The park sat at the heart of the Vishwa Kala Sadan, a green sprawl of ancient trees and carefully planned chaos. Flowers in colors Anand couldn't name spilled over stone pathways.

  Anand followed Arpita along the main path.Just trees and water and the distant echo of music from the pavilions.

  "You bring all the visitors here?" he asked.

  "No." Arpita stepped over a root that had grown across the path. "Just the ones I don't find annoying."

  Anand filed that away. Was that a compliment? Probably.

  They walked a little further, and then the trees opened up.

  A clearing. Small. In the center, on a raised platform of white marble, sat a statue.

  Woman. Seated on a lotus. Four arms one holding a book, one holding a veena, the other two positioned in mudras. White marble, but the sculptor had done something with the light because she almost glowed. Peaceful. Focused. Like she'd been sitting there for thousands of years and had all the time in the world.

  "Maa Saraswati," Arpita said quietly. "Goddess of knowledge. Music. Art. All the things this place is supposed to be about."

  Anand nodded. He knew. Of course he knew. In his previous life, every classroom in India had a little Saraswati statue somewhere. Kids prayed to her before exams. Musicians kept her image near their instruments. While she was called Benzaiten in Japan; Thurathadi in Myanmar; Surasawadee in Thailand, and Yangchenma in Tibet.

  *Saraswati,* he thought. *Goddess of the flowing river. White lotus. White clothes. Veena in one hand, book in the other. Seated on a white lotus or a white swan.*

  Arpita walked closer to the statue, and Anand followed.

  "I like her," Arpita said. Not loud. The kind of thing you say in a quiet place without meaning to. "My grandmother says most people pray to her for good luck or whatever. Like she's a yantra for luck." She snorted softly. "That's not the point."

  "What's the point?"

  Arpita considered this. She'd pulled her braid forward and was running her fingers along the end, thinking.

  "The veena," she said finally. "Look at how she holds it."

  Anand looked. The goddess's two front hands were positioned on the instrument—one near the top, one near the bottom. Ready to play. But not playing. Waiting.

  "She's not performing," Arpita said. "She's not showing off. She's just... holding it. Like the music's already there, inside her, and she doesn't need to prove it to anyone." She paused. "That's what knowledge is supposed to be. Not something you use to get ahead. Something you carry. Something that's part of you."

  Anand blinked.

  "That's deep," he said.

  Arpita glanced at him, suddenly self-conscious. "Shut up. I just whatever. It's what my grandmother says."

  "She sounds smart."

  "She's old. Same thing, usually."

  "Do you play?" he asked, nodding at the veena in the statue's hands.

  "Yeah. Told you. Since I was four." She looked at the statue again. "It's hard. Like, really hard. You think you're good, and then you hear someone who's actually good and you realize you're still a beginner. My grandmother says that never stops. She's been playing for thousands of years and she still practices scales every morning."

  Anand thought about his own training. The endless meditation. The chants. The poses. The feeling of being a beginner even after a year of work.

  "Yeah," he said quietly. "I get that."

  They stood there for a moment.

  Then Anand heard it.

  Breathing. Behind them. Close.

  He turned.

  An old woman stood at the edge of the clearing. She was... well, she was *old*. Not just regular old. Ancient old. Her hair was white and thin, pulled back in a bun so tight it looked painful. Her skin had that particular texture of something left in the sun too long. She wore a simple white sari, no jewelry, no adornment. And she was staring at them with an expression Anand couldn't quite read.

  He hadn't heard her approach. At all. Which was weird, because the ground was covered in dried leaves and small twigs.

  "Uh," he said. "Who is this old woman?"

  Arpita spun around.

  Her face went through approximately seventeen expressions in two seconds. Surprise. Embarrassment. Horror. More embarrassment.

  "Grandma!" she yelped.

  Anand's brain, which had been moving slowly, suddenly caught up.

