"I thought I failed," Maarun said quietly, as the early light crept through the window of the hut. He sat up, his body still aching from the fainting during the air trial. "You didn't even let me finish…"
Guruji Vāyurāyana didn't open his eyes.
"You did not fail," the old man said calmly. "Your body did. Not your will."
That one sentence was enough to make Maarun sit up straighter.
The sea whispered in the distance. Smoke coiled from a small fire at the center of the hut. The silence between them now felt… clearer.
"Get ready," Guruji said after a pause, rising slowly. "The trials are not over."
🜃 Trial of Bhūmi (Earth)
Their walk took them to a curve where the sea kissed the sand. The beach stretched endlessly, the waves humming like a giant heartbeat.
Guruji stopped.
"To understand the Earth," he said, "you must first taste it."
Maarun furrowed his brows. "Taste it?"
Guruji didn't repeat himself.
Uncertain, Maarun crouched, pinched some sand, and placed it on his tongue.
It was grainy, sharp, and dry. A part of him wanted to spit it out. But he didn't.
"Earth is not always kind," Guruji said, watching him. "But it carries memory. Truth. You must learn to feel it with more than your feet."
Then he gave the next task:
"Dig three holes. With your hands. One here… one in the jungle's belly… and one near the mountain's bones."
Maarun said nothing this time.
He dug first on the beach. The sand collapsed again and again. It was like trying to hold breath — easy at first, but difficult to sustain. He learned to shape the walls inward, to use water from the sea to keep the form.
Next, they traveled to the forest. The soil was darker, rich with the scent of wet leaves and age. Here, his hands met resistance. Twisting roots, thick insects, and stones. His nails cracked. But he kept going.
By the time he reached the base of the rocky hill where the mountain began, his arms shook. The ground here was harsh — dry and sharp. His palms bled. He banged his knuckles more than once. But he dug, until his shadow was long and the earth gave way.
Guruji stood behind him silently the entire time.
🔥 Trial of Agni (Fire)
As night approached, Guruji brought Maarun to a small stone circle near the hut. A pile of dry wood sat at its center.
"Light it," he said.
Maarun used flint and steel. Sparks flew. A small flame bloomed and rose. He stepped back, breathing out in relief.
But it flickered. Then died.
Guruji remained unmoved.
"You must watch this fire until it dies completely," he said. "And when it begins to fade… add leaves. Add sticks. Feed it. Keep it alive."
Maarun nodded, though he didn't fully understand. He tried again.
The fire returned, glowed, danced.
It dimmed.
He scrambled to gather nearby leaves and broken branches, adding them carefully.
It caught again.
And then — as if testing him — it weakened.
So he fed it again.
This cycle continued.
Over and over, he lit and fed the fire. Again and again, it faded. And each time, he added more — sometimes too much, choking the flame. Other times too little, letting it die.
The sky turned purple. Then black. The stars peered out like distant watchers. Still, Maarun struck flint and fed the fire. Again and again.
Not once did he ask why. Not once did Guruji explain.
His arms ached. His eyes stung. But something in him began to shift. He wasn't just lighting the fire anymore — he was listening to it. Watching the way the wind bent the flame. Noticing the smallest changes in its breath.
"It dies not to end," he thought suddenly, "but to begin again."
He began to feel the rhythm of it. Like the fire was testing him, not the other way around.
Midnight passed.
Guruji watched from afar, standing in silence.
A strong wind came down from the hills.
The flame, no matter how carefully protected, blew out completely.
For a long time, Maarun sat there staring at the ashes.
His hands were still on the flint. His fingers frozen.
A part of him whispered: You've failed again.