The sound of chenda tore through the dawn.
Thak–thak–thom.Thak–thak–thom.
Ramanidharan Nair woke up with a jolt, the rhythm vibrating through the wooden beams of Nair Kalamandalam. The air smelled of oil lamps, rice paste, and morning dew. This was not the sound of casual practice. This was arangetram preparation.
His heart tightened.
Outside, in the kalari courtyard, Raaghav Nair—Ponmon—stood fully adorned.
Green chutti framed his face like sacred armor. The vermilion and black eye makeup burned with intensity. The heavy kireedam crowned his head, and his body was transformed—no longer a boy, but a vessel.
He was Lord Ayyappa.
Before him sat Kalamandalam Kaliyanandan Nair, his grandfather, his guru, his strict, unbending Aacharya. Age had curved the man's back but never softened his eyes. Beside him stood Kottarathil Raama Varma, guiding every mudra, every eye movement, every breath.
"Netram… netram venam, Ponmon," Kaliyanandan Nair said sharply."Your eyes must command, not request."
Raaghav obeyed.
His eyes widened, rolled, locked.The rasa flowed.
The drums intensified. The cymbals cut the air. Sweat trickled beneath layers of paint and costume, but Raaghav didn't falter. His feet struck the earth with divine authority. His hands carved stories into space. Every movement carried years of discipline etched into muscle and bone.
The Kalamandalam watched in silence.
Students. Gurus. Elders.
Even Kaliyanandan Nair's stern gaze softened—just a fraction.
Then it happened.
As Raaghav raised his hands in blessing—Ayyappa granting grace—the air shifted. His eyes gleamed unnaturally bright. For a split second, it felt as though the deity was not being portrayed… but invoked.
Raama Varma's breath caught.
The drums stopped.
Raaghav swayed.
And then his body collapsed forward.
Raama Varma caught him just in time, the heavy costume making the fall dangerous. Raaghav's head lolled, eyes half-open, breath shallow.
"Ponmon!" someone cried.
Kaliyanandan Nair stood frozen.
Ramanidharan was already running.
He pushed past Raama Varma and grabbed his brother, panic ripping through his voice. "Raaghav! Ponmon, nokku! Look at me!"
No response.
Rage followed fear—raw and uncontrolled.
"Enough!" Ramanidharan shouted, turning on the elders. "You both pushed him too far! He's not a machine!"
"Mind your tongue!" Raama Varma snapped, raising his hand.
But Kaliyanandan Nair stopped him with a gesture.
Ramanidharan didn't care.
"Today is his first day of college!" he yelled. "You think Kathakali is the only thing in his life? You made him sick!"
The words landed like blows.
Kaliyanandan Nair's face hardened—not with anger, but with hurt.
"You don't understand discipline," the old man said quietly.
"I understand my brother dying in front of me!" Ramanidharan shot back.
Raama Varma lunged forward, anger flaring—but other Aacharyas restrained him.
Ramanidharan scooped Raaghav into his arms and carried him to the dining hall, the bells of the costume clinking faintly like a dying echo of divinity. He laid him down, splashed water on his face, pressed the inhaler into his mouth.
"One breath, Ponmon. Just breathe."
Raaghav inhaled.
Then again.
Color slowly returned to his lips.
His eyes fluttered open.
Ramanidharan sagged with relief.
Outside, the Kalamandalam stood silent—caught between tradition and truth.
And somewhere deep within Raaghav Nair, something stirred again.
Not a god.
Not a boy.
But something watching—patiently—through his eyes.