Chapter 1: The Transformation of Rohan

The early morning mist clung to the neem trees on Kaveripur’s Shantivan Hill, and the distant clang of temple bells floated down to the ashram. Guru Bodhanand sat atop the dais, expounding the scriptures. Below, his disciples formed a semi-circle, each face aglow with the flicker of diyas, the air thick with the scents of sandalwood and wild jasmine. The rhythmic clack of prayer beads mingled with the occasional koel’s call, creating a melody of devotion and learning.

Near the ashram gate, a stray cow nosed at leftover chapatis, while Fatima Aunty scolded the kitchen boys for sneaking sweets—her voice carrying over the low hum of prayer. Among this everyday bustle, Bodhanand’s gaze lingered on a figure in the corner—a monkey who seemed both present and apart from the rest.

There, half-hidden behind a carved pillar, Rohan sat, his tail curled neatly, fingers fidgeting with a string of prayer beads. Not long ago, he’d been the ashram’s notorious prankster. Now, his eyes were steady, his laughter replaced by a silent, knowing spark. The younger students nudged each other and whispered, “Arrey, yeh toh bilkul badal gaya hai! Pehle toh pura bandar tha, ab toh full baba lag raha hai.”

A flash of memory crossed Bodhanand’s mind: Rohan, mid-prank, swapping the guru’s holy thread with wildflowers, sending the class into fits of laughter until a stern cough restored order. Now, the same monkey sat quietly, hands folded, listening with an intensity that made even the senior disciples pause.

Bodhanand absentmindedly adjusted his shawl and sipped his morning chai, reflecting on the boy’s transformation. Once, Rohan’s name was synonymous with chaos—“Don’t go full Rohan!” was a phrase whispered among mischievous students. But these days, he accepted every lesson, no complaints, no shortcuts, only a deep thirst for knowledge.

Even in the heat of the afternoon, while others napped or snuck roasted chana, Rohan would meditate beneath the old peepal tree, mantra on his lips, his focus unbroken. Fatima Aunty, pouring chai, would shake her head and say, “Arrey, this bandar has become like my own son, so quiet and good!”

The ashram’s daily life continued around him: cows wandered past, parrots squabbled in the banyan, and the kitchen’s pressure cooker whistled. Yet Rohan remained a model of sadhana, puzzling even Bodhanand, who’d checked horoscopes, planetary charts, and even offered ghee lamps for guidance. The reason for this change remained a mystery, but the guru felt it was a blessing—perhaps the fruit of old punya.

According to the plan, Rohan was to learn the Supreme Immortal Sadhana, the Seventy-Two Forms of Maya, and the Cloud-Leap—each a legendary art, whispered about only in the deepest nights. Rohan’s body, forged from Parvati Ma’s stone, was already famed in the village: “Yeh toh adamant ka bandar hai, yaar!” elders would say, shaking their heads in awe. By graduation, he’d be a super bodyguard with sky-high defence, the stuff of playground legend: “If only I had his hide during PT period,” one boy would sigh.

His only weakness: lack of truly destructive magic. Bodhanand shuddered, recalling the day Rohan almost overturned the ashram with a single chant—after that, attack mantras were strictly off-limits. Yet, now, Rohan’s hunger for knowledge burned brighter than ever. Senior disciples rolled their eyes at his diligence; younger ones tried to copy his meditation posture, only to be distracted by an ant crawling on their toes.

Rohan mastered every mantra and art Bodhanand dared to teach, his nights spent tracing yantras in the moonlit dust. The old pujari, noticing his dedication, left extra ladoos at the shrine as silent encouragement. Rohan’s early mornings set the ashram abuzz—no one wanted to lag behind the reformed prankster.

Shantivan Hill seemed to catch fire with his energy. Even the squirrels paused to watch, and Subramanian the gardener joked, “Iske chakkar mein toh banyan ki jaden bhi tez ugne lagi hain!” The elders murmured, “Bhai, Rohan jaayega toh aasmaan bhi hil jaayega. Dekhna, kuch bada hone wala hai.”

But even as Rohan mastered every mantra, a question lingered—was he truly learning, or just playing his part in someone else’s script?