In the bright hush of morning, when the sun still hung low and forgiving, a young man walked along a raw, unpaved road.
His thumbs rested casually in the pockets of his worn trousers, a small habit that spoke of ease even in motion.
His skin was light brown, kissed by the same sun that now gilded the dust at his feet, and his face bore the smooth, unscarred clarity of youth—save for the brows. Both eyebrows carried old marks, clean notches carved into the dark arches as though some childhood blade had kissed them in play. Not from brawls or malice; no, these were the quiet trophies of a mischievous boy who had once climbed too high, laughed too loud, or tested the edge of something sharp just to feel alive. The cuts had healed long ago into thin, pale lines, breaking the natural curve of each brow—one a shallow crescent missing from the left, the other a sharper interruption near the right's outer tail—yet they lent his expression a strange, almost deliberate intensity, as if the world had tried to trim away his curiosity and failed.
On the ring finger of his right hand gleamed a simple silver band. It caught the newborn light with quiet arrogance, flashing bright against his skin whenever his hand shifted—a small, steady star that followed him down the dusty path.
He walked neither fast nor slow, as though the road itself were in no hurry to decide where it led, and he with it.
As the raw road stretched onward, Amitesh kept walking, his gaze drifting sideways to the open fields that flanked the path like quiet, endless watchers.
The land lay still under the pale gold of dawn, but it was not empty.
Men and women moved through the rows of young crops, bent low or standing tall with tools in hand, their bodies already speaking the language of labor. They worked not with haste, but with the deep, unhurried rhythm of those who know the day will be long and the earth slow to yield. Even in this early hour, when the air still carried the sharp bite of night, sweat glistened on their necks and forearms. Shirts clung damp to backs; breath rose in faint clouds that mingled with the mist rolling off the soil. Cold or no cold, the work demanded heat from within, drawn up from soul and sinew alike.
A voice cut through the stillness—familiar, bright, carrying the careless warmth of someone who had never learned to whisper.
"Amitesh!"
He turned his head.
From the edge of the nearest field, Arjun stood waving both arms high above his head, as though afraid the morning light might swallow the gesture before it reached its mark.
His grin flashed white against the dark of his skin, and the hoe resting across his shoulder tilted with each enthusiastic swing of his hands.
"Come here, you lazy ghost!" Arjun called again, laughter threading through the words. "You walk past like you don't even see us breaking our backs for you to eat tomorrow!"
Amitesh's mouth curved—just a fraction, the smallest surrender to the moment. His thumb slid a little deeper into his pocket, the silver ring catching one last spear of sunlight as he changed direction and started toward the field.
Amitesh lengthened his stride, the raw earth crunching softly beneath his feet as he closed the distance. A smile broke across his face—small at first, then wide and unguarded—and he raised his voice in mock indignation.
"Call me big brother, idiot!" he shouted, the words carrying over the field like a thrown stone. "I'm still a whole year older than you!"
Arjun laughed, loud and bright, letting the hoe drop to rest against his shoulder again. "A year? That's nothing! You're still slower than a bullock cart."
Amitesh reached him, breath misting faintly in the cool air, and tilted his head toward the rows of green. "So what are you doing, then?"
Arjun jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Helping Dad. Same as always."
Amitesh's gaze slid past him.
There, a little deeper into the field, stood the man—Arjun's father—crouched low among the tomato plants. His hands moved with practiced care, turning leaves, pressing gently against the swollen fruit, checking for the telltale signs of blight or thirst. Dust clung to the creases of his worn kurta; sweat darkened the collar and the small of his back. He looked tired—deeply, quietly tired, the kind that settles into the bones after decades of rising before the sun—but when his eyes lifted and found the two boys approaching, a slow, genuine smile carved lines around his mouth.
The tomatoes hung heavy and red in his palms, small miracles pulled from stubborn soil. The sight of them seemed to lighten the weight on his shoulders, if only for a moment.
Amitesh watched him a beat longer than necessary.
Then, quietly, he said, "Can I help?"
