Ch.26: The Hands that Serve
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- Rajvanshi Estate, Calcutta -
- March 12, 1936 – Morning -
Aryan took a deep breath and nodded, fully understanding the weight of his parents' decision. It wasn't just about punishment—it was about learning responsibility. His mother's stern gaze softened just a bit when she saw his determination. Without wasting time, he pressed his palms together, summoning thirty shadow clones and dispersing them strategically across Calcutta and its surrounding areas. They had a job to do—identify the loyal Indians within the administration and facilitate the silent coup, ensuring a smooth transition from British control to the BSS without unnecessary conflict.
With his clones handling external affairs, Aryan turned back to face his mother, who had already led him toward the kitchen. The cooks were waiting, a mix of curiosity and amusement in their expressions.
"You've never cooked a proper meal in your life," one of them, an older man named Bhola Kaka, chuckled. "This will be interesting."
Aryan scratched the back of his head, offering a sheepish smile. "That's why I'm here to learn. Maa doesn't tolerate half-hearted efforts."
Anjali, who was overseeing the process, nodded approvingly. "He will do everything from scratch. No shortcuts."
The next few hours were a battle of their own. Kneading dough for rotis left his arms sore, cutting vegetables tested his patience, and controlling the right amount of spice in the curry proved more challenging than strategizing against the British. The cooks gave occasional advice, correcting his grip on the knife, adjusting the flame when he nearly burned the dal, and reminding him to stir continuously.
After what felt like an eternity, he finally presented his first meal. His mother inspected the food, took a bite, and after a long pause, gave a small nod. "It's edible."
Bhola Kaka laughed. "For a beginner, that's high praise."
A sense of pride welled up in Aryan. He wasn't perfect, but he was improving.
After cleaning up in the kitchen, he headed to the cowshed. The air was thick with the scent of hay and livestock. The caretaker, a sturdy man named Gopal, greeted him with a knowing smirk. "Never thought I'd see you here, young master."
"I didn't either," Aryan admitted. "But I have work to do."
"Good," Gopal nodded, handing him a broom. "Start with the cleaning. Properly."
Aryan got to work, sweeping out old hay, scrubbing the floors, and refilling the feeding troughs. It was exhausting, but oddly grounding. The cows nudged him curiously, and he found himself talking to them as he worked.
"I bet you all think this is funny, huh?" he muttered as one particularly stubborn buffalo refused to move from its spot.
"Mooo" The buffalo loudly bellowed as if replying and mocking him.
Gopal chuckled. "Animals recognize sincerity. Keep at it, and they'll warm up to you."
By the time he finished, his muscles ached slightly, and his clothes were covered in dust and hay. As he walked back to the main house, his parents were waiting for him. His father gave him an approving nod. "Good work, Aryan. Discipline is just as important as power."
Anjali stepped forward and, for the first time in days, smiled warmly. She cupped his face and placed a soft kiss on his forehead. "You are learning, my son."
Aryan swallowed the lump in his throat. This was their way of showing they believed in him, and he appreciated it very much.
His parents had decided to take him, with them to the BSS office today, as there wasn't much point in denying Aryan of his involvement now, so they together head to the party office. As they walked, Aryan told them everything about his meeting with the Governor, his assertion of control as Maheshvara, and his plan to integrate loyal Indians into key positions. His father listened attentively, nodding in approval. His mother, while still firm, showed a trace of pride in her eyes.
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Aryan walked alongside his parents as they approached the modest building on the outskirts of Calcutta, the temporary office for the BSS. Their previous headquarters had been demolished by the British in a show of force, but rather than cower, the movement had only grown stronger. The people's support had not wavered, and their determination to resist was now deeply rooted in Calcutta.
As they stepped inside, the hum of conversation filled the air. Several members were gathered, discussing something intently. The moment they noticed Surya and Anjali Rajvanshi, their leaders, the discussions quieted, and they turned to greet them. A few faces brightened as they noticed Aryan alongside his parents.
One of the senior members stepped forward, his face alight with excitement. "Maheshvara was here earlier. He informed us about the current state of Calcutta. The British have lost control—everything is under his command now. The administration is in our hands. He trusts us to do justice for the people."
