Monday | 04:00
If you wake up at four a.m. in this house, the first thing you hear isn't an alarm.
It's the sound of a home that's already self-aware.
The floorboards creak softly because someone's walking without dragging their feet. A kettle is set onto the stove—placed, not slammed. Outside, the neighbor's rooster still hasn't agreed on the time. Inside, everyone already knows the sequence.
I open my eyes when the fan drops one speed. Not because the power died—because it's time. In the living room, the chairs are already occupied.
Dr. Meera sits closest to the window. Her back is straight without looking stiff, hands folded calmly in her lap. The posture of someone who has heard human breathing change too many times—and knows exactly when silence is the best medicine.
Across from her, a man stands without leaning on anything. He doesn't move, but he is unmistakably present. Even his shadow looks disciplined.
Armaan is by the door. He doesn't step into the center. His eyes track small details—window, clock, back door—like someone counting without looking like he's counting.
Kiran is standing, retying his shoelaces. Quick, efficient movements. His jacket isn't a white coat, and it isn't a parade uniform either. It's what you wear when you might have to move at any second.
Tara comes in last.
Her hair is a mess, her eyes only half alive. She stops at the doorway, yawns—then, as if she remembers herself, squares her shoulders before sitting down.
Dr. Meera flicks her gaze toward her.
"Drink warm water first," she says gently.
Tara nods obediently.
The prayer begins with no cue.
Dr. Meera leads a short satsang (a spiritual gathering / truth session). Her voice is low, vibrating through the cold tiles—just enough to keep the mind from getting noisy while the body starts working.
Major Varma closes the prayer with one deep pranayama (yogic breath). The kind of breath taken by someone who knows: if you can't regulate this, you don't deserve to regulate anything else.
Done.
The backyard is still half-dark. The lights aren't fully switched on—enough for shadows to exist, not enough to spoil them. Bengaluru's cold slips into the lungs like a reminder: wake up, or be erased.
I stand barefoot.
The ground still holds last night's cold—damp. Short grass presses into my soles—not soft, but honest. A sensation deliberately chosen. The body needs to remember that comfort is a luxury, not a right.
Ahead, Major Varma stands with a straight back. No countdown. No shouting. His hands clasped behind him, his watch checked only once—then a small nod.
That's all.
Armaan and I move at the same time.
Not a sprint. Not lazy jogging. The pace is kept, the breathing is left to find its own rhythm. Armaan runs parallel on my right—neither leading nor chasing. The distance is perfect: close enough to correct, far enough to make me responsible for my own legs.
"Don't chase speed," he says without looking.
"Dheere, dheere (slowly).
Find rhythm. Chase stability."
His words don't stay in my head. They drop straight into my chest.
The first lap ends. Sweat appears faster than expected. My lungs start protesting—not pain, just awareness. Without stopping, we drop to the ground. Hand-to-hand begins without announcement.
No pretty forms. No loud noises. Just hands searching for leverage, weight shifting, basic holds that feel boring—until you realize how easily one mistake breaks your rhythm.
No one says the rules. The body teaches them:
falling is normal—
staying on the ground too long is a bad decision.
I recalled Pitaa's low voice,
"Master your pulse, or others will."
I slip. My knee hits the ground. My reflex is to spring up—too fast. A shoe stops right beside my hand.
Major Varma.
"Stand up properly," he says quietly.
"If you panic, your structure collapses."
I inhale. Plant my feet. Lock my center of gravity. Rise again—slower, fuller. This time I don't wobble.
On the other side of the yard, Tara is already grappling with Kiran.
Her hair is tied carelessly. Her shirt is wet across the back. Her movements are aggressive—too aggressive. Kiran lets her go for one second longer, then stops her with a brief touch to her wrist.
"Again," Kiran says. Flat tone.
Tara huffs and resets. Her eyes dart toward Major Varma—quick, anxious.
"If my shooting progress this week doesn't hit standard," she half-whispers while dodging,
"will he get mad?"
Kiran doesn't smile. She doesn't harden either.
"He doesn't get mad," he answers.
"He records."
That's worse. I almost laugh. Almost.
Armaan signals with his chin. Focus.
We continue. Grip. Release. Fall. Get up. Again.
Major Varma doesn't move much.
He only watches—like observing an invisible hourglass. Every mistake is logged without sound. Every correction is accepted without praise.
Minutes feel like an hour.
An hour feels like enough.
"Enough," Major Varma says at last.