Arjun froze mid-motion, one eyebrow climbing. He studied Amitesh's face as though searching for the trick. "Hold on. You really want to?"
Amitesh gave a single, firm nod—no hesitation, no grand flourish, just the truth of it.
Arjun blinked, then grinned wider. "Well, damn. Miracles do happen."
From the rows, the older man straightened slowly, brushing soil from his palms. He walked toward them with the steady, unhurried gait of someone who had long ago learned that haste gained nothing from the earth. When he reached them, he stopped, dark eyes moving between his son and the boy with the silver ring and the notched brows.
He spoke low, voice roughened by years of dust and early mornings. "Amitesh. Do you really want to help?" A faint smile lingered at the corners of his mouth, but his gaze was serious.
"There's no need of it. You don't have to."
The words hung there, simple and honest, carrying the weight of a man who had never asked for anything he could not earn himself.
Amitesh met the older man's gaze without flinching. "No problem," he said, voice steady and quiet. "I will help."
The man studied him for a long moment—searching, perhaps, for the flicker of regret that sometimes came with such offers. Finding none, he let a small, tired smile crease his weathered face. It was the smile of someone who had seen many promises made and few kept, yet still chose to believe in the possibility.
He turned and pointed with a callused hand toward a patch of untilled earth at the far edge of the field, where the soil lay dark and unbroken, waiting.
"There," he said. "I want you to dig it for the new crops. Break the ground, turn it over, make it ready. Take as much time as you need today. Finish what you can, then rest. There's no shame in stopping when your arms complain."
Amitesh looked at the stretch of land—hard-packed, stubborn, the kind of soil that remembered every drought and every flood. Then he looked back at the man, and a slow, determined smile curved his lips, the notched brows lifting just enough to sharpen the expression.
"I will do it all today," he said.
The words fell simple and certain, like stones dropped into still water.
Arjun let out a low whistle, half amusement, half disbelief. "Big brother's got fire in him this morning,"
he muttered, nudging Amitesh's shoulder. "Don't cry to me when your hands are blisters by noon."
The older man only shook his head once, the smile lingering in his eyes.
"We'll see," he said softly, more to himself than to either of them. Then he stepped aside, giving Amitesh the space to begin.
Amitesh rolled his sleeves higher, the silver ring flashing once as his fingers closed around the handle of a spare hoe that leaned against a nearby tree. The metal was cool against his palm, worn smooth by years of other hands. He hefted it, felt the familiar weight settle into his grip, and walked toward the waiting ground.
The first strike rang out sharp and clean—metal biting into earth, a sound that carried across the field like the opening note of something larger. Dust rose in a faint golden cloud, caught by the climbing sun.
He did not look back.
Amitesh drove the hoe into the earth again, and again, each strike sending a dull tremor up his arms. The ground fought back—hard, dry, reluctant—but he answered with quiet stubbornness.
The sun climbed higher, no longer gentle, and sweat began to trace slow paths down his temples, along the sides of his neck, soaking the collar of his shirt until it clung like a second skin. His breath came measured, not ragged, but deep enough that he felt it in his ribs.
Inside his head, the rhythm of the work became a low, steady chant.
This isn't so different from walking, he thought, pulling the blade free and swinging again. Just slower. Heavier. You keep moving forward because stopping feels worse.
The silver ring on his finger grew warm against his skin, almost hot from the friction of the handle. He glanced at it once, the flash of metal catching light through the sweat in his eyes, and a faint, private smile touched his mouth.
They think I'm soft. City boy with clean hands and notched brows from stupid childhood games. Let them think it. Let them watch.
Another swing. Soil parted, dark and rich beneath the crust. Worms twisted away from the light. He liked that—the small violence of it, the way the earth gave up its secrets only when forced.
Arjun's father didn't ask for pity.
He didn't beg. He just pointed and said "there." And I said I'd finish it. Words are cheap until your arms burn and your back remembers every lie you ever told yourself.
