Chapter 1: The Talking Chicken

My name’s Rohan—just another servant disciple at Kaveripur Ashram, stuck at the bottom rung of sadhana. Around here, even the stray dogs get more respect than me. One morning, while I was feeding the chickens in the backyard, I suddenly heard a voice inside my head.

The early morning air smelled of agarbatti from the main prayer hall, with the sleepy sun just peeking over the tiled roof. My faded kurta clung to my back in the humid air, and as I tossed grain to the hens, their cackling mixed with the distant ring of the temple bell. A mosquito buzzed near my ear, and I swatted it away, hoping no one saw me flinch like a city boy. Everything felt routine—until a sharp, angry snarl cut through the quiet like a slap.

"Arrey, that wicked aurat! Wait till I get my hands on her again. She used some tantric trick to drain all my shakti and even turned me into a chicken! What are you staring at, haan? Look any longer and I’ll peck your eyes out."

My hand froze on the chicken’s neck. Hold on—was the chicken... talking?

My hand flew to my chest, fingers tracing the rudraksha bead I wore for luck. Maybe Amma was right—skipping morning chai does make you see things. Sweat beaded on my forehead, even though a whiff of jasmine drifted from the garden nearby. The ashram, always predictable with its bells and bhajans, suddenly felt like a place where anything could happen. Arrey, mere dil ki toh vaat lag gayi—the thumping in my chest was louder than the Hawkins pressure cooker from the kitchen.

Unsure if I’d misheard, I gave the chicken’s head a good shake. Was I hallucinating from bad poha? Or had some evil spirit possessed me? I wiped my brow, half-expecting a senior to yell at me for dawdling, but the only witnesses were the lazy goats chewing on banana leaves nearby. I told myself, 'Arrey, maybe it’s just fatigue—did I skip my morning chai?'

Just then, the chicken grumbled again, clear as anything in my head:

"Stop shaking my damn head, yaar! I’m getting dizzy! This fellow’s brain is definitely fried. If you’re feeding chickens, just feed them. Why choke me?"

I was so frightened I nearly jumped out of my skin. I flung the chicken away and scrambled back, slipping on the dusty floor. In a world full of babas and tantriks, anything was possible—had I really come across a chicken spirit? The scent of burning sandalwood drifted from the nearby shrine, and I noticed my hands trembling. My slippers almost slipped off as I stumbled backwards, waiting for some baba to appear from a puff of smoke and tell me what the hell was going on.

Before landing, the chicken did a backward somersault, spinning three and a half times—like a feathered gymnast from some Ram Leela. For a moment, I wondered if someone from the drama troupe was hiding nearby, playing a prank. But the seriousness in that chicken’s voice was enough to make even the bravest pandit start muttering Hanuman Chalisa under his breath.

Could this chicken spirit eat people? I was just a lowly servant disciple—no mantra, no yantra, not even a whiff of real sadhana to my name. Trembling, I pointed at the feed, my voice wobbling as I tried to sound friendly: "Kukdukoo, kukdukoo... Beta, if anyone saw me now, they’d think I’d lost my mind."

I remembered what Ma used to say—if you’re scared of a spirit, just keep your head down and pretend nothing’s wrong. My lips stretched into a nervous grin as I fumbled with the feed, quietly cursing my luck.

The chicken actually rolled its eyes at me.

"This nobody might be a bit crazy, but at least he’s got a good heart. Seeing how weak you are, I’ll find a chance to help you out."

I looked around, wishing someone else would appear and share my shock. But all I saw was the old neem tree swaying in the morning breeze, its leaves rustling like they were gossiping about my misery.

Opportunity knocks!

Just as I started to smile, the chicken’s voice rang in my head again:

"What are you grinning for? If only I could just absorb shakti stones to cultivate—what a dump this place is. Useless, useless, useless! There’s a barrier so I can’t get out, not a single shakti stone to be found, and they still dream of raising spirit pets. Might as well be dead."

Shakti stones—those tiny, glowing pebbles everyone in the ashram fought over, said to speed up your sadhana if you were lucky. And spirit pets? I nearly lost my composure. Did it not realise it was just an ordinary desi chicken?

Just then, a crow landed on the mud wall and cawed three times, as if warning me to keep my wits. I wiped my palms on my lungi and tried to make sense of things.

I’d only been in Kaveripur Ashram for less than half a year. There were dozens of servant disciples who joined with me, but most had some uncle or cousin to help them get better placements. Only poor me got sent to the Spirit Beast Shed to feed meat chickens—no connections, not even fit to sweep the cowshed. In the ashram hierarchy, I was below the stray dog who guarded the main gate. When elders passed by, I’d bend my head and shuffle aside, hoping to disappear.

But what if this chicken was a spirit chicken? Had I stumbled on a treasure?

My heart pounded like the tabla in the evening kirtan. Suddenly, all those old tales from Dadi’s village—about naga stones and spirit animals that brought luck or disaster—didn’t sound so crazy.

Servant disciples get paid quarterly: one low-grade shakti stone and ten grams of gold. I’d just received my shakti stone and planned to bribe Uncle Mishra for a better job. But maybe this chicken was my ticket out?

I stared at the little stone in my palm, feeling its faint warmth. My mind raced. If even half the stories about spirit beasts were true, I could change my fate—maybe even get a cot in the main dormitory instead of sleeping near the damp wall where lizards held nightly meetings.

I hesitated. Should I give it a shakti stone? What if it was some evil spirit? Amma always said evil spirits were unpredictable. If it figured out I could hear its thoughts, my life would be over.

Amma’s warning rang in my ears: "Never let a spirit know you know! Keep your eyes down and your mouth shut, beta!"

Meanwhile, it kept muttering: "Life is suffering, might as well die... what’s the point of living..."

I glanced at the drooping chicken, thinking of the time my cousin staged a hunger strike for a new cricket bat. This was different, but the desperation looked the same.

I decided to gamble. But I had to keep my hands clean.

Looking at the chicken’s sorry state, I fetched my shakti stone and put on my best worried face: "Hey, sorry about twisting your neck just now. I don’t know if this shakti stone can save your life."

That stone could buy me two months of extra sabzi or a new chappal, but here I was, feeding it to a chicken like some fool in a folk tale. I faked a cough to steady my voice, trying to act as though I did this every day. The chicken eyed me like an old aunt sizing up a new bride.

The moment I said that, my mind cleared. The chicken lifted its head, eyes suddenly blazing with excitement. Its joy was almost contagious.

For a second, I almost laughed, but stopped myself. In the ashram, you learn not to celebrate too soon—someone’s always watching.

Quickly, I turned away, tossed the shakti stone into the feed trough, and pretended to be indifferent: "Well, there goes half a year’s wages."

My hand trembled as I let go. Somewhere in the distance, a lorry honked, like it understood my pain. I thought of all the things I could have done with that stone: a better mattress, more sabzi in my tiffin, maybe even a trip to the village mela. All gone.

There was a faint rustling behind me, but the voice in my head was jubilant.

"You’re my real dad—finally, salvation! Oh my god, System, come here! Grandpa’s got money again! Hey Ram, bless me!"

The air felt lighter, like a gentle wind had swept through the coop. The crows on the neem tree fell silent, watching with curious black eyes.

As the chicken’s voice echoed in my head, I realised—my life at Kaveripur Ashram would never be normal again.