Chapter 10: The Old Master and a New Resolve

The wandering spirit broke his promise.

He sold me to an old master, nearly fifty, whose eyes were sharp and voice heavy with authority. The man thumped his cane on the floor, cleared his throat with a gruff 'hmmph', and adjusted his Gandhi cap before giving orders. The smell of sandalwood and paan hung around him.

He even lied to me: “Bershan, if things go well, I’ll come get you in three months and bring your sister back; if not, just treat me as dead.”

His words stung deeper than any wound. I watched him climb back onto the cart, his figure shrinking in the slanting sunlight. He never looked back.

I watched him leave, heart tangled with hate and hope. Ma’s anklet pressed heavy against my waist, a lump rising in my throat as coins changed hands in silence.

The bullock cart man never glanced back, his silhouette swallowed by dust and the dying sun. The city’s chaos closed around me, cold and unforgiving.

Before I could recover, the old master barked instructions.

“I teach ten students every day. You’ll set out slate, chalk, and notebooks before class.”

His authority was absolute. He wanted tea just so, rice polished white, and clothes spotless—changing two, sometimes three times a day. Every stain meant more work.

Boiling water, doing laundry, grinding spices, and sweeping left me no time to grieve. The heat from the stove burned, but I remembered Ma’s words: 'Kaam mein koi sharm nahi.'

During chores, I’d hear the master’s clear reading from the study. The sound drew me like a temple bell. His voice was rich, words flowing like the Yamuna in monsoon. Students sat cross-legged, eyes wide. I stood in the doorway, soaking it in.

After every passage, he explained, broke down every word. I listened, wishing I could sit among the children, slate in hand. Over time, I picked up stray words, piecing together sentences. Sometimes I mouthed answers silently, grinning when I got them right.

Soon, I was working faster, sneaking outside the window to listen whenever I could.

Once I understood, I longed to see more—dreaming of tracing letters in spilled flour or dust, yearning to hold chalk in my own hands.

One morning, after setting out writing tools, I saw it was still early. Heart pounding, I dipped chalk in water, traced letters in the dust, then dared to sit at the desk, rolling up my sleeves.

"Kya kar rahi ho?"

The voice was sharp, scaring me. My hands shook, the chalk slipping. I turned to see the old man, quickly kneeling: "Master…"

He paced, sneering: "Padhaai karni hai?"

I nodded, then shook my head, caught between hope and fear. He chuckled dryly, turning to the sunlight.

The sunlight slanted in, but his figure blocked out the light, leaving me cold as the stone floor.

A chill crept up my spine. I hugged myself, summoning courage.

“There’ll be a guest tomorrow. You’ll go with him.”

His words were final. My face went ashen, but deep inside, I looked at the slanting sunlight and whispered a silent prayer to Ma: 'I will not break.'