No whistle. No applause. Training ends the way it began—quiet, clean, without ceremony. We stand, breathing hard, sweat dripping onto the same cold ground.
The day hasn't even fully woken up.
Dr. Meera appears at the doorway holding towels. She says nothing—just hands them out one by one. Warm hands. Calming eyes.
Tara takes hers, then whispers to me,
"If this were a movie, there should be music right now."
I flick water from my hair.
"Thank God it isn't."
The clock reads 05:25. Armaan checks it, then looks at us.
"Break is over."
Tara exhales, but smiles.
"Round two of life," she says.
We move again. Sweat hasn't dried. Breathing is still heavy. But our steps are already orderly.
***
05:30
Armaan doesn't look back at us. He goes straight to the corner of the yard. The generator panel is opened. His hands move automatically, like reciting a prayer memorized by muscle.
"Dhruv," he says without raising his voice,
"check the fuel."
I crouch. A faint diesel smell mixes with morning dew. The gauge is still safe.
"In this era, Dhruv, energy is sovereignty.
Don't become a slave because the tank is empty."
I nod.
"Tara," he continues,
"Starter."
Tara glances at me—not hesitation, more like why isn't this you?—then pulls the lever. The engine catches. It growls briefly, then steadies.
I smile on reflex.
In our parents' house—or more accurately, in Maata's world—there's no such thing as "boys' chores" or "girls' chores" when it comes to fundamentals.
If the power dies, whoever can fix it, fixes it.
If the machine acts up, whoever understands it, handles it.
"Listen," Armaan says.
We go quiet. The engine hums evenly.
"If the tone rises," he adds,
"don't panic. If you panic, the machine gets more stubborn."
Tara crosses her arms, staring at the panel with a seriousness that's slightly excessive for this hour.
"Like people," she says.
"Give them attention, they behave. Ignore them, they get dramatic."
I hold back laughter. Armaan glances once. Not a smile. Not a reprimand either.
"Write it down," he says flatly.
"Machines and humans both hate being ignored."
Tara huffs.
"Especially if the human is Maata. Tomorrow all our lives could get revised."
I almost choke on air.
The engine is shut off. The panel is closed. Everything is neat again, as if it was never opened.
"Enough," Armaan says.
We stand. Hands slightly dirty. Minds fully awake.
Only then does the kitchen truly come alive.
Sunita enters carrying a small pot and a tray. No fancy menu. Not even the same every day. This morning: simple idli, boiled eggs, lightly-oiled stir-fried vegetables, fruit, and a small bowl of protein porridge.
Not "Instagrammable" food.
Calculated food.
Tara eyes her plate.
"Ugh, can't the menu be the same as last Friday?" she mutters.
Sunita chuckles while pouring the porridge.
"If it's the same every day, Miss, your body becomes spoiled. A spoiled body gives up quickly."
Kiran smiles as she sits.
"And spoiled people are usually the first to complain."
"HEY," Tara protests—still eating anyway.
We eat slowly. No long conversation. No phones. Spoons meet plates in a calm rhythm—not rushed, not lazy.
Tara pauses, then looks at my bowl.
"Bhaiya, why does today feel so serious?"
I shrug.
"Monday."
"Oh," she says, understanding.
"That explains it."
Dr. Meera gives a small smile—the kind of smile from someone who knows the body is learning something without being lectured.
Once the plates are empty, Tara stands immediately.
"Come on," she says to me,
"before Maata appears in our heads."
We carry our plates to the sink. Water runs. Tara scrubs a glass with far too much enthusiasm.
"Are you washing dishes or interrogating them?" Kiran teases.
"Discipline," Tara says firmly.
"Or Maata will say, 'Kids these days are strong in debate, weak in the kitchen.'"
Sunita laughs softly.
"Parents nag because they love," she says while clearing the table.
"If they didn't care, they wouldn't remind you."
Tara and I exchange a look.
True.
The last plate is placed. Wiped dry. The kitchen returns to neatness. The back door opens. Morning air rushes in—cold, honest, uninvited.
***
06:45
If morning training teaches the body obedience, the trip to school teaches something harder: patience without feeling special.
We don't leave together.
Not because of schedule.
Not because of drama.
Just a rule never explained in long sentences—and that's exactly why it's obeyed.
Tara goes first.
From the porch, I watch Kiran already waiting outside the gate. Tara's backpack hangs on one shoulder, zipper half-closed. Her hair is still slightly damp. She glances back once and lifts a hand—no excessive smile, a code we both know: I'm fine.
