The orientation dispersal felt like the slow fading of temple chenda beats after a festival — loud moments settling into disciplined rhythm. As the seniors peeled away toward their respective classes, the corridors of the Indian Institute of Arts, Trivandrum, breathed with a fresh academic pulse. White walls shimmered under the morning sun that slipped through long windows, carrying the scent of sandalwood polish and freshly mopped floors.
Vikram stood tall before the group of freshers, his posture sharp like a soldier who never truly left duty. At thirty-four, his muscular frame and commanding presence silently reminded everyone of his past life — a retired Interpol officer whose discipline never retired with him. Though his eyes held strictness, there was a silent promise of protection behind them.
"Come," he said calmly, his Tamil-accented Malayalam rolling smoothly, "You must know your battlefield before stepping into it."
The freshers followed him like a small procession. He guided them through sculpture studios filled with clay figures frozen mid-expression, through dance halls where ankle bells rested like coiled serpents waiting to sing, and past music chambers vibrating faintly with veena practice from senior batches.
Raaghav walked quietly among them, clutching his orientation kit closer than necessary. His thoughts were still tangled between his grandfather's apology, Ramanidharan Chettan's harsh words, and the lingering vision he had seen while bathing. That petrified butterfly humanoid still clung to the corners of his mind like an unfinished dream.
As they reached the Kathakali research wing, a deep voice sliced through the air.
"Raaghav… alle?"
Raaghav turned, startled.
A middle-aged man with silver-streaked hair and kind yet observant eyes stood beside him. His kurta bore faint paint stains — a sign of someone who lived inside art rather than merely teaching it.
"Mr. Suresh Kumar," Vikram said respectfully with a nod.
Suresh Kumar's eyes widened with recognition as he stepped closer to Raaghav.
"So… you are Kaliyanandan Nair Acharyayude Ponmon, alle?" he asked warmly.
Raaghav froze. Hearing his grandfather addressed with such reverence made his chest tighten with pride and nervousness together.
"Yes… sir…" he replied softly, lowering his gaze.
Suresh Kumar chuckled gently.
"I still remember your Acharya training under the oil lamps during monsoon nights. That man… ah… he doesn't teach Kathakali. He breathes it. And you…" He studied Raaghav's face carefully. "You have the same eyes. The same stillness before performance."
The surrounding students slowly turned their attention toward Raaghav. Whispering began to ripple across the group.
Suresh Kumar continued, smiling nostalgically, "You know, you were barely five when you first wore chutti paste. You refused to remove it even after the program ended. You cried and said, 'I want to sleep as a Kathakali character.'"
The group burst into light laughter.
Raaghav's ears flushed crimson. He shifted awkwardly, wishing the polished floor beneath him would swallow him whole.
Vikram observed silently from behind. His sharp eyes scanned Raaghav not with judgment, but with analytical curiosity. There was something about the boy — a strange balance between fragility and unshakable determination. It was a trait Vikram had seen before… usually in people who carried unseen battles.
Suresh Kumar placed a gentle hand on Raaghav's shoulder.
"Your grandfather spoke about your Arangetram. The entire Kalamandalam is waiting to see if the flame continues."
The weight of those words pressed heavily against Raaghav's lungs. He nodded politely, though his asthma-tightened breath made the moment heavier.
"Sir… I will try my best," he whispered.
"Not try," Suresh corrected softly. "Live it."
The surrounding students stared at Raaghav with new curiosity and silent admiration. Some whispered about his lineage. Others simply stared at the shy boy who carried the shadow of a legend.
Vikram crossed his arms and smirked faintly — not mockery, but recognition.
"Seems like you have more expectations following you than most," he said, stepping beside Raaghav. His tone was light, yet layered with meaning. "Pressure builds diamonds… or breaks glass. We'll see which one you are."
Raaghav swallowed nervously, unsure whether to feel motivated or intimidated.
As the group resumed walking, Dhivya glanced at Raaghav from a distance. She smiled subtly, sensing both his pride and discomfort, like an elder sister silently cheering from the sidelines.
The corridors grew busier as class bells echoed across departments. Art students hurried with canvases, dancers adjusted ankle bells, and musicians tuned their instruments. Yet amidst this chaos, Raaghav felt like he stood at the threshold of something far older than classrooms — a legacy carved through generations.
Far away, in the Kalamandalam halls, Kaliyanandan Nair rehearsed with his disciples, unaware that his grandson's name had already begun echoing through new corridors.
And somewhere between admiration, expectation, and destiny, Raaghav Nair took another quiet step forward — into a path that seemed to have been waiting for him long before he was born.