Chapter 3: Riya’s Awakening

6.

A beat of silence—then the crowd exploded in excitement. Disciples jumped to their feet, even stern gurus smiled. Hope flooded the air.

“Bachchi hai abhi! Itni chhoti si umar mein yeh sab kaise aata hai?” a voice cried. “She can master such complex classical Hindi!” Even the pundits whispered, “Yeh toh shuddh Hindi hai, beta. Kahaan seekha tumne?”

“Which ashram is she from? Why haven’t we heard of her before?” someone wondered, craning for a look.

I didn’t care about the whispers. I stared straight at Kunal, my focus razor-sharp. His face twisted in rage.

“You little brat, you’re asking for trouble!” He spat the words, hands trembling with anger.

Kunal flicked his maroon dupatta, launching more attacks: “A golden goblet of fine wine worth ten thousand coins, a silver plate of rare delicacies worth a fortune!” The words sparkled, the audience gasped, swept up in the spectacle.

“Yeh toh Hindi ke maahir hai! Shuddh kavita!” someone said. “Just in terms of classical Hindi, Kunal is probably at the eighth standard level!” Another added, “Even if it’s just first-year middle school, that’s not something a mere primary student can withstand!” The crowd’s faith wavered; a voice at the back whispered, “Bas, ab toh ho gaya kaam is ladki ka.”

I ignored the threat. I closed my eyes and intoned, each line ringing like an ancient prayer: “The ancient city of Ayodhya, the new capital of Kashi. The stars are divided into Rohini and Chitra, the land connects Vindhya and Satpura...”

With every word, energy welled inside me, cool and calm as monsoon rain. The poetry spilled out, summoning visions of ancient India—rivers, palaces, stars above emerald fields.

I opened my eyes, stepped forward, and cracks snaked across the arena. Dust rose in swirling clouds. “Embracing three rivers and girdling five lakes, controlling Malwa and leading Utkal...”

With the last line, luminous letters formed above me, spinning into a thousand gleaming blades. The air buzzed with power. Kunal’s bravado vanished—he collapsed, trembling.

“This is... a high school level expert!”

“That girl has actually stepped into the realm of a high school student!”

“Such a young high school level expert—what kind of prodigy is she!” The audience erupted in applause and chatter. Elders looked on with tears in their eyes, as if witnessing history.

Just as I was about to finish Kunal, a skinny old man in saffron robes appeared in front of him, his eyes sharp and commanding.

Kunal, seeing his saviour, cried out: “Guruji, save me!” His voice broke, pride forgotten.

I didn’t know if I should feel relief or dread. Because in this world, every Guruji had powers that could rewrite fate.