"Now you two go to your rooms and rest. Ice those bruises. Eat well. Tomorrow, we begin."
He stepped toward the door.
"But Ruchi..." He looked back at her. "Come with me."
Ruchi blinked. "Me?"
Trayaksh nodded. Didn't explain. Just walked out.
Ruchi looked at us. Confused. A little nervous.
I shrugged. "Guess you have your own trainer."
She nodded slowly. Then followed Trayaksh out of the gym.
The door closed behind them.
Mukund and I stood there, watching through the windows. Trayaksh was walking toward the hostel, Ruchi beside him. He was saying something—his hands moving, explaining—but we couldn't hear.
"She's lucky," Mukund said quietly.
I looked at him. "How do you figure?"
"She gets the mystery trainer. We get six hours of meditation and getting beaten up by Akshat bhaiya."
I almost laughed. Almost. My ribs hurt too much.
"Come on," Mukund said. "Let's ice these bruises."
We walked toward the hostel. The evening air was cool. The gym lights faded behind us.
I kept thinking about Ruchi. Where was Trayaksh taking her?
Who was she going to train with?
It was almost 8 PM when I finally sat down on my bed.
The room was small but clean. A bed. A desk. A small window that looked out at the city. My bag was still unpacked in the corner. I'd deal with it later.
Right now, I needed to ice my bruises.
I pressed a cold pack to my ribs. Hissed. Purple and blue were already spreading across my skin. Purv's tentacles had hit harder than I'd realized.
Six hours of meditation tomorrow. Six hours of sitting still.
I set my alarm for 4 AM.
Why did I agree to this?
Knock. Knock.
I looked up. Who would be visiting at this hour?
I opened the door.
Trayaksh bhaiya stood there.
"Can I come in?"
"Yeah... yeah, sure."
He stepped inside. I closed the door behind him.
He sat down on the floor. Cross-legged. Easy. Like he'd done it a thousand times. I sat across from him, mirroring his position.
He looked at me. "Do you know why I came here so late?"
I shook my head. "Um... why?"
He reached behind him—I hadn't even noticed he was carrying something—and pulled out a book. Old. Thick. The cover was worn, the edges soft from years of handling. He handed it to me.
I took it. Ran my fingers over the cover.
It was a human body. Drawn in faded ink. And running through it—seven points of light. Seven chakras. Connected by lines of energy that pulsed up the spine, down the arms, out through the fingertips.
"What is this?" I asked.
"It's the library book about Prana." His voice was calm. "Before we begin practice, I thought you should know what you're about to train. So... yeah."
I stared at the book. At the chakras glowing on the cover. At the lines of energy that looked like roads on a map.
"Oh." I flipped it open. The pages were filled with diagrams, notes, diagrams of breathing patterns, exercises for focus. It was... a lot.
"Okay. So before tomorrow, you can finish it, right?"
"BEFORE TOMORROW?"
I stared at him. My brain did the math. Thick book. Small font. Probably a hundred pages. And I had maybe twelve hours.
Trayaksh saw my face. He laughed.
"Okay, okay." He held up his hands. "At least finish one chapter. Just one. That's all."
I breathed out. "Hmm. That's better."
"Good." He stood up. "Meet me at the city park tomorrow. 4 AM."
"City park?"
"Yeah."
He walked to the door. Paused. Looked back at me.
"Don't stay up too late. You'll need the energy."
Then he was gone.
I sat there for a moment. The book was heavy in my hands. Old paper. Leather spine. It smelled like dust and knowledge and something else—something old.
I placed it on my desk. Opened it to the first page.
The first page was a diagram. Seven circles, stacked like a ladder from the base of the spine to the crown of the head. Each one was labeled in Sanskrit. Each one had a description written beneath it in careful, old-fashioned handwriting.
I read the first line.
"Prana is not power. Prana is life. It flows through every living thing, whether they know it or not. A YODHA does not create Prana. A YODHA learns to feel it. To guide it. To become it."
I read it again.
To become it.
Chapter One: Prana
"Prana is not power. Prana is life."
I read the line twice. Then a third time.
"It flows through every living thing, whether they know it or not. The air you breathe. The food you eat. The sunlight on your skin. All of it carries Prana. All of it is Prana, in different forms."
I stopped. Looked at my hands. Could I feel it? The life flowing through me?
No. Nothing.
I kept reading.
"A normal human takes in Prana and releases it, like breath. They never hold it. Never shape it. Never use it. A YODHA is different. A YODHA learns to draw Prana in and keep it. To store it in the body like a reservoir waiting for rain."
There was a drawing. A figure standing in a field, arms raised, lines of light flowing from the sky into the top of his head, from the earth into the soles of his feet, from the air into his palms.
"Prana enters through three gates: Sahasrara at the crown, Mooladhara at the root, and the palms of the hands. From there, it flows through the body along invisible channels called nadis. These nadis are like rivers. And where multiple rivers meet, there is a lake. A reservoir. A chakra."