Murmurs of agreement spread among the members, their enthusiasm unmistakable. They had fought hard, endured oppression, and now the chance to truly serve the people was before them.
Surya and Anjali exchanged a glance at the mention of Maheshvara. They said nothing, merely nodding, before turning back to their comrades. "We have much to do," Surya said firmly. "With power shifting into our hands, we must be careful and strategic. We cannot afford mistakes."
Anjali looked toward Aryan. "From today, Aryan will be joining us. We need every capable hand now, and he is ready to contribute."
There was a ripple of approval. Many of the BSS members had known Aryan since childhood. He had always been intelligent, excelling in his studies in America, his achievements nothing short of remarkable. But more than that, he had never forgotten his roots. Like his parents, he was a nationalist, dedicated to the cause. He had always treated the members of BSS with respect, and they in turn had a strong regard for him.
"It's good to have you with us, Aryan," Rajendra Sharma, Karna's father and one of the members said warmly. "We could use your mind and your dedication."
Aryan gave a firm nod. "I'm ready to do my part."
With that, they moved deeper into the office, ready to take on the challenges that lay ahead.
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- March 13, 1936 – Early Morning -
The next day arrived swiftly. Aryan rose before dawn, his mind sharp and body well-rested despite having a little to no sleep. His newly acquired Perfect Body and Perfect Mind skills despite being low levelled in proficiency, worked in seamless harmony, making fatigue a distant memory. He dressed simply, knowing that today was not about appearances but service.
By 4 AM, he, his parents, and Raghav made their way toward the grand Chitteswari Durga Temple. The streets were mostly silent, the city still wrapped in the last remnants of night, save for a few early risers and the occasional rickshaw puller moving about. Aryan walked beside his parents, their presence grounding him.
"I'm impressed you know! You learned very quickly," Anjali said, a warm smile tugging on her lips, as they approached the temple steps. "But cooking in a home and cooking for a thousand are two very different things."
"I know, Ma," Aryan replied, his voice steady. "That's why I'll do it properly."
His father, Surya, gave a nod of approval. "Good. You should see the entire process through, from preparation to serving. This isn't just about skill—it's about understanding responsibility."
Raghav, walking slightly behind them, added with a small smile, "Young Master, I hope you're ready to take orders again. The temple cooks don't tolerate mistakes."
Aryan huffed but grinned. "I'll manage."
At the entrance, the head priest, a serene-looking elderly man draped in saffron robes, greeted them with a kind smile. "It is good to see you all so early. Seva at this hour is a true offering to the Divine."
"We are here for just that, Pandit ji," Anjali said with a respectful bow.
The priest led them inside, guiding them through the temple's sacred halls to the community kitchen. The space was massive, lined with long wooden tables and rows of clay stoves already burning with steady flames. Several temple cooks were at work—chopping vegetables, stirring large pots, rolling out dough for rotis. The air was thick with the aroma of spices and fresh ingredients.
Aryan rolled up his sleeves and stepped forward, ready to begin.
"Come here, boy," called out one of the senior cooks, an older woman with a stern face but kind eyes. "If you're here to help, start by chopping those sacks of onions and tomatoes."
Aryan didn't argue and grabbed a knife. The moment he started, his enhanced coordination kicked in—his hands moved fast but precise, cutting vegetables at a speed that made the woman pause.
She squinted at him. "Hmm. You have good hands for this. But let's see if you can handle the heat of the stoves."
For the next several hours, Aryan worked nonstop. He stirred massive cauldrons of lentils, kneaded dough until his arms ached, and rolled out rotis in perfect circles. His parents watched silently, letting him take the weight of the task without interference. Occasionally, Raghav joined in, nudging him with a grin whenever Aryan's movements slowed.
By mid-morning, the food was ready. Steel plates were lined up, and the first wave of people arrived—orphans, the elderly, daily wage workers, and the destitute, drawn by the temple's offering. Aryan, alongside the others, ladled out steaming dal and fresh rotis onto each plate, making sure no one was left hungry.
A frail old man, wearing torn clothes but carrying a dignity in his posture, accepted his food with folded hands. "May the Goddess bless you, son," he murmured.
For the first time that day, Aryan felt a warmth in his chest that had nothing to do with the kitchen fires.
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