  *Grandma.*

  *Malini.*

  *The thousands of year-old woman who rejected Pitamaha.*

  *The one he just called-*

  "Oh," Anand said. "I-I mean-I didn't-that came out wrong-I just-you're not-I mean you *are* old but I didn't mean it like-"

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  Malini looked at him.

  Just looked.

  For a long, terrible moment.

  "So," she said. Her voice was exactly what you'd expect from someone that old-dry, cracked, but with something sharp underneath. Like old parchment that could still cut you. "You're the brat."

  Anand opened his mouth. Closed it.

  "I-that was-I didn't-"

  "Before I even introduced myself. Before you knew who I was." She took a step closer. Anand fought the urge to step back. "Just walked into my park, looked at me, and decided I was an 'old woman.'"

  Arpita was watching this with the expression of someone who desperately wanted to be somewhere else but also didn't want to miss anything.

  "I'm sorry," Anand managed. "It was-it just came out-I didn't mean to be rude-"

  Malini held up a hand.

  He stopped talking.

  She studied him. Up and down. Like she was appraising livestock.

  "You look like him," she said finally. "Your grandfather. The same stupid face. The same stupid hair." She paused. "The same complete lack of brain-to-mouth filter."

  Anand wasn't sure if that was an insult or just an observation. Probably both.

  "He talks about you," he said, because his mouth apparently hadn't learned its lesson. " He told me about how he tried to marry you and you said no."

  The silence that followed was so complete Anand could hear his own heartbeat.

  Arpita's eyes went wide.

  Malini's face didn't change. Didn't twitch. Didn't move at all.

  Then, very quietly:

  "That old fool still telling that story?"

  "He mentioned it. Yes."

  "He tell you why I said no?"

  Anand considered lying. Considered saying no. Considered running.

  "He said you told him he was too loud and laughed too much."

  Another silence.

  Then Malini laughed.

  It was not a nice laugh. It was dry and raspy and sounded like it hadn't been used in a while, but it was definitely a laugh.

  "Too loud," she repeated. "Laughed too much." She shook her head slowly. "I told him he was an arrogant idiot who thought the world revolved around his voice. He just heard 'too loud.'" She looked at Anand again. "You're exactly like him, aren't you?"

  "I'd like to think I'm-"

  "You're not. You're worse. At least he waited until he was 1050 to insult me to my face. You managed it in thirty seconds."

  Anand had nothing to say to that.

  Arpita, for her part, looked like she was having the time of her life.

  Malini sighed. The sound carried the weight of millennia.

  "Come," she said. "Both of you. We're walking."

  She turned and started down a path without waiting to see if they'd follow.

  They caught up to Malini, who was moving faster than someone that old had any right to.

  "So," Malini said without looking back. "You opened Muladhara. In a year."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Ma'am." She snorted. "Don't ma'am me. You called me an old woman five minutes ago. We're past formalities."

  Anand wisely said nothing.

  "One year," Malini repeated. "Your father took three. He was considered a prodigy. The clan talked about him like he was the second coming of someone important." She glanced back at him. "You made him look slow."

  Anand didn't know what to say to that. He'd never met his father. Didn't know anything about him except that he was apparently off somewhere being important and not here.

  "That bother you?" Malini asked. Like she could read his thoughts.

  "What?"

  "Being compared to him. Being better than him. Being the thing he wasn't."

  Anand thought about it. Really thought about it.

  "I don't know him," he said finally. "So it's hard to feel anything about being compared to him. He's just... a name. Someone people mention sometimes and then change the subject."

  Malini was quiet for a moment.

  "Fair answer," she said. "Most kids your age would lie. Say they don't care when they clearly do. Or pretend they're honoring him by being better. You just said you don't know him." She nodded slowly. "That's something."

  They walked past a small pond with lotus flowers. Pink. White. A few blue ones that Anand hadn't seen before.

  "Your grandfather's message said you need creative training. For Svadhishthana." She said it like she was discussing the weather. "You know anything about art?"

  "A little."

  "A little." She laughed that dry laugh again. "That's what everyone says. Then they show up and can't draw a straight line."