The hoe bit deeper. His shoulders ached now, a clean, honest ache that had nothing to do with anger or regret.
Sweat dripped from the tip of his nose, fell into the furrow he'd opened, vanished instantly into the soil like an offering.
This is what they do every day. Not for glory. Not for thanks. Just because the crops need to grow and the mouths need to eat. And here I am, pretending I belong in the same dirt.
He paused for half a breath, leaning on the handle, chest rising and falling. The patch he'd claimed stretched behind him—half the field turned over, neat rows of broken earth catching the light like fresh wounds. Not perfect. Not fast. But done.
He straightened slowly, wiping his forearm across his brow. The notched scars on his eyebrows glistened with sweat, giving his face a strange, almost fierce clarity.
Arjun stood a few paces away now, arms crossed, hoe forgotten against his shoulder. He had stopped pretending to work a while ago, content to watch. His grin had softened into something quieter—impressed, maybe even a little surprised.
"Not bad, big brother," Arjun said, voice carrying just enough tease to save face. "Thought you'd quit after ten minutes and start complaining about blisters."
Amitesh exhaled through his nose, a short, tired laugh. He didn't answer right away. Instead he looked at the turned soil, then at the untouched half still waiting, then back at Arjun.
"I said I'd do it all today," he said simply. "Still got half left."
Arjun raised both brows, then let out a low whistle. "You're serious."
Amitesh only shrugged—one shoulder, casual, but the silver ring caught the sun again as he lifted the hoe once more.
The older man watched from the rows of tomatoes, silent, his smile small but steady.
Amitesh let the hoe rest against his thigh for a few minutes, breathing deep, letting the burn in his arms settle into something bearable. Sweat cooled on his skin in the brief shade of a lone neem tree at the field's edge. He drank from the steel tumbler Arjun had pressed into his hand earlier—water still carrying the faint metallic bite of the well—and then stood again.
The untouched half of the patch waited, patient and unyielding.
He picked up the hoe once more, the silver ring warm against his finger, and began again. Strike. Lift. Turn. The rhythm returned, slower now, but steady. Dust rose with each swing, clinging to the damp fabric of his shirt, turning him the same dull brown as the earth he worked.
Then the hoe struck something that did not yield.
A dull clang rang out—metal meeting stone instead of soil. The vibration jolted up his arms, jarring his shoulders. He paused, frowning, and knelt to brush away the loose dirt.
A rock. Not a pebble, not a fist-sized nuisance, but a slab of weathered granite, half-buried, its edges blunt and stubborn. It sat there like it had been waiting centuries for someone foolish enough to disturb it.
Amitesh exhaled through his nose, a sound halfway between amusement and resignation.
Of course, he thought. Nothing worth doing comes without teeth.
He tried the hoe first—wedging the blade beneath the edge, prying upward with careful leverage. The rock shifted an inch, then refused. He tried again, muscles corded, teeth gritted. The handle flexed but the stone stayed rooted.
Next he used his hands, scraping soil away until the rock's full shape emerged—roughly oval, broader than his shoulders, heavy enough that lifting it alone would have been a joke. Sweat dripped freely now, stinging his eyes. He wiped it away with the back of a forearm and considered the problem the way a boy once considered a locked gate or a too-high branch: not with frustration, but with quiet calculation.
He walked to the edge of the field, found a length of old bamboo—long, straight, weathered silver-gray—and dragged it back. Then he hunted until he located a flat stone nearby, thick enough to serve as a fulcrum.
A seesaw, then. Simple. Brutal. Honest.
He dug a shallow trench beside the rock, just enough to slide the bamboo underneath like a lever. The flat stone went beneath the bamboo at its midpoint, creating the pivot. He wedged the far end of the pole firmly under the rock's lip, then stepped onto the opposite end—slowly at first, testing. The bamboo bowed. The rock groaned.
Amitesh shifted his full weight, bending his knees, letting gravity do what pride and muscle alone could not. His boots pressed down; the pole creaked in protest. For a long moment nothing happened—only the quiet strain of wood and stone and boy.
