — polished for ridicule.
And beneath their voices, the whisper again:Wonder is weakness. Mock it until it dies.
Kalki met their eyes calmly. He didn't flinch, didn't retort. He simply turned away.
But inside, the sting went deeper than it should have. Their words echoed not as insult, but as doubt:Why must every truth shrink into numbers before it can be believed? Why did wonder become nonsense the moment it slipped beyond a graph?
He clenched the shopping list tighter, pressing its glow into his palm until it dimmed.
He moved through the stalls with steady hands, forcing focus. Marigolds bright as flame, petals brushing his wrist. Mango leaves still cool with dew, their edges curling. Jaggery blocks staining his fingers with molasses stickiness. Ghee in sealed jars marked with holy cow symbols, righteous circles blinking on their lids. Turmeric roots, rough and knotted like clenched fists. Saffron threads kept behind locked glass, guarded like treasure.
He lingered at the tamarind stall. When he pressed one, it tugged faintly back, as though still tethered to the tree it came from. He smiled despite himself. Tamarind that remembers trees. Amma had been right.
And finally — two kites. One red, one blue. Religious reasons.
The crowd pulsed around him. Children shouted, powders burst in sudden clouds, conches blew from the temple towers, their sound rolling through streets like thunder tied to breath. Yet beneath all of it, under drums and bargaining, Kalki felt the other sound — quieter, heavier.
The hush of a fallen flute.
By the time Kalki threaded his way home through the evening crush, arms weighted with marigolds and jars, the day had left its rhythm inside him.
Light above, heavy beneath.
The marigolds glowed in his hand, bright as new fire. Yet under his ribs, something pressed harder — not noise, not silence, but a note that refused to leave.
The festival roared on. Children shouted. Priests boomed blessings. Powder burst into skies.
But in the cracks between their voices, the whisper moved with him. Patient. Relentless.
Waiting.