I traced the lines on the page. The light from above. The light from below. The light from the sides. All flowing into the figure. All gathering in seven pools along his spine.
"There are seven chakras. Seven reservoirs. Seven gates that must be opened before Prana can flow freely."
I turned the page.
Chapter Two: The Seven GatesFirst Gate: Mooladhara – The Root
A red circle at the very base of the spine. Four petals. A square at its center.
"Mooladhara is where you begin. It is the earth beneath your feet. The ground that holds you. The foundation upon which everything else is built."
I shifted in my chair. My spine felt suddenly important.
"A YODHA with a weak Mooladhara is easily thrown off balance. Easily shaken. Easily defeated. But a YODHA with a strong root can stand against a hurricane and not move."
I thought about how easily Purv had knocked me out of the ring. How quickly I'd fallen.
Weak root, I thought.
Second Gate: Swadhisthana – The Sacrum
An orange circle. Six petals. A crescent moon.
"Swadhisthana is water. It is movement. It is the energy of creation and destruction, of emotion and instinct. It is the flow that carries you forward."
I thought about Purv's water bubble. How it moved. How it shifted. How I couldn't touch it.
"A YODHA with a blocked Swadhisthana cannot adapt. Cannot change direction when the battle shifts. They are rigid. Predictable. Easy to defeat."
I thought about how I'd charged straight at Purv, over and over, never changing, never adapting.
Rigid, I thought. Predictable.
Third Gate: Manipura – The Solar Plexus
A yellow circle. Ten petals. A triangle pointing down.
"Manipura is fire. It is the will that drives you forward. The heat in your chest when you refuse to fall. The power that turns intention into action."
My fire. This was my chakra.
"A YODHA with weak Manipura cannot push through pain. Cannot break through walls. Cannot win. But a YODHA with uncontrolled Manipura is worse. They burn everything—enemy, ally, self—without distinction."
I looked at my hands. The hands that had burned the dummy. The hands that had failed against Purv.
Uncontrolled, I thought. Fire without banks.
Fourth Gate: Anahata – The Heart
A green circle. Twelve petals. Two triangles crossing—one pointing up, one pointing down.
"Anahata is the balance. It is where the physical meets the spiritual. Where strength meets mercy. Where the fire of Manipura meets the water of Swadhisthana and becomes something greater than either."
I read that line again. Fire and water. My fire and Purv's water. Not enemies. Just two halves of something.
"A YODHA with a closed Anahata fights without purpose. Wins without meaning. Lives without peace. They are strong, but empty."
I thought about why I wanted to win. To prove I wasn't weak. To prove I wasn't just my father's son, my brother's shadow.
Is that enough? I wondered. Is that a purpose?
Fifth Gate: Vishuddhi – The Throat
A blue circle. Sixteen petals. A circle within a triangle.
"Vishuddhi is your voice. It is the truth you speak to yourself and to others. It is the command that shapes reality."
I thought about the words I'd said to Purv. Mocking. Weak. Trying to sound tough when I was scared.
"A YODHA with a closed Vishuddhi cannot command. Cannot lead. Cannot be heard when it matters most. Their voice is wind. Their words are dust."
I touched my throat. Swallowed.
Sixth Gate: Ajna – The Third Eye
A purple circle. Two petals. A downward triangle.
"Ajna is the eye that sees what cannot be seen. It is the space between thoughts. The moment before action. The pause before the strike."
I thought about Trayaksh. About the third eye hidden beneath his headwrap. I thought about the YODHA pattern of Guru Dhayan.
"A YODHA with open Ajna does not need to see to know. Does not need to think to act. They move with the flow of battle, not against it. They are the river, not the stone."
I closed my eyes. Tried to feel something. Anything.
Nothing.
Seventh Gate: Sahasrara – The Crown
A white circle. A thousand petals. No shape—just light.
"Sahasrara is the final gate. It is not power. It is not strength. It is knowing. Knowing yourself. Knowing your enemy. Knowing the space between."
The description was short. Like even the book couldn't explain it.
"When Sahasrara opens, you are no longer a YODHA. You are something else. Something older. Something that has always been and will always be."
I stared at the page. Thought about Lord Ram in my dreams. About the fire that was him and not him. About the blessing he'd given me.
Is that what you are? I wondered. Something older?
The page didn't answer.
Chapter Three: How Prana Moves
I turned the page. More diagrams. More arrows.
"Prana flows through the body like a river. It enters at Sahasrara, at Mooladhara, at the palms. It flows along the nadis, the invisible channels. It gathers at the chakras, the reservoirs. And when a chakra is full, it overflows into the next."
I traced the path on the diagram. From crown to third eye to throat to heart to solar plexus to sacrum to root. A continuous loop. A river with no end.