Then the rock tilted.
A low, grinding sound rose as it came free of the earth's grip. Amitesh leaned harder, breath hissing between his teeth, until the slab finally popped loose with a sucking sigh of displaced soil. He jumped clear as it rolled sideways, thudding heavily onto its side, free at last.
He stood there a moment, chest heaving, hands on his knees, staring at the hole it had left—a dark, damp cradle in the ground. The rock lay on its back now like a defeated beast, sun glinting off its mica-flecked surface.
Arjun had wandered closer sometime during the struggle, arms folded, watching the whole thing without a word. Now he let out a low, appreciative whistle.
"Big brother's got more tricks than I thought," he said, grin wide but eyes genuinely impressed.
Amitesh straightened slowly, wiping dirt and sweat from his face with the hem of his shirt. The notched brows lifted in a faint, tired smirk.
"Had to," he said simply. "Couldn't leave it there mocking me."
He glanced back at the half-finished patch, then at the rock, then at the hoe still waiting in the dirt. His arms trembled faintly from the effort, but the fire in his eyes had not dimmed.
He picked up the hoe again.
There was still work to do.
Pushing with his shoulder and a final grunt, Amitesh rolled the stubborn rock aside until it settled in the grass at the field's edge, no longer mocking the rows. The ground it left behind was dark and welcoming, ready now for seed and rain. He stepped back, chest still rising and falling hard, sweat carving clean paths through the dust on his arms and face.
He lowered himself onto the rock's broad, sun-warmed surface and sat, elbows on his knees, gazing over the patch he had claimed. Half the field had been nothing but stubborn earth an hour ago; now it lay open, turned, breathing—neat furrows catching the high afternoon light like fresh scars of honest work. His hands rested loose between his thighs, palms raw and stinging, the silver ring dull now beneath a coat of soil. He felt the ache settle deep into his muscles, a quiet, satisfying weight.
Arjun approached, wiping his own hands on the thighs of his trousers, eyes wide with something close to awe.
"Wow, big brother," he said, voice low and genuine. "You really did it. You're really strong."
Amitesh tilted his head, the notched brows lifting in faint amusement. A tired smile tugged at his mouth.
"Told you," he said simply.
He looked out over the turned soil again, then glanced sideways at Arjun. "So what are you going to plant here?"
"More tomatoes," Arjun answered without hesitation.
Amitesh laughed through his nose—a short, soft huff that stirred the dust in the air. "Figures." He shook his head. "I want some, though. Tell your father to give me a few when they ripen."
Arjun grinned. "Okay. Deal."
A new voice sliced through the moment, sharp and familiar.
"Found you."
Both heads turned.
Gauri stood at the edge of the field, arms crossed tight over her chest, white skin almost luminous in the bright afternoon glare. Her short hair—dark, reaching just to her shoulders—swung gently as a stray breeze moved across the open land. She fixed Amitesh with a glare, black eyes narrowed, bright with something between irritation and relief.
"You just magically go out and decide to never come back," she said, words clipped, accusation plain.
Amitesh leaned back slightly on the rock, elbows still braced on his knees. He met her stare without flinching, though a flicker of guilt passed behind his eyes.
"Well…" he said, voice low and unhurried, "I was just walking. Looking at the nearby areas."
Gauri's arms stayed crossed, but her foot tapped once against the dry earth—an impatient rhythm. The wind lifted her hair again, and for a moment the sunlight caught the faint sheen of sweat at her temples, turning her irritation almost luminous.
Arjun glanced between them, suddenly very interested in the dirt under his fingernails.
Amitesh exhaled slowly, then patted the rock beside him in silent invitation. "Sit," he said. "I'm done here anyway."
Gauri didn't move at first. Her glare held, but the edge in it softened—just a fraction—as she took in the sweat-soaked shirt, the turned earth, the raw redness of his palms.
She stepped forward at last, slow, deliberate, and perched on the far end of the rock, still keeping a careful distance. Her eyes flicked over the field, then back to him.
