8328 B.C.

Two hours before sunrise, every morning, Uncle Madhava, the odd-jobs man, opened his eyes to pitch black darkness inside his hut. He ached to stretch his stiff old limbs. But he would not move from his position. He glanced up at the loft above him, just making out the sharper black silhouette of the wooden panels and the steps at one side. Low snores and creaking confirmed that the two most important people in his life were still fast asleep. For the last three years, he had spent every night squatting with his back against the locked door, holding a sword in his crossed arms. Sleep had become a luxury that he could afford only two hours at a time and never after three o’clock in the morning. At sixty-five years of age, staying awake was easier than falling asleep. He closed his eyes again, focusing on meditation until the light of dawn crept in through the door frame, and it’s warmth seeped into his tired old bones. The rooster crowed in the yard outside as he finally rose from his spot, arching his back with an audible yawn. Then he stowed away the sword with the rest of his belongings at one corner of the room, before leaving the hut to perform his ablutions. 

As usual, the buzz of activity from the town and the smell of fresh dew greeted him when he walked out of the door. He knew the residents at the university were already awake. The sight never failed to bring a sense of safety to the old man. It was like an absolute confirmation that the long night was over and a new day had begun. The tiny hamlet, where Uncle Madhava lived with his family, had sprung into existence less than seven years ago on the border of the small medical university town of Satvikshila, in the kingdom of Satayu. Closing the door of the hut behind him, the old man walked out of the yard and made his way to the nearby river, where he joined the men of the hamlet, exchanging the news of the day before. 

The main residents of Satvikshila were the full-time students who were required to train in vigorous yoga asanas and prayers, for two hours, before dawn each morning, at the same time that Uncle Madhava practised his meditation. The rest of the inhabitants consisted of all kinds of administrative staff, ranging from the mayor down to the cleaners. Most of them were also awake in order to attend to the students. Hence, the sun rarely disturbed anyone’s sleep in this region of Satayu. 

The students lived in dormitories close to the university grounds in the central part of town. The staff was provided with comfortable lodgings further away in the eastern quarters. From time to time, temporary contractors were housed in the western suburbs, which skirted the tiny hamlet. The thirty-odd families, who had become permanent dwellers of the hamlet in the last seven years, provided basic services like cleaning, laundry and food items to the temporary contractors in return for a cheaper remuneration. Mostly, the services were exchanged in a barter system since both the buyers and the sellers were from the lower economic strata of society in Satayu. 

During the day, Uncle Madhava joined the temporary contractors at the construction sites, helping in all kinds of odd jobs from dirt-collecting to chopping wood. His strength and agility contrasted his age. He was exceptionally tall compared to the rest of the men in the hamlet, with an impressive physique that rivalled the younger populace. His greying hair still held full volume. His wrinkled face was marked with sharp grey eyes and a bushy moustache. He always dressed in a plain, off-white, common attire and carried a leather tool-bag when he was heading to the construction sites. Despite his humble daily routine, he had earned a distinction for himself among the people of the hamlet, of being a man of few words but great wisdom. Most acquaintances had no reason to doubt him when he introduced himself as a well-educated dasa, or commoner, living in Satvikshila village with his widowed younger sister, Sulochana, and his late brother’s daughter, Satya. Yet, he guarded a deadly secret that he had determined would be set ablaze with him on his funeral pyre. 

Having finished his morning routine at the river, Uncle Madhava returned to the hut. He stayed outside in the yard, chopping and carving the wood collected from the day before to sell at the market. Till then, it had seemed like any other normal day in the hamlet. However, this morning, his coffee and breakfast were decidedly late. His stomach had begun to growl when the door finally opened. Two women stepped out arguing. The younger of the two was the first to notice the old man at the other end of the yard. She rushed towards him, determination marking her stride. The older woman followed close behind her, trying hard to keep up her pace. 

“Uncle Madhava,” the young maiden cried. “I protest! This is unfair.”

The old man considered the young maiden, who came to a stop in front of him. Hope shone in her deep-brown eyes, set in a round, pretty face. Her rose-coloured complexion was tanned with hours of daily swimming in the river. For an eighteen-year-old, she had a petite and round frame, rather like a child. Her unruly, copper-coloured tresses were tamed into a long tight braid that began at the base of her head and hung over her right shoulder down to her waist. She wore the typical, saffron-coloured, uniform-like common attire, of cotton fabric, as alloted for students in the town. Her ears, neck, wrists, and ankles were adorned with beaded strings. A roughly-woven basket of straw, filled with books, hung from her right elbow. The bottom bulged low with the weight of the materials inside it. Behind her, the old woman huffed and puffed, clutching the sides of her stomach. She was also quite short and stout. Although she was at least ten years younger to Uncle Madhava, her hair had turned completely white. A perpetual look of worry masked her true features. Unlike the young maiden, she was dressed in a bluish-grey sari and a white bodice. 

“Satya, my dear,” Uncle Madhava said. “What’s this all about?”

“Aunt Sulochana won't let me go to school today,” Satya replied, pouting her lips.

He raised an eyebrow. “Why not?”

The old woman sighed. “It’s just for one day,” she said, touching her wrinkled hand to her forehead. “That’s all! I’m not telling her to stop going to school forever.”

“Sulochana,” Uncle Madhava crossed his arms at his chest. “Kindly explain.”