Chapter 3: Chicken Boy Rises

Listening to the outer disciples’ jokes, I had mixed feelings.

Chicken Boy... Did that mean I was just the chicken-raising guy from the labour hall? Not a flattering title, but it didn’t matter. I knew my place. They mocked me, but there was a hint of envy too—saying I must have dog’s luck. With mediocre talent, I was still the first of my batch to reach the peak of first-level sadhana.

Their eyes followed me wherever I went. Some called me names, but a few started asking for advice, as if I’d uncovered a hidden shortcut to success.

That chicken had helped me a lot. My rapid progress even caught the elders’ attention. They came to check me out, but left disappointed.

One elder even sniffed around my quarters, peering into corners as if expecting to find a stash of forbidden herbs. They left, shaking their heads.

Their verdict: this kid’s talent is average—probably just a lucky streak.

A couple of them muttered, "Let’s keep an eye on this one," but the rest lost interest soon enough.

At first, the outer disciples treated me pretty well, thinking maybe I had some hidden backing. But climbing too fast isn’t always a good thing, is it?

Old jealousy, like the lingering smell of burnt tadka in the mess hall, is hard to get rid of. A few started spreading rumors: ‘He must have bribed the elders’ or ‘Maybe he’s found some ancient scroll in the library storeroom.’

The moment I set up a chicken coop in my yard, some senior brothers came to create a scene. They claimed it was forbidden to raise chickens in the outer circle—especially such an ugly, fat one. They ordered me to tear down the coop and cook the chicken for them.

Their voices echoed off the stone walls, but I stood my ground, remembering my deal with the chicken. My palms grew sweaty as I clutched the latch of the coop.

Tearing down the coop was one thing, but killing the chicken? Did anyone ask the chicken? Even if it agreed, the spirit birds from the animal shed wouldn’t stand for it.

In the ashram, word travels faster than WhatsApp messages. By evening, the whole block knew something was brewing.

Senior Brother Ravi had just drawn his kirpan when a crane’s cry rang out. Dozens of fierce spirit birds swooped down and pecked his head until it was covered in lumps. He ran in circles, yelling louder than the temple loudspeaker during Navratri. The other disciples got splattered with bird droppings.

The sight would have been hilarious if not for the seriousness of the situation. Even the mango tree seemed to shake with laughter, its leaves fluttering madly.

They couldn’t fight off the spirit birds, nor did they dare try. Then the elder from the animal shed arrived, and the look he gave me made my heart sink. I was doomed. This was getting out of hand.

He wore the saffron scarf of his rank, and his brows were knitted like the old school principal’s whenever someone got caught cheating during exams. My throat went dry.

Senior Brother Ravi, face swollen and bruised, fell at his feet. "Guruji, we—we didn’t do anything! They attacked us first..."

Even the bravest of the lot looked like guilty schoolboys. I steeled myself for punishment, replaying every mistake I’d made since arriving at Kaveripur.

Everyone else looked pale with fear. Since it started because of me, they figured I’d be punished too.

A hush fell, the only sound the distant chanting from the main hall.

But to everyone’s shock, the elder rushed over and hugged me. "Good, good! These divine cranes were on the verge of death, but who would’ve thought they’d escape the animal shed and come to you—now they’re completely recovered!"

The sudden warmth of his embrace caught me off guard. For a fleeting moment, I felt like a hero in a mythological serial, blessed by the gods.

The elder eyed me suspiciously. "Is that chicken yours?"

I turned and saw dozens of white cranes circling the chicken as if worshipping it.

Oh no. Was something about to be exposed?

The cranes’ beaks clicked in rhythm, their feathers glinting in the evening sun. A few outer disciples started whispering, and the tension thickened.

The elder walked over, face unreadable. "Why are they all circling this fat chicken?"

Me: ...

Outer disciples: ...

No clue. To us, it was just an ordinary chicken. Well, maybe a little fatter than most.

I felt the sweat trickling down my back, the hush stretching longer. The chicken, for its part, strutted around with the calm of an old sannyasi who’s seen it all.

But what kind of chicken was this, really?

I glanced at the spirit chicken, wondering if, beneath its fluffed feathers and sharp tongue, it was waiting for the right moment to reveal its true power—or if it would just keep pretending to be an ordinary bird, hiding its secrets from the rest of the ashram, just as I had learned to hide mine.

Maybe the ashram would never see us for what we really were—but for now, me and my chicken, we had each other. And in Kaveripur, that was more than enough.