I woke to birdsong and the smell of rain‑soaked earth. The straw mat beneath me was damp with early‑morning mist, and Guru Vasishta's hut felt emptier than silence itself.
He'd gone ahead.
Lakshmika and Varun must already be inside the Gurukul grounds.
My stomach still burned from the Asura's dagger, but the bandages were clean. I untied them, smeared the last of Guru‑dev's herbal lepa across the wound—a cool paste of neem, holy basil, and wild turmeric—then re‑wrapped fresh gauze.
"Enough hiding," I muttered. Vajra rested beside the cot, the blade dull, waiting. I slung it across my back, bowed once to the empty room in gratitude, and started down the forest path.
Arrival
Two hours later, the trees opened like curtains and I stared, breathless, at Vyomāśrama Gurukul—named, Guru would later tell me, for the Vyoma, the spiritual sky that holds every soul's potential.
White‑walled dormitories ringed a vast courtyard. Banyan roots as thick as temple pillars draped from a single colossal tree in the quadrangle's heart. Students in saffron or indigo sashes gathered beneath its emerald canopy, buzzing like bees around a lotus.
Good. At least I'm not late.
A raised wooden platform circled the banyan's trunk. A grey‑robed guru—broad‑shouldered, with a voice that rumbled like war drums—stepped onto it.
"Welcome, initiates! Today Vr̥kṣa‑Mahotsava, the Tree‑Greeting, marks the start of our new term. You will attend three śāstras—Shastra‑Vidyā (armed combat), Mantra‑Vidyā (mystic recitation), and Tattva‑Parīkṣā (theory of elements). Your assigned gurus will guide you; your success—or failure—will rest on your own tapas."
He dismissed us with a wave. "Find your dorms, learn the grounds. Report to the Āyāsa‑Śibira—the training camp—at sunset."
The Dormitory
I wandered under banyan shade until stone paths turned to red‑clay lanes. Low longhouses flanked a koi pond, their walls painted with faded murals of sages meditating beneath constellations. A carved lintel read "Agni‑Kūṭa"—the Fire Wing—home for martial trainees.
Inside, rough teak bunks lined mud‑plastered walls. Trunks sat at every footboard; woven khādī blankets lay folded atop straw mattresses. Simple, but honest—my kind of place.
Reunion
Footsteps thundered behind me. A blur of indigo charged forward—Varun. Eyes rimmed red, he grabbed me in a crushing embrace.
"I thought you were ashes, Arya! Guru never said you lived—only that he'd 'take care of it.' I beat on his door like a madman."
I laughed into his shoulder, pain flaring but heart lighter. "If one of us gets to haunt anyone, it'll be me haunting you."
Lakshmika appeared, arms crossed, but relief softening her usual edge. "Boys and their theatrics. I guarded this cry‑baby all night. Get changed—sunset camp call is strict."
Touring the Grounds
They pulled me across tiled courtyards:
Dhātu‑Vatika, a medicinal garden where silver‑haired Guru Anita tended herbs glistening under morning dew.
Śabda‑Mandapa, an amphitheatre where mantras echoed like thunder.
The library tower, seven storeys tall, each floor named for a chakra.
Guru Ānītā spotted my bandaged side, tisked, and pressed a salve of sandal and honey to the wound. "Rest tonight, young lion, or you'll reopen that scar."
Trouble beneath the Banyan
On our way back, shouting cracked through the humid air. A scrawny kitchen boy—not older than twelve—was cornered by three students in fine silk sashes. The tallest, slim with a sun‑shaped tilak, backhanded the servant.
"Touch me again, gutter‑spawn, and I'll break your fingers. Sweeper's brats aren't fit to breathe our air!"
Varun stiffened. "That crest—that's Sūrya Tilaka, symbol of Mahārāj Yajnavalkya's court. The bully's name is Sūrya, minister's second son. Arrogant as the sun he worships."
Heat crawled along my spine. I stepped between them.
"Enough. In Gurukul, caste ends at the gate."
Sūrya sneered. "Really? Do you even know who I am?"
I kept my voice calm. "Someone who'll learn humility either from me… or from karma."
He shoved me. I shoved back, harder. He reached for the short club at his belt—lightning flickered in my fingertips, unbidden.
Before blows fell, Guru Vasistha materialized as though from the banyan's roots. His gaze alone froze Sūrya.
"Aryaman, sheathe your pride. Sūrya, return to your wing. If you seek status, earn it with merit, not fear."
The minister's son spat at the ground but backed off, muttering vows of payback.
Vasistha turned to me, voice low. "If you wish to end discrimination, do it by gaining strength the world cannot ignore. Brute defiance will only soil your father's name."
I swallowed my anger and bowed. Lesson learned—for now.
Sunset painted the sky in blood‑orange streaks. Lakshmika headed to Astra‑Kūṭa (the Archers' Wing), promising dueling practice tomorrow. Varun and I followed the crowd to the Āyāsa‑Śibira.
Except… there was no camp—just a vast dirt square, ringed by unlit torches. No tents, no cook‑fires.
Dust swirled and crickets sang. Confusion rippled through new students.
A voice—smooth, amused—spoke behind us.
"Hello, fledglings. Ready for your first flight?"
We turned to see a tall woman in midnight‑blue robes, a silver chakra pendant at her throat. Her eyes glowed like starlight.
"I am Guru Kratu‑Dhvaja, Warden of the First Trial. Tonight you build your own camp, gather your own food, and defend it till dawn. Fail, and you sleep under rain—if you sleep at all."
Lightning tingled in my veins. Varun grinned. Somewhere across the field, Sūrya smirked back at me.
So be it. The path of dharma isn't easy—Guru Vasistha said so himself.
Tonight, I would prove I belonged here.