The applause faded slowly, like waves retreating from the shore. Conversations replaced formal speeches. Parents began dispersing. Volunteers moved through the gathering crowd with practiced coordination, carrying cartons and attendance sheets.
"Freshers, please assemble near the distribution desk," one volunteer announced through a handheld mic.
Raaghav stood still for a moment, absorbing the unfamiliar environment. The campus smelled different from Kalamandalam—less oil lamps and sandal paste, more fresh paint and coffee from the nearby canteen. Ramanidharan nudged him lightly.
"Ponmon, go collect your kit. And listen properly to whatever they say."
Raaghav nodded.
The volunteers handed over neatly packed kits to each fresher, explaining procedures with surprising strictness.
"Gym uniforms must be washed regularly," one volunteer instructed. "Minimum thrice a week. Hygiene is part of discipline."
Another volunteer added, "Towels must be changed weekly. After morning workout and shower, you must change into your regular dress in the dressing room only. No exceptions."
They continued explaining hostel rules, curfews, attendance regulations, locker maintenance, and mess hall timings for both boys and girls. Every rule sounded firm but practical—like invisible choreography governing daily life.
Ramanidharan watched quietly beside him, memorizing everything as if he would personally enforce it later.
When the instructions ended, Ramanidharan turned toward his brother. His expression softened slightly, though worry still lingered beneath it.
"Ponmon… call me if anything feels wrong. Anything."
Raaghav nodded again.
Without another word, they leaned forward simultaneously—
THUD.
Forehead to forehead. Their usual goat-like head smash. Quick. Sharp. Affectionate.
"Chettah!," Ramanidharan muttered with a faint smile.
He turned, walked toward his bike, and left without looking back—because looking back always made it harder.
Raaghav remained standing alone.
Students around him formed groups effortlessly. Introductions floated through the air. Laughter broke barriers he hadn't even attempted to cross. He simply clutched his kit and observed silently, like someone studying a new stage before stepping into character.
From across the courtyard, Dhivya noticed him immediately.
The silent ones always stood out.
She approached with her usual confident stride, carrying another kit packet. Her tone softened when she reached him.
"Hey… you collected your kit, alle?"
Raaghav nodded.
"You are… Raaghav Nair, right?"
Another nod.
She smiled knowingly. "First day silence is normal. But this department thrives on interaction. Try talking to others. They won't bite."
Raaghav attempted a polite smile but said nothing.
Dhivya studied him carefully—his posture, his hesitant breathing, his eyes that seemed older than his face. Something about him reminded her of a younger sibling struggling to adjust to a new school.
Suddenly, she raised her voice across the courtyard.
"Vikram Sir!"
Raaghav's head snapped toward her in panic.
"I… I didn't ask anything," he whispered urgently.
Vikram Sir walked toward them with steady steps, posture upright, gaze observant. Years of field training had made him instinctively read body language.
"Yes, Dhivya?"
"Sir, he has a doubt but is hesitating to ask," she said confidently.
Raaghav froze.
Vikram turned his attention fully toward him. "What is your doubt, Raaghav?"
Raaghav swallowed. His fingers tightened around the kit strap. He didn't have a doubt. But now he had to speak.
"Sir… I… I have asthma," he said slowly. "Sometimes… performance stress triggers breathing problems. Will you… guide me personally? To prevent future complications?"
The courtyard noise dimmed around them as nearby students instinctively listened.
Vikram's expression remained calm, but something flickered behind his eyes. He studied Raaghav more closely now—the controlled breathing, the disciplined posture, the faint Kathakali eye training already visible in his expressions.
"You are a trained performer?" Vikram asked.
Raaghav nodded. "Kathakali dancer, Sir. My Arangetram is coming soon."
The words rippled through the surrounding students like dropped stones in water.
"Kathakali?" someone whispered.
"Arangetram already?" another murmured.
Vikram tilted his head slightly, intrigued. For a brief second, he sensed something unusual—not weakness, not fear… something deeper. Something restrained, waiting, like a warrior holding breath before battle.
Then he smiled.
"I will be there, Raaghav. Personally," Vikram said. "You focus on discipline and health. The rest… we'll handle together."
Relief flickered across Raaghav's face.
Dhivya's curiosity ignited instantly. "You perform Kathakali seriously? Which vesham? Which lineage?"
Raaghav hesitated before answering, but her warmth eased him.
"Mostly mythological roles… Currently preparing for Lord Ayyappa."
Dhivya's eyes widened like an excited child.
"That is intense training, Ponmon," she said instinctively, slipping into the affectionate tone of an elder sister. "You must tell me everything later. I've only watched performances, never spoken to a young artist preparing Arangetram."
She adjusted the strap of his kit gently, like correcting a younger sibling's school bag.
"Don't stay alone. This is your place now."
Raaghav nodded again—this time slightly more confidently.
Across the courtyard, Vikram watched them from a distance. His trained instincts stirred quietly. He couldn't explain why, but something about the boy felt… unusual. Not fragile. Not extraordinary.
Just… unpredictable.
And unpredictability always meant attention.
Somewhere above the campus trees, unnoticed by everyone below, a faint shimmer of moving light flickered briefly in the daylight sky—gone before it could be recognized.
Raaghav didn't see it.
But something had already noticed him.