Pain was constant.
Pagal Baba didn't believe in rest. Or explanations. Only repetition. Discipline. Stillness.
The first lesson was to sit—perfectly still—for an hour at dawn. Not move. Not scratch. Not blink too long. Then two hours. Then three. His legs went numb. His back screamed. Ants bit his feet raw.
Then came Surya Kriya—the breath of fire.
"Inhale like the gods demand your soul," Pagal Baba said. "Exhale like you're spitting them out."
Aarav knelt in the ashes of old pyres, chest heaving, learning to control his breath like a weapon. Quick, forceful bursts through his nose, belly snapping inward with each exhale. At first, he grew dizzy. Then nauseous. Then high.
The world blurred.
His thoughts slowed.
For the first time in his life, the noise of his mind—regret, fear, memory, doubt—fell silent.
And in that silence, he heard something.
A sound without sound. A hum beneath reality.
One morning, lightning struck a tree not twenty feet from where he sat in meditation. The villagers screamed. Pagal Baba didn't flinch. Aarav didn't even open his eyes.
Later, Baba leaned close and said, "The world tests only what it fears."
Aarav said nothing.
But inside, the fire had caught