Chapter 2: Bhai-Bhai and the Feather Deal

Hey Ram? Was that some powerful guru’s name? Or was the chicken just swearing, like my uncle after losing at teen patti?

I kept my back to the chicken, not daring to look. Some secrets are best left unseen. I busied myself cleaning, pretending to arrange feed baskets, but inside, my mind was spinning. I muttered a quiet prayer to Ganpati Bappa, just in case.

The next morning, I didn’t hear the rooster crow. I rushed to the coop, and a few other servant disciples snickered at me.

"Heh, look at Rohan—so eager to feed chickens he skips breakfast. No background and still dreaming of becoming a yogi. Not one of us. Maybe if he works hard enough, some elder will take pity on him."

Their voices were loud enough to reach the mango tree, but I ignored them. After all, I’d just spent a whole shakti stone on that chicken. I clenched my fists behind my back, wishing just once I could answer back like the city boys. My stomach rumbled—no tea, no breakfast. The giggles stung, but I kept my head down, hearing Ma’s voice: "Let people talk, beta. One day, they’ll talk for the right reasons."

Before I could speak, Uncle Mishra from the labour hall scolded them: "You lot, enough with the sarcasm. Kaveripur disciples should have this kind of drive, energy, and sense of responsibility."

Uncle Mishra’s booming voice made even the older boys straighten up. He was wiry, with a stern face but a soft heart, always chewing paan and tucking his towel at the waist. He spat a neat red arc into the dust, never missing the same spot by the neem tree. The others laughed awkwardly, but didn’t show Uncle Mishra much respect—they had connections. Still, the ashram head always said: everyone starts as a servant disciple, no exceptions. Everyone climbs the ladder step by step.

The hierarchy was as rigid as the old peepul tree’s trunk. Even so, I could see Uncle Mishra’s kindness in his eyes, despite the rough words.

I saluted Uncle Mishra and hurried to the chicken coop. As soon as I walked in, that chicken fixed me with a burning stare.

Its eyes glittered with an intelligence no ordinary fowl could muster. It shuffled closer, feathers fluffing in anticipation.

"Oi, kid’s here. Got any more shakti stones?"

Its eyes were practically glowing with hope. Arrey, mere dil ki toh vaat lag gayi. I had nothing left. It takes half a year to earn a single shakti stone—the next one was at least three months away. Was I supposed to sell my kidney next?

I stared at it. It stared back. With one claw, it kicked a nearby hen aside, cursing: "Arrey yaar! Did these hens eat something funny? They’re all in heat and keep pouncing on me. Get lost, we’re not even the same species! If I hadn’t been set up, I wouldn’t be stuck in this dump."

The chicken talked! Wasn’t its shakti supposed to be gone? I nearly dropped the feed bowl. My heart skipped as I watched the feathers on its neck shimmer in the morning light.

Then I noticed two iridescent black feathers sprouting from its neck—clearly extraordinary. This matched the descriptions of spirit creatures in the ashram’s old records. Spirit beasts are treasures from head to toe. This chicken really was a spirit chicken.

My mind flashed to the worn-out manuscripts in the ashram library, the ones elders muttered over during monsoon storms. ‘If you see a beast with black iridescent feathers, do not disturb—it’s touched by the divine,’ Dadaji used to say.

Swallowing hard, I took a step forward. "You ate my shakti stone—shouldn’t I at least get one of your feathers in return?"

My voice sounded steadier than I felt, but I kept my hands behind my back, like a schoolboy facing the headmaster after breaking a window.

The chicken shuffled back, a weird look in its eyes. It squawked, "Bhai, don’t! Just look, don’t pluck. Don’t hurt me!"

For a second, the word bhai hung in the air, warmer than the morning sun. In this ashram, even a chicken could be family.

Startled, I didn’t dare touch it again. Who knew what tricks it had up its sleeve? While feeding the chickens, I said, "If I wanted to hurt you, couldn’t I just report you to the ashram?"

The chicken cocked its head, glancing left and right as if checking for spies, then lowered its voice in my mind.

"Don’t! I’ll give you a feather, okay? Can you get more shakti stones?"

I hesitated. "Depends how much your feather is worth."

We eyed each other, each calculating the risks. The tension in the coop was thick enough to cut with a kitchen knife. I remembered old Bollywood dialogues: 'Business toh business hai, boss.'

In the end, we struck a deal: I’d trade shakti stones for its feathers, splitting the profits thirty-seventy—I get thirty, it gets seventy. But it had to stay secret. That was easy enough; there were ways to sell things at the local haat.

I could almost hear the busy chitchat of the haat—the hawkers shouting, the bargaining aunties, the clinking of coins. In the shadows, deals like ours were just another part of daily life.

Over the next few months, I shuttled between the chicken coop and the market, using the profits to push my sadhana up to the peak of first-level practice. All its old feathers were gone, replaced by iridescent black ones. But it insisted on keeping a low profile, claiming it had enemies in Kaveripur Ashram, so it reverted to looking like an ordinary fat rooster.

Sometimes, I’d catch it muttering ancient mantras under its breath, as if invoking forgotten gods. We became unlikely partners in crime, bound by greed and a strange sense of loyalty.

Uncle Mishra took good care of me, recommending me for the outer circle. I was promoted to outer disciple of Kaveripur Ashram.

He clapped my shoulder with a smile. "Don’t forget us small people when you’re big, Rohan."

Before I left, he asked if I wanted to bring anything with me. Under his surprised gaze, I said, "I’ll take a chicken."

I could see his eyebrows shoot up, but he nodded, pride flickering in his eyes.

"Good, good! Never forgetting your roots is admirable."

Me: ...

A couple of the boys snickered, but Uncle Mishra winked at me. Maybe he knew more than he let on.

As I stepped into the next chapter of my ashram life, my spirit chicken at my side, I wondered what new mischief—and miracles—awaited us.