I sometimes wonder if the gods made a mistake when they placed me in this world.
From the day I was born, people whispered that I carried a curse. They said the temple lamp went out on its own when I took my first breath. They said my father died too suddenly, falling during meditation, his eyes open but lifeless. They said my mother walked into the Dandak Forest one morning and never came back, leaving me behind like an unwanted offering.
I was too young to remember these things, but I grew up in their shadows.
When I walk through the lanes of Surya Kheda, the children shout names at me. They throw pebbles at my back and run away laughing. The elders mutter mantras when they see me, as if my presence alone can pollute their homes. Some avoid me. Some glare. Some just sigh as if my very existence is proof of bad karma.
I try to smile sometimes, to pretend that none of this matters, but inside I feel a fire. A fire that has no place to go.
---
Surya Kheda is not a special place. It is a small village in Bhuloka, one of countless villages where people wake at dawn, plough the fields, pray to the gods, and sleep when the sun sets. The houses are made of clay and straw, the roofs sag after each monsoon, and the streets are dusty paths where goats, cows, and children all run freely.
The smell of smoke and cow dung is always in the air, mixed with the scent of wet earth after rain and sometimes a trace of incense from the temple. Life here is simple, but also fragile.
For the world is not kind.
We are taught that there are fourteen realms, stacked above and below like the steps of an endless staircase. Above us lie Swarga, the heavens of the devas, and higher still are the realms where sages and celestial beings dwell. Below us are Patala and the darker places, homes of nagas and rakshasas and asuras.
The elders say the gods and demons once fought great wars that shook all the realms. Mountains split, oceans churned, forests burned. That was in another age, but even now when storms twist the sky, it feels as if those battles have not ended, only grown quiet.
Cultivators are the bridge between those worlds. They are mortals who learn to harness the breath of the universe, who rise step by step until even gods must notice them. Stories of them reach even our forgotten village. Some call them saviors. Some call them tyrants. But all fear them.
And I, cursed Aarav, dream of being one of them.
---
My days are spent carrying water from the well, helping farmer Dinesh in the fields, or watching over goats. My kurta is patched, my dhoti tied carelessly, my skin darkened by the sun. I have nothing. No family. No friends. No blessings.
But I have the fire.
When night falls, I climb the rocky hill beyond the village. I sit on its stones and stare at the sky. The stars above are not gentle. They look like sharp eyes watching me, judging me, measuring me.
And every time, I feel the fire inside my chest, pressing, restless, as if it wants to leap out.
---
The morning that changed everything began like any other. I woke before dawn, washed my face at the well, and tied my dhoti. But my hands trembled, my heart beat too fast.
For today, the Surya-Dhwaja Sect was coming.
Once in ten years, the sects send disciples to test the young in villages like ours. A chosen few are taken away, taught cultivation, and given the chance to rise beyond mortality.
I knew what the villagers thought of me. They believed no sect would even look at me. They believed the heavens had already rejected me. But I felt the fire inside. It told me today might be my chance.
---
By sunrise, the village square was crowded. Everyone gathered beneath the great banyan tree. Its hanging roots swayed like the beards of old sages, and the ground beneath was lined with flowers and oil lamps. The smell of incense filled the air, mixing with the ordinary smoke of the morning hearths.
I stood at the back, almost hidden, but my eyes searched the sky.
And then, it appeared.
A shadow descended from the clouds. At first, I thought it was a giant bird, but as it came closer I saw the truth. A flying carpet, woven of golden thread, glowing faintly in the sunlight. The crowd gasped and pressed forward as it hovered above the square.
Three figures stood upon it.
Two were young men in blue robes, their foreheads marked with the glowing symbols of their sect. The third was an old man with a beard tied neatly, his eyes sharp but calm. His presence alone made the crowd fall silent.
The carpet lowered. The old man stepped down. His voice carried across the square as if the wind itself listened to him.
"I am Guru Samprati of the Surya-Dhwaja Sect. Today, we will test the children of Surya Kheda. Place your hand upon the crystal orb. If the orb shines, you will be taken. If not, accept your fate. Remember, destiny opens many paths."
The villagers bowed low. I bowed too, though my knees shook.
---
The tests began.
A glowing orb was placed upon a wooden stand. It looked like a drop of frozen moonlight, smooth and alive with faint energy. One by one, the children placed their hands on it.
The first boy touched it. The orb glowed faintly. He was rejected but patted kindly.
The next girl touched it. A soft yellow glow spread through it. She was chosen. Her family cried with joy.
Another boy touched it. The orb shone bright orange. Chosen.
The line grew shorter. Some left crying, others smiling, some silent in shock.
And then it was my turn.
---
I stepped forward.
The crowd muttered instantly.
"The cursed one dares?"
"Even the orb will shatter in shame."
Their words struck me like stones, but I clenched my fists and walked. My legs felt heavy, but my heart thundered louder than a drum.
I placed my hand on the orb.
Cold. Empty. Silent.
The orb did not glow.
Laughter burst around me.
"See? The heavens reject him."
"He is nothing."
My face burned hot. I pressed harder, my thin arms shaking. Inside me, the fire roared, pressing against my chest as if it wanted to burst free. But still, the orb stayed dark.
Guru Samprati shook his head. His eyes were not cruel, only tired.
"Child, step back. This path is not yours. The spark is not in you."
The crowd laughed harder. My lips trembled. My heart cracked. I wanted to scream that he was wrong, that they were all wrong. I wanted the fire inside me to blaze out and silence them.
But nothing happened.
I stepped back. The shame was heavier than any burden I had ever carried.
---
I walked alone through the crowd. Alone back to my hut. Alone in the silence.
Yet even as my head hung low, I felt it again.
Deep inside.
A spark.
Tiny. Fragile. But alive.
Like a flame refusing to die.
And though the villagers slept peacefully that night, I lay awake. The fire inside me would not stay quiet.