  "I know some things."

  "Like what?"

  Anand hesitated. Then, because apparently his mouth was on a roll today: "Bharatanatyam comes from the temples. It's about storytelling through precise movement. Odissi is from the east, more fluid, more curved. Kathak has lots of spins, lots of improvisation."

  Malini stopped walking.

  Turned.

  Stared at him.

  "How," Malini said slowly, "does an eleven-year-old boy who's spent his whole life in a meditation chamber know any of that?"

  Anand's brain scrambled.

  "I read.."

  "You read."

  "Yes. Books. My grandfather has a lot of books. I get bored. I read things. They stick." He was talking too fast. He could hear himself talking too fast. "I have a good memory. It's part of the whole divine body thing. Everything sticks. It's annoying actually because I can't forget stuff even when I want to. Like once I read about the different schools of classical dance and now it's just in there. Taking up space. Useful sometimes I guess but mostly just-"

  "Child."

  He stopped.

  Malini was looking at him with an expression he couldn't read at all.

  "You talk too much. Just like your grandfather."

  Anand shut his mouth.

  "Also, you're lying." She said it simply, like stating a fact. "But I don't care why. Not my business. Keep your secrets." She started walking again. "Just don't lie about things that matter. Art doesn't care about your secrets. It only cares if you show up."

  They walked in silence for a bit. The path curved around more ponds, more flowers, more statues that Anand didn't have time to examine.

  "Svadhishthana needs creativity," Malini said eventually. "Flow. Movement. Water energy. You can't force it open like you did the root. That one's about stability. Foundation. You push, it opens. Sacral's different. You push too hard and it closes tighter."

  Anand nodded. His mother had said something similar.

  "So you'll learn something here. Dance, music, painting, doesn't matter which. Pick one. Commit to it for at least six months. Let the practice do its work." She glanced at him. "Arpita can help you decide. She knows the teachers, knows who's good and who's just collecting paychecks."

  Arpita, behind them, made a sound that might have been agreement.

  They emerged from the trees near a large building Anand hadn't seen from above. It was older than the others, the stone weathered, the carvings softer from centuries of wind and rain. Music drifted from inside-something slow, meditative, a single instrument weaving patterns in the air.

  "That's the veena hall," Arpita said quietly. "Where I practice."

  Anand looked at the building. Then at her. Then back at the building.

  "Maybe I should learn veena," he said.

  Arpita's eyebrows went up. "You? Veena?"

  "Why not?"

  "It's hard. Like, really hard. You spend years just learning to hold it right."

  "I opened a chakra in a year. I think I can handle an instrument."

  Arpita opened her mouth to respond, but before she could-

  "Who is this?"

  The voice came from behind them. Male. Young. And carrying something that made the words land like stones.

  Anand turned.

  A boy stood at the edge of the path. Around his age, maybe a year older. Dark hair, sharp eyes, clothes that screamed money in that quiet way real money did. He was looking at Anand with an expression that wasn't quite hostile but wasn't friendly either.

  More like assessment. Like he was weighing something.

  Arpita's expression flickered. Just slightly. But Anand caught it.

  "Prabal," she said. Her voice was carefully neutral. "This is Anand. He's visiting. From the Brahmapuri."

  The boy-Prabal-didn't move. Didn't acknowledge the introduction. Just kept looking at Anand with those sharp, assessing eyes.

  Anand said nothing.

  Prabal's mouth curved into something that was trying to be a smile and failing.

  "Huh."

  That was all. Just "huh."

  Then he turned and walked away, disappearing into the trees without another word.

  Anand looked at Arpita.

  She was watching the spot where Prabal had vanished, her face carefully blank.

  "Friend of yours?" Anand asked.

  "No," she said looking annoyed. "Not a friend."

  Malini, who had been watching the exchange without comment, made a small sound in her throat.

  Anand looked back at the trees.

  *Great,* he thought. *Finally collected an enemy.*

  *This is the moment! Some face-slapping!*