Rebirth of the Indian Chemist.

Velikara, Kerala – 1709 CE

At ten years old, I was finally old enough to legally hit someone with a stick.

Not just any someone. His name was Krishna, and his head was roughly the size of a jackfruit. That wasn't an insult. That was just geometry. Krishna had two talents: eating rice by the kilogram and loudly declaring things he didn't understand.

He also called my water-wheel model a "spinning coconut washer."

So when the village boys set up a sparring circle with bamboo staffs, and Krishna pointed at me and said, "Let the tiny thinker fight," I smiled.

Because I had been waiting for this.

Not to hurt him.

Just to prove a point.

The training field was just a patch of dirt surrounded by shouting children and three bored adults pretending to supervise. The bamboo staffs were worn smooth from years of abuse, and the betting had already started.

"Two mangoes on Krishna!"

"He'll squash the book boy!"

"Does the small one even blink?"

I didn't. Not when it counted.

Krishna swaggered into the circle like he was about to defeat a demon. He twirled his staff, smirked, and did a little bow that was probably meant to be insulting.

I gripped my own staff with steady hands. I had tested this one earlier. It was slightly longer than the others, but lighter—the kind of thing you'd ignore until it tapped you right in the ribs.

The crowd grew quiet. A whistle blew. The duel began.

Krishna charged.

Not a feint. Not a probe.

Just a full-speed, shoulder-first charge with his stick raised like a battering ram.

I stepped aside.

Not dramatically. Just enough to let his momentum carry him past me. He stumbled. I tapped the back of his knee.

He fell.

The crowd gasped.

He jumped up, furious, and swung wide. I ducked and jabbed his side. Not hard. Just enough to make him flinch.

Then I backed away.

He ran again. Sloppier. Angry.

I let him tire himself out. Three more wild swings. I dodged every one.

Then I stepped forward and spun low, my staff hooking behind his ankle.

Krishna hit the ground like a dropped pumpkin.

Silence.

Then cheering.

Loud, stunned, joyful cheering.

Someone handed me a mango.

Krishna stayed on the ground, groaning.

I walked over, helped him up, and said, "It spins water. Not coconuts. Just so you know."

Then I bit the mango.

Victory was sweet.

Later that evening, I sat under the neem tree behind our house, replaying the fight in my mind. Not out of vanity.

Out of curiosity.

Because something odd had happened.

When I had dodged that third swing, I saw sparks.

Literal sparks.

Tiny blue flashes near Krishna's hand, where sweat had soaked the staff grip.

I knew what that meant.

Friction. Static. Heat.

An idea began to bloom.

I spent the next week obsessively rubbing cloth, grinding stones, and watching what caught fire.

Eventually, I built a crude fire-starter: cotton wrapped in dry sugarcane, twisted with copper wire I salvaged from an old ornament. When spun rapidly, the copper touched flint and ignited the cotton.

It wasn't pretty.

But it worked.

My first controlled fire.

Not a spark from the gods.

Not a flame from a match.

My own fire. From knowledge.

I showed it to Bhairav, my closest friend and part-time co-conspirator.

He stared at the tiny blaze, eyes wide.

"You… made fire without fire."

"I made fire with movement," I corrected.

He looked at me like I had turned into a minor deity.

"Promise you won't use this to burn down Krishna's house."

I smiled.

"No promises."

In that moment, I knew two things:

I had won more than a duel.

I was officially dangerous.

And it felt amazing.