"You look like you fought the ground and won," she muttered.
Amitesh's mouth curved, small and crooked. "Something like that."
The three of them sat there in the climbing heat, the field quiet except for the distant call of a mynah and the faint rustle of leaves. The work was done. For now, that was enough.
Amitesh shifted on the rock, the warmth of the stone seeping through the seat of his trousers. He turned his head toward Gauri, the small, crooked smile still lingering at the corner of his mouth.
"Hey, Gauri."
She didn't uncross her arms, but her glare softened by a degree—just enough that it no longer felt like a blade. The wind tugged at her short hair again, sending dark strands dancing across her cheek.
"Say na," she replied, voice flat but expectant, the way people say when they already know something's coming and aren't sure they'll like it.
Amitesh leaned forward slightly, elbows still braced on his knees, the silver ring catching a stray beam of afternoon light. His palms were still raw, streaked with dirt, but his tone stayed easy, almost casual.
"I'd like to borrow your kitchen for today," he said. "I think you have everything needed to cook."
Gauri's brows lifted. She studied him for a long second, black eyes narrowing as though trying to read the recipe written somewhere behind his notched brows.
"Yes, it has," she answered slowly.
"Everything's there. But…" She tilted her head, a faint challenge creeping into her voice. "Are you sure about what you're really going to cook?"
Amitesh met her gaze without blinking. The tiredness from the work still clung to him—sweat-darkened shirt, dust on his forearms, the quiet ache in his shoulders—but there was something else there too: a spark of quiet mischief, the same one that had once earned him those scars above his eyes.
"You'll know," he said simply.
The words hung between them, light but deliberate, like a promise wrapped in secrecy.
Arjun, who had been pretending to examine a clod of earth with sudden fascination, let out a snort of laughter and straightened.
"Oh, this I have to see," he said, grinning wide enough to show teeth.
"Big brother's been digging like a madman all morning, and now he wants to play chef? Gauri, lock up the good spices before he turns your kitchen into a battlefield."
Gauri shot her brother a look that could have curdled milk, but when her eyes returned to Amitesh, the edge had dulled further. Curiosity flickered there now, bright and unwilling to stay hidden.
She exhaled through her nose, arms finally loosening.
"Fine," she said. "But if you burn the place down or make something that tastes like dirt, I'm telling everyone you cried while you were digging that rock out."
Amitesh laughed—low, tired, genuine. He pushed himself up from the rock, joints protesting faintly, and brushed the worst of the soil from his hands.
"Deal," he said. "I'll be there soon. Just need to wash up first."
He glanced once more at the turned earth behind him—the neat rows, the waiting ground, the rock he'd conquered—and felt something settle in his chest. Work done. Hunger earned. And now, something new to prove.
Gauri watched him a moment longer, then turned on her heel, short hair swinging with the motion.
"Don't take forever," she called over her shoulder. "And don't track mud into my house."
Amitesh only smiled wider, the silver ring flashing as he lifted a hand in lazy acknowledgment.
Arjun fell into step beside him as they started back toward the road, still grinning like he'd just been handed front-row seats to the best show of the day.
"Big brother," he said under his breath, "you're either very brave or very stupid."
Amitesh shrugged, the ache in his arms already fading into anticipation.
"Maybe both," he answered.
And with that, he kept walking—dust on his boots, secrets in his hands, and the afternoon stretching open before him like fresh-turned soil.
----
In the quiet of the small apartment, Priya and Diya sat side by side on the worn sofa, legs tucked beneath them, heads bent over the same open book. The afternoon light slanted through the half-drawn curtains, painting soft gold across the pages. Neither spoke; the only sound was the occasional turn of paper and the distant hum of the city beyond the walls.
Then the front door slammed open with the force of someone who had never learned the meaning of restraint.
"Haha! I am here! Did you miss your big brother?"
