The lane woke before breakfast.
Smart-tiles shimmered with neat squares, each glowing with a contestant's name. Cleaner drones had polished the ground slick, and now new drones hovered nosily, projecting sample rangoli patterns on nearby walls. Above it all, three great holoscreens floated at the corners of the street, promising to magnify every crooked line, every spilled grain of powder, every triumph or disaster.
Balconies sagged with neighbors leaning forward. Children dangled their legs from terraces, eager to see who would rise and who would trip.
At one end, the elders sat like judges in a stadium. Their seats weren't ordinary chairs but fiber-alloy recliners—light, resilient frames fitted with armrests that projected drone-mics close to their mouths. They looked absurdly regal, as if presiding over some futuristic court of art.
Raghav Uncle squinted through his glasses. "Square Two—too much turmeric. That's not a flower, that's curry with ambitions."
Valli Aunty was kinder, though not much. "Square Four—untidy, yes, but at least the child is trying."
Ajja thumped his staff with the authority of a cricket umpire. "Square Five—excellent until Dev walked straight through it. Minus ten!"
The holoscreens replayed the moment in merciless slow motion: Dev, clutching a sweet ball, stamping a bright pink footprint across the design. The balconies shook with laughter.
"Ammaaa!" Dev yelped, spinning in circles. "I didn't see it!"
The girl at Square Five leapt up, fists full of blue powder, and chased him down the lane. Dev squealed, ducking and weaving between contestants, leaving more footprints in his wake. Kids stamped their feet in rhythm: "Catch him! Catch him!" The crowd roared like it was a parade.
Amma pressed her hand to her forehead. "This boy will finish my patience before he finishes growing."
Powders spread fast—turmeric yellow, beetroot pink, rice-flour white. The drones whirred lower, capturing every shaky line and beaming it onto the holoscreens, each mistake replayed for the lane's delight.
Leela crouched boldly, tossing powders in quick arcs, anklets jingling as she worked with reckless speed. Meera knelt beside her square, steady and precise, smoothing edges with the edge of her palm until symmetry glowed. Ananya sat quietly with a tray of marigold petals, shaping a simple lotus. She smiled at the noise swirling around her, the rhythm of home.
Kalki leaned against a wall, coin flipping over his knuckles, catching sunlight, then vanishing into his palm. Dev, hiding behind a pillar, stared at it as if it were sorcery. Kalki didn't notice. His eyes kept drifting—restless, as though waiting for something unseen.
Ajja barked again. "Square Nine—half peacock, half… something else. Decide properly!"
The holoscreens zoomed in on the lopsided bird. Balconies collapsed in laughter.
The lane buzzed—powders, laughter, applause, the metallic hum of drones—all tumbling together.
Then a laugh cut through it all. A swaggering laugh, stretched too long.
Heads turned.
Raghu strode in from the far end, sequined kurta flashing sharp in the sun, sandals squeaking with the arrogance of newness. Three boys trailed him, trays hidden under cloth, grins plastered like masks.
The chatter dipped. Children whispered. Elders shifted.
Ananya froze mid-motion. Her stomach tightened. Raghu—her brother-in-law by title, rival in truth. The one who had never forgiven, who polished grudges until they gleamed. Amaravathi's acceptance had only rubbed salt in his bitterness.
"Ananyaaa," he called, dragging her name. "Back from your grand Academy to play rangoli in our little lane? Couldn't find a bigger stage?"
Uneasy chuckles spread.
Ajja struck his staff. "Minus fifty for rude entrance!"
The holoscreens instantly splashed a glowing –50 above Raghu's head. The balconies clapped and whistled.
But Raghu's smirk did not flicker. He snapped his fingers.
His boys whipped away the cloths.
Gasps rushed the lane.
The trays shimmered with powders that glinted unnaturally—blue and silver, metallic sparks flashing harsh in daylight. Even the drones adjusted, tilting for closer scans. The holoscreens blazed with the colors like fireworks frozen mid-burst.
Children leaned over railings, mouths wide. Some neighbors murmured in awe. Others frowned. Amma muttered, "Too much shine is never safe."
Raghu pinched a little between his fingers, the flecks gleaming unnaturally. "Natural colors fade. These shine all day. Even the drones know which side to admire."
The holoscreens obligingly brightened, projecting his powders in pristine detail, while the natural colors looked dull by comparison. Neighbors muttered, swayed by spectacle.
Raghu's eyes slid to Kalki. "Still flipping that coin? Amaravathi won't waste a seat on a street magician."
Before Kalki could reply, Arun stepped up, tall and wiry, voice sharp. "All talk, no work. Same as last year."
Bhaskar folded his arms. His calm was heavier than anger. "Powders won't save you, Raghu. Only skill will."
The crowd murmured, siding with them. Raghu's grin tightened, pride nicked. He jabbed a finger at Bhaskar. "Skill? Watch closely."
His gaze cut to Ananya. His tone turned sharper, almost cruel."And you—Academy girl—what use is Amaravathi if you can't win in your own street?"
Gasps again. Neighbors leaned closer. Ananya's jaw set, but she kept her silence.
Kalki's chest clenched. Heat climbed his throat. The coin pulsed against his palm, warmth prickling like a heartbeat not his own. His breath caught.
The world blurred.
For an instant he was elsewhere—dim light, a warehouse. Men hunched over sacks of glittering powder.
"Mix irritants with glitter," one hissed."Just enough to burn," another replied."Chaos will ruin the festival. CSA will ban it. Then profit is ours."
The vision snapped shut.
He was back in the lane—Raghu grinning, powders blazing, drones circling. The crowd's awe pressed heavy.
Kalki's heart thundered. Was it real? Or only a trick of my mind?He swallowed, steadying. What if it's true? This is no time for self-doubt. First stop him—then decide whether the vision was madness or warning.
He forced a smile. "Nice powders, Raghu. Maybe they shine best when nobody dares to touch them."
"Ooooh!" The lane howled. Boys whistled. Ajja chuckled into his mic. "The boy has started the fight."
Raghu's face reddened. "Enough talking." He plunged his hand into the glitter, scooping deep. Silver dust streamed, sticking to his skin like stars.
The holoscreens magnified it: every shimmer, every sparkle. Gasps rolled. Some clapped. Even the elders nodded reluctantly.
Raghu spread his arms wide, turning slowly. His chest swelled, eyes drinking the awe like wine.
"This is real color!" he cried. "Brighter than turmeric, sharper than beetroot, stronger than anything Amaravathi teaches!"
The crowd's awe swelled, spilling over into applause.
For once, all eyes were his.
Raghu's chest rose higher. Mine, he thought. Today, this lane belongs to me.
Kalki stayed frozen, coin cooling heavy in his palm. But in its weight was a faint pulse, not heat now but cold, steady, like a warning drumbeat.
The whispers from the vision echoed: It will burn.
Yet Raghu stood smiling, untouched, basking in glory.
Doubt gnawed at Kalki. Was he chasing shadows? Or standing at the edge of fire?
The coin pressed harder against his skin—cold, relentless, as if disagreeing.
And above, the silver powder glittered a moment too long, unnaturally still in the air.