Rebirth of the Indian Chemist.

Velikara, Kerala – 1710 CE

I never thought a girl who refused to smile would become my new favorite audience.

But here we were. Week three of tutoring Pavizham. Still no smile. But she had started nodding. Occasionally. And once, I swear, she almost chuckled. Maybe. Possibly.

I considered it a major breakthrough.

---

"Why are you always late?" she asked as I entered her courtyard with my armful of scrolls and bamboo models.

"Because unlike some noble families, my house doesn't have fifteen servants, a horse cart, or a parrot that announces visitors."

"That parrot's name is Vishnu. He hates everyone equally."

"So a very holy bird."

She actually smirked. Smirked! That was progress.

---

We began the lesson with blueprints.

Not steam tanks this time. Bridges.

I unrolled a scroll covered in messy sketches of beams, joints, and tiny stick figures walking across an arched span made of bamboo and stone.

"This," I said, "is a bridge we could build across the canal between the two southern paddy fields."

"Why?" she asked.

"To make crossing easier. Right now, villagers wade through water during planting season. Or fall in."

She tapped a point on the drawing. "This joint would fail. Too much stress on a single stone."

I blinked.

"You know stress load dynamics?"

"My father builds temple thresholds. He makes me watch when they lift the pillars. It's fascinating. Also terrifying. One time a slab nearly crushed a goat."

"You must write that story down. For science."

"No. The goat survived. It's my cousin's pet. He named it 'Stone' and it hates me."

"Excellent. Our first academic enemy: the goat."

She grinned—briefly, but it happened.

I felt like a king.

---

At one point in the lesson, I asked, "Do you want to try drawing a support structure?"

She hesitated. Then leaned over the scroll. Her braid brushed my elbow.

My brain short-circuited.

Focus, Amarnatha. Bridge, not braid.

"Like this?" she asked.

"Yes," I croaked, voice suddenly two octaves too high.

"You sound like a cracked flute."

"That's my natural scholarly tone."

She gave me a sideways look. "Are all scholars awkward?"

"Only the truly brilliant ones."

She didn't respond, but she didn't stop drawing either. Her hands were precise. Confident.

It was annoyingly attractive.

---

That evening, I returned home to find Devika sitting on our veranda, eating roasted jackfruit seeds and glaring at the horizon like it owed her money.

"Oh no," I said.

"Oh yes," she replied. "You're late."

"I was building a bridge."

"Of course you were. Across her heart?"

I sighed. "It's for farming convenience."

"Uh huh."

"I'm ten. She's twelve."

"You're ten with the soul of a thirty-year-old engineer. And she's twelve with the emotional range of a stone sculpture. Clearly meant to be."

I sat beside her. "Are you... jealous?"

"No," she snapped. "I just don't want you to forget who helped you clean up temple soot off your eyebrows."

"Devika," I said seriously, "I would never forget the soot."

She threw a seed at my head.

---

Later that night, I drew up another version of the bridge blueprint, incorporating Pavizham's corrections.

She was right. Her suggestion lowered the compression stress by 17%.

She was also terrifyingly smart.

And still didn't smile easily.

But now, when she handed me the charcoal pen or leaned over my shoulder to correct a label, I noticed.

Noticed how close we were.

Noticed the way she tilted her head when she thought.

Noticed how both she and Devika had slowly carved out their own space in my strange, forward-thinking life.

And I was only ten.

Gods help me when I turned eleven.