Amitesh strode in, arms spread wide, dust still clinging to his shirt, sweat-darkened hair falling into his eyes, the silver ring on his finger catching light like a small beacon. His voice filled the room the way a sudden wind fills a still courtyard.
Priya flinched, the book nearly slipping from her lap. Diya's hands flew up in a startled blur of fingers—quick, sharp gestures that cut through the air like silent lightning.
Priya's eyes widened. She translated without missing a beat, voice half-exasperated, half-amused.
"She's asking, what the hell are you doing?"
Amitesh grinned, kicking the door shut behind him with one heel. "I'm going to cook for you."
The twins froze. Completely. Mouths parted, eyes wide, the book forgotten between them. One bomb after another, dropped so casually it was almost cruel. Amitesh cooking? The same Amitesh who had spent the morning wrestling rocks out of the earth like it owed him something?
Gauri appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, arms crossed again, one brow arched high.
"Going to tell me what you're going to cook?" she asked, voice dry as summer dust.
Amitesh turned to her, smile widening into something dangerously confident.
"Rasam," he said. "And you people will help me a little. Okay? Let's go."
He glanced over his shoulder at Arjun, who had trailed in behind him carrying a bulging cloth bag that sagged with the weight of tomatoes.
"Arjun—did you bring the tomatoes? How much?"
Arjun hefted the bag. "Maybe three kilos."
Amitesh nodded once, decisive. "Very good. Let's start."
The small team shuffled toward the kitchen like recruits following an unexpectedly capable commander. Priya and Diya exchanged a long look—half disbelief, half curiosity—before rising to follow. Diya's fingers twitched again, a silent question that Priya answered with a tiny shrug.
Inside the narrow kitchen, Amitesh moved with the same focused rhythm he'd used in the field. No wasted motion. No hesitation.
First, he measured rice into the pressure cooker, added water, set it on the flame, and closed the lid with a soft metallic clunk.
Then he turned to the tomatoes. He washed a handful, chopped them roughly, tossed them into the small mixer with fresh green chilies, a few cloves of garlic, and a pinch of salt. The blades whirred briefly; when he opened the lid, a bright, sharp-scented puree waited—red as fresh blood, fragrant with heat.
He set a heavy-bottomed pot on the gas, flame licking blue beneath it. A generous pour of oil shimmered, then crackled as he threw in cumin seeds and mustard seeds. They popped and danced. Curry leaves followed—green and glossy—frying until their edges curled and the kitchen filled with that unmistakable South Indian perfume.
Into the tempering went the tomato puree. It hissed, spat, thickened. He stirred with a wooden spoon, patient, letting the raw edge cook away until the color deepened and the smell turned rich and rounded.
Water next—poured in slow, measured streams until the pot held a thin, ruby broth. He waited. Watched. The surface trembled, then broke into lazy bubbles. Salt followed, stirred in with a quick twist of the wrist. A lid went on. Low flame.
Across the room, the pressure cooker gave its first whistle.
Amitesh straightened, wiped his hands on a cloth, and exhaled.
"Just wait ten minutes," he said. "It'll be ready."
Arjun stood leaning against the counter, arms folded, mouth slightly open. He blinked once, twice, as though trying to reconcile the man who had just wrestled granite with the one who had just orchestrated a pot of rasam like it was nothing.
"I thought…" Arjun started, then shook his head. "What was I even thinking?"
Amitesh stepped past him and clapped a hand on his back—firm, brotherly, still carrying the warmth of hard work.
"Don't worry," he said, voice low and easy. "You'll get better if you keep learning."
Arjun laughed despite himself, the sound startled and bright. Priya and Diya hovered near the doorway, watching the scene unfold with matching expressions of quiet astonishment. Diya's hands moved again—slower this time, almost approving.
Gauri leaned against the wall, arms still crossed, but the corner of her mouth had lifted.
The kitchen smelled of cumin, curry leaf, and promise.
Ten minutes, Amitesh had said.
The rice was ready. The rasam
simmered gently beneath its lid, fragrant and waiting.
And for once, no one argued with big brother.