Bhūmigriha — The House of Earth
Dev followed a group of new initiates down a stone path that curved beneath an archway made of rough, earthen pillars. Vines crawled along the walls, and thick tree roots broke through the stone, as if the earth itself refused to be tamed here.
The air was cooler. Still. Solid.
They entered a vast circular courtyard carved into a hillside. There, standing like a mountain carved from flesh and spirit, was the Head of Bhūmigriha.
"Welcome," the man boomed, voice deep like rolling thunder.
His name was Āchārya Dharanivarsha, his presence calm but commanding. A thick beard framed his strong jaw, and his robes were dark ochre, with stone-grey patterns coiling like fault lines.
"You stand in Bhūmigriha — the House of Earth," he began, his tone even but heavy with meaning. "Not because you are strong. But because you can endure."
He paused, letting the silence build.
"To shape the bhūmi is not simply to lift rocks or raise walls. True mastery means feeling every grain beneath your feet… and knowing how to crack it."
The ground beneath them rumbled as a deep fracture appeared in the training yard — a controlled fissure that stopped just short of Dev's toes.
"Through discipline, you will learn to use the Earth to protect — to stand firm while others fall. But in war… you will learn to shatter it. Collapse ground beneath armies. Divide mountains. End battles before they begin."
Dev swallowed hard. The others around him looked equally awestruck.
Āchārya Dharanivarsha gave a slight nod.
"But first," he added with a smirk, "you will carry boulders until your arms hate you. Then you will stand beneath the sun until your will stops trembling."
Dev couldn't help but grin.
"Sounds like fun," he muttered under his breath.
💧 Jalāgriha — The House of Water
Far across the Gurukul, Roshan stepped into a courtyard glowing with cool, silver-blue light. Marble floors flowed like still water underfoot, and gentle streams circled the edges of the building. The air was fresh. Calm. Like a mind in deep thought.
A woman stood at the center.
She wore flowing blue robes that shimmered faintly with threads of white, and her eyes — deep, cerulean — were as unreadable as the ocean.
"I am Āchāryā Neeravāhni," she said gently. "And this… is Jalāgriha."
Her voice wasn't loud, but it carried with a kind of weight Roshan couldn't ignore.
"Water is not weak. It does not ask. It flows… and if needed, it drowns."
She moved her hand, and a stream of water lifted from a bowl nearby — swaying like a serpent before settling again.
"In Jalāgriha, we teach patience before power. But with enough control, you will learn to shape water to defend. To trap. To confuse."
She knelt and touched a shallow pool, which immediately glowed with a faint light.
"You will learn to heal, Roshan. Water remembers pain. And it knows how to take it away."
Her expression darkened slightly.
"And if the time comes… you will learn to destroy. Storms are not born in anger. They are born in silence — and unleashed when the world forgets to listen."
Roshan stood still, more thoughtful than awed. He absorbed every word like drops into dry soil.
Then he bowed deeply. "Thank you."
She looked at him with a strange softness.
"Let us begin."
🌘 That Evening
As twilight settled over the Gurukul, Roshan and Dev returned to their shared dorm, dusty and sore, but buzzing with new energy.
Dev slumped onto his bedding. "I moved rocks with my soul, man. And then got yelled at for doing it wrong."
Roshan sat cross-legged, calm as always. "I studied how to change the flow of a river using breath control."
Dev stared. "That's... very you, actually."
They laughed.
But Maarun didn't join them.
They found him missing from his bunk.
Outside, somewhere between the trees and stone paths of the Gurukul, Maarun walked alone.