He came up from the dream like a man rising from deep water — one sharp breath, and then stillness.
For a moment, he did not move. Something in his chest was still settling. He could not have said what the dream was. Only that it had been huge, dark, and that somewhere inside it a sound had been trying to reach him.
Then it was gone, and the room was just the room.
Morning light spread across the wooden cot. His desk held its usual mess of textbooks and loose sheets. Near the window, the smart glass had already cleared itself for the day, the city beyond still soft in the early haze. On his wrist, the smart band pulsed once and threw a small blue projection into the air.
Academy application draft due.Messages from friends.
He flicked his hand through it, and the words scattered.
From downstairs, Amma's voice rose through the house.
"Kalki! Today is the last day for the Academy application! Even the rooster has finished his work!"
He stared at the ceiling.
"Good for the rooster."
A beat.
"What?"
"Give him my regards."
He heard Amma say something to Thatha that he couldn't make out, and then Thatha's low laugh, which meant it had not been complimentary.
He pushed himself up, grabbed his towel, and made his way to the washroom.
In the mirror he saw dark skin, black hair still pressed flat on one side from sleep, a straight nose, and a face that looked younger than he felt in the mornings. He splashed water on his face and looked at himself for a moment.
He looked like a boy people expected things from.
That was exactly the problem.
"Kalki! How long are you going to take? Today is the last day for that application!"
The shout came from downstairs, and that was enough to make him hurry through the rest of getting ready.
When he came down, Amma was already at the counter, doing three things at once like she always did — one hand stirring, the other wiping the counter, her attention somehow everywhere in the kitchen at the same time. She had a light wheat-colored face and the strong, familiar look of a traditional Andhra mother. Her hair was tied back neatly, and her saree was pinned up in the practical way of a woman who had no time to waste. Her face showed everything quickly — warmth, worry, pride, irritation — and right now irritation was winning.
Thatha sat at the table with his coffee and a floating screen open near his elbow. It showed the local festival plans — lighting routes, stall layouts, volunteer names, and decoration ideas. He was tall, white-haired, and unhurried in the way old men become when they have spent enough years watching other people rush for no reason.
Kalki stepped in, still drying his hair with the towel.
"Where's Nana?" he asked, glancing at the empty chair.
"Gone to work," Amma said.
He frowned. "Already?"
This time she turned and looked at him. "Already? What time do you think it is now?"
Thatha took a slow sip of coffee. "The problem with sleeping late is not the sleeping. It is the confidence with which you wake up confused."
Kalki dropped into his chair. "Good morning to you too."
Amma slid a plate in front of him.
"Eat fast. Then sit with that application."
Kalki looked at the plate, then at her. "This house treats that form like it's another child."
"It is," Amma said. "And unlike you, it may actually listen."
Thatha gave a soft laugh.
"Cruel," he said. "Accurate. But cruel."
Kalki tore into the dosa and ate with the speed of someone trying to escape a topic more than finish a meal.
Under the table, his smart band pulsed twice. He looked down.
Rafi: We're waiting.Meera: Don't vanish today.Dev: If your mother catches you, I dont know you.
Kalki typed back under the table.
On my way. Stop spamming.
Amma caught the small wrist movement at once.
"You're not going out."
"I havent said anything."
"Your wrist said it."
Thatha did not look up from his screen. "Caught by the evidence before the crime. Difficult position."
"Not helping," Kalki said.
"I'm not trying to help. I'm observing. There's a difference."
Kalki pushed the plate back and stood.
Amma folded her arms. "Sit down."
"One hour," he said.
"The form—"
"—takes forty minutes. I've read it. I'll do it when I get back."
"You said that yesterday."
He said nothing.
She said nothing.
He walked to the door and picked up his sandals.
The morning air was already warm. From outside came the usual sounds of the city waking properly — vendors calling, wheels rolling, distant voices rising and falling, and somewhere far off, a temple bell.
His smart band pulsed again.
He glanced down, expecting Rafi.
It was Meera.
Something happened. Come now. Please.
He stood in the doorway for a moment with the sandals in his hand.
The please was not a word Meera used.
He put on his sandals and went.