Call of the throne

I woke up with a heavy head. Everything felt foggy. Still, I went about my chores. Sweeping, folding, cleaning the same as every day.

That morning, I received a fresh pile of clothes to wash. Among them were Chhota Ustaad's.

As I soaked them, I noticed something strange.

One corner of his cloth was stained deep red, like dried blood.

Some days it was cut oddly, almost burned at the edge. I began to wonder if these clothes had been used in some dark ritual by him, or on him.

The ashram held many truths. I was starting to feel them even when no one spoke.

Whispers filled the halls: the politician and the ashram manager were coming tomorrow.

Everyone moved faster.

There was a rush in the air, a need to make things look right.

Even the book did not open a new chapter today.

But instead, it gave something else: simple tantras. Basic, short mantras for small things.

Still, I was surprised to see how quickly they worked.

I tried one while hanging clothes to dry, and the cloth began to sway.

I wasn't sure if it was me or the wind. But I felt it. A shift.

I didn't show anyone. I kept it hidden.

At the morning rituals, I saw only Chhota Ustaad standing before the deities.

He looked distracted, waiting for someone. Even the goddess, it felt, was waiting. The usual glow around the idol looked dimmer today.

I was hungry. I waited for the prasaad, but it didn't come.

Noon came closer.

And then, the car arrived.

The politician stepped out first his eyes full of pride, face full of importance.

The manager came next, head buried in files, walking fast.

The ashram stood still for a moment.

As if holding its breath.

Chhota Ustaad was not leading the prayers today. The politician was doing the pooja himself.

Chhota and Angira stood to the side, almost like servants, nodding and flattering the manager. It was strange to see them like that.

I was helping with preparations too. I had become quick and quiet in my work, so I was assigned to serve food.

During lunch, I stood near the dining table, placing dishes where needed.

The manager began asking questions about the ashram's funds.

Chhota Ustaad explained, "The funds have been used for the welfare of the ashram."

"Show the receipts," the manager demanded.

Chhota showed a few documents, but even then, there was a deficit of four lakhs."People gave fewer donations this time," he added nervously.

The politician frowned. "That means you're not doing your job well.

I don't want to replace you, so improve your work.

The donations are dropping every year."

Chhota hesitated.

To impress them, he added quickly, "We are preparing for a maha akhara of spirits.

A grand event. It will be held near the ashram farmland.

Many will come people from far-off places. Once it happens, donations will come like never before."

"How long will it take?" the manager asked.

"Two months," Chhota replied.

"Preparations have already started."

The politician looked thoughtful. The manager made a note.

And I kept serving, listening to every word.

While I continued serving, The manager looked at me and asked, "Are you new here? If so, submit your documents for verification." I came with my uncle, and he gave all the details and ID documents to the manager.

This was part of the manager's duty to verify all servants in the ashram.

After lunch, the politician and manager went to meet Guruji.

I was told to go along and carry offerings. They had brought fruits, flowers, clothes, and shawls.

I, along with other young boys, helped carry the items into Guruji's room.

Chhota Ustaad and Angira followed closely behind, walking with the politician and the manager.

The corridor to Guruji's room was filled with a quiet, slow energy as if the house itself was holding its breath again.

I watched the politician and the manager bow to Guruji.

After placing the items, I stepped out briefly.

When I returned to serve tea, I saw Angira and Chhota Ustaad standing nearby while the politician and manager were sitting below Bade Ustaad, who was seated calmly on his wooden bed, speaking to them softly.

As I was about to leave after serving, Bade Ustaad called out and stopped me.

Then, turning to the manager, he asked about the fund meant for the needy.

Before the manager could respond, the politician spoke, "Due to the poor climate this year, Ustaad ji, the 100-acre farmland under the ashram trust hasn't yielded much.

The helping fund this year is only 20 lakhs."

Bade Ustaad nodded and said, "This boy is very good in his service.

His family is also in real need.

He should be given 15 lakhs from this year's fund."

The politician and the manager nodded in agreement.

I could hardly believe it.

I was overwhelmed with happiness.

When I looked at Angira, his face was red burning with anger.

I rushed to my uncle.

He was the happiest of all.

The politician and manager left shortly after. I watched Angira and Chhota Ustaad seeing them off silently.

The manager, while going, asked some details from my uncle and assured both of us that my family would receive the support within three days.

The politician and manager left shortly after. I watched Angira and Chhota Ustaad seeing them off silently.

And like that, another day passed in the ashram.