"A YODHA with all seven chakras open has Prana that flows without resistance. They do not tire. They do not weaken. Their power does not flicker or fail. They are the river, and the river is endless."
I thought about my fire. How it surged and died. How it burned too bright, then faded to nothing.
Resistance, I thought. My Prana meets resistance. It can't flow.
Chapter Four: The Wrong Way
I turned the page. The ink was darker here. More urgent.
"There is another way to open chakras. It is not the right way. It is the way of force. Of rage. Of desperation."
My stomach tightened.
"When a YODHA forces a chakra open—through fear, through fury, through the desperate need to be strong—the Prana does not flow. It explodes. The chakra opens like a dam breaking. And everything behind it floods forward, uncontrollable, destructive."
I looked at my hands. Remembered the fire that had erupted from them when I was angry. The dummy burning. The flames I couldn't stop.
"This is why some YODHAs burn too bright. Why they cannot control their power. They have opened their chakras the wrong way. Not through patience. Not through practice. Through need. Through fear. Through fury."
The words blurred in front of me.
"Their Prana is not a river. It is a flood. It destroys everything in its path—including the YODHA who holds it."
I closed my eyes. Took a breath. Let it out slow.
That's me, I thought. A flood. Not a river.
Chapter Five: Tamas
I almost stopped reading. But my fingers turned the page anyway.
"Where there is light, there is shadow. Where there is Prana, there is Tamas."
A new diagram. The same seven chakras. But instead of light, they were dark. Instead of flowing up, the energy sank down.
"Tamas is the opposite of Prana. It is not evil. It is absence. It is emptiness. It is the space where light used to be."
I thought about the Asuras. About Kali. About the ones who killed Trayaksh's parents.
"When a YODHA falls to Tamas, they do not die. They become something else. Something less. Something hungry."
I read on.
"Prana flows upward, toward Sahasrara, toward enlightenment. Tamas sinks downward, toward Mooladhara, toward nothing. A YODHA consumed by Tamas still has power. But that power does not come from life. It comes from hunger. From emptiness. From the void where something should be."
I shivered.
"The chakras of a Tamas-touched YODHA do not glow. They drain. They pull Prana from the world around them, from the people near them, from anything that lives. They are not reservoirs. They are holes."
The next page was torn. Only a few lines remained.
"The greatest danger is not Tamas itself. It is the YODHA who believes they can use it without being used. Who thinks they can touch the void and not be touched back. Who—"
The page ended.
I stared at the ragged edge where the rest had been torn away.
Who what?
The book didn't say.
I sat back. My head was spinning. Seven chakras. Prana. Tamas. The right way. The wrong way. The flood and the river.
I understood now. Why my fire burned so wild. Why I couldn't control it.
I had opened my chakras the wrong way. Through rage. Through desperation. Through the need to prove I wasn't just my father's son, my brother's shadow.
I had broken the dams. But I hadn't built the banks.
I looked at my phone.
3 hour until 4 AM.
I closed the book. Placed it on my desk. Lay down on my bed.
The ceiling was white. Empty. A blank page waiting to be written.
Tomorrow, I thought, I learn to build the banks.
Tomorrow, I learn to become the river.
The next morning
The alarm didn't stop.
It rang and rang, drilling into my skull, pulling me out of my sleep. My hand fumbled across the bedside table. Knocked over the book. Grabbed my phone.
5:03 AM.
My eyes snapped open.
I threw off the blanket. Grabbed my hoodie. Nearly tripped over my shoes. Didn't care. I was out the door in thirty seconds, running down the hostel corridor, feet slapping against the cold floor.
Late. I'm late. First day and I'm already late.
The city park was a five-minute sprint from the hostel. I knew because I'd mapped it last night, tracing the route on my phone, memorizing every turn.
The morning air hit my face as I burst through the gates.
The park was massive.
Benches lined the walking path. Trees arched overhead, their branches forming a tunnel of green. Flowers I couldn't name bloomed in neat rows along the edges. A large garden stretched toward the back, still wet with dew, looking more beautiful than anything had a right to at 5 AM.
A walking path curved around a small lake at the far end, the water still and dark, reflecting the first light of the sky.
It was early. Too early for anyone else to be here.
Except him.
Trayaksh bhaiya sat on grass near the water, cross-legged, spine straight, eyes closed. In his hands, a rudraksha mala—dark beads strung together, worn smooth from years of use. His fingers moved slowly, one bead at a time. His breathing was slow. Deep. Measured.
I stood there for a moment, catching my breath, watching him.
He didn't move. Didn't open his eyes.
But he spoke.
"Oh. You finally decided to show up."
I walked closer. "Yeah. I was reading the book you gave me last night..."
He smiled. Opened his eyes. Stood up in one smooth motion.
The mala disappeared into his pocket.
"So." He looked at me. "Should we begin your training?"
I nodded. "Yup."
too be continued...