I nod.
The motorbike merges into the morning current: bicycles, scooters, auto-rickshaws, milk vendors with aluminum cans clanking, short honks that sound like their own language. Tara disappears at the corner, absorbed by a city opening its eyes.
Armaan moves only after that.
We walk to the bus stop. My school bag feels heavier than what's inside. In it are cheap printed textbooks, rough paper—so different from the holographic screens in Pitaa's office.
Armaan's steps stay half a second behind mine. I know the rule, even if no one ever says it: don't cling, don't lead, don't stand out.
The bus stop is already crowded. A woman hugs a cloth bag to her chest. Two construction workers share bread, splitting it with dusty hands. School kids stand in clusters—some still yawning, some already shouting jokes as if this morning isn't a burden.
A BMTC bus arrives with the cough of an old engine. Above, a drone-taxi glides silently, but we stay here—packed into asphalt reality.
The doors open. The air changes. Diesel. Dust. Sweat. Sweet tea spilled onto metal flooring.
I step up with the pressure of other bodies. No anger. No apologies. Everyone is just trying to get in. I stand, one hand gripping the rail. I pull my bag to the front—automatic motion, taught by crowding, not by anyone.
In front of me, a boy my age. His uniform is faded. His shoes are worn thin at the heel. He holds lunch wrapped in an old Kannada newspaper. The smell of oily vada seeping into the paper hits my nose.
I remembered Pitaa's voice,
"Ever lead from the 50th floor before you know the smell of asphalt."
He is me, if the coin of fate landed on the other side.
When the bus brakes, I steady his back—not as a hero, but as a fellow passenger who knows what it feels like to lose balance.
He turns.
"Thanks," he says quickly, thick local accent.
I nod. Nothing more.
At this point, my house rules operate invisibly:
If one gets blocked, the other keeps moving.
If one can't speak, the other still has a voice.
If one falls, the other doesn't fall with them.
Not paranoia.
As Maata says—just simple math about survival odds.
The bus lurches forward.
The conductor calls stops in a hoarse voice, half Hindi, half Kannada. Someone answers. Someone complains. A man laughs because he nearly falls.
I sway when the bus brakes again.
A hand rises behind me—doesn't touch, only creates space. Armaan. Palm facing outward, elbow angle controlled.
I don't look back. I know it's him.
No words.
No gaze.
The window reflects Bengaluru as it is:
day laborers waiting for trucks beneath a flyover,
an idli seller stacking hot plates,
a small child asleep on an older sibling's back on the sidewalk.
Something tightens in my chest.
Not pity.
Not guilt.
More like awareness that I'm here because of training—and they're here because they have no choice.
I get off two stops before school. The human current splits. Dust rises as feet hit asphalt. Armaan steps down half a second after me—always. He pauses, adjusts the position of my bag on my shoulder. Not fixing it—balancing the weight.
The gate of the public school is already open. The security guard sits on a plastic chair, lifting his chin slightly, eyes half-squinted, sipping chai.
"Late nahi, na?" he jokes.
(Not late, right?)
"Time pe," I answer.
(On time.)
He nods, satisfied, sipping again. Armaan stops half a step behind me.
"Namaste, Sharma-ji," he says lightly.
(Good morning, Mr. Sharma.)
"Namaste," the guard replies, tone turning familiar.
"Aaj duty early?"
(Early duty today?)
Armaan nods.
"Route check. Bachchon ka crowd zyada hai."
(Route check. Too many kids.)
The guard huffs in agreement.
"Roz ka hai. Bell bajne wali hai."
(Every day. The bell's about to ring.)
Armaan glances at me—brief, professional—then walks toward the office. Like someone who actually has business inside.
Inside, the yard is loud: names shouted, hard laughter, homework complaints, chalk dust, morning sweat that hasn't had time to leave.
I blend into the line.
Here,
I'm nobody's child.
Not guarded.
Not trained.
Just another student who can be shoved, overtaken, or forgotten—with no one recording it.
Honestly, every morning I want to skip school. Not because I'm lazy. But because I've already learned too much before the first bell even rings.
Every morning here reminds me of one thing:
Not everyone is given choices,
and learning not to ask for special treatment
is a real kind of exhausting.
The bell rings—sharp, splitting my thoughts. I step into a classroom with peeling walls.
Here, I learn the most expensive lesson my other school never teaches:
how to become invisible—without losing dignity.
—To be Continued—