The shelter of Guruji Vāyurāyana was humble — a stone house nestled near the edge of the forest, where the sea lapped quietly at the shore.
Inside, the walls were plain. A single mat, a small shrine, a few clay pots. The air smelled of salt, incense, and old wood.
Guruji sat cross-legged near the doorway, his eyes closed, back straight. Even in stillness, his presence was immense.
"You said you seek to understand your will," he said without opening his eyes.
Maarun nodded.
"Then your body will suffer. Your breath will burn. But your mind — it must remain still."
Guruji opened his eyes. "Come. We begin."
Test of Water — Shantijal Parīkṣā (Trial of Quiet Water)
The two walked to a secluded pool near the shoreline. The water was dark and silent, surrounded by tall reeds and hanging trees. No birds sang here. Only the sound of the waves crashing faintly beyond the rocks.
"Sit," Guruji instructed. "Face the water. Say nothing."
Maarun sat.
"Water does not speak. It listens," Guruji murmured. "So must you. Close your eyes. Listen not to your thoughts, but the rhythm of the tide."
Minutes passed. Maybe hours.
At first, Maarun's mind raced. His breathing was uneven. He remembered the Dice. The way it rejected him. The way Dev smiled. The way Roshan's symbol had glowed.
But slowly, the noise in his head faded.
He began to hear.
The gentle swirl of water brushing stone. The deep pulse of a current beneath the surface. A drop falling from a leaf. A rhythm.
"Now," Guruji's voice returned like a whisper in the wind, "enter."
Maarun looked up.
"Into the pool," Guruji said. "Swim until you can't. Then find your way back."
Maarun hesitated.
The water was deep. Cold. Unforgiving.
But he stepped forward, one breath, then another — and dove in.
Downward he swam, deeper than he thought the pool could go. His chest tightened. The silence returned. No light. No surface.
Then panic.
His limbs screamed. His lungs begged.
But in the silence — he remembered the rhythm. The pulse. The voice of water.
Let go.
He pushed upward.
When he burst through the surface, gasping, Guruji was already standing at the edge, silent and watching.
"Good," the old man said. "You didn't fight the water. You let it guide you."
Test of Air — Nishvāsa Parīkṣā (Trial of Breath)
The next morning, they climbed to a cliff overlooking the sea. The wind here was wild — sharp, salty, endless.
Guruji drew a circle with ash.
"Sit in the center. Fill your lungs. And do not breathe again until you feel your thoughts vanish."
"But that could take—"
"Yes," Guruji interrupted. "That is the point."
Maarun sat, crossed his legs, and inhaled deeply.
Then held.
The seconds passed easily.
Then minutes.
His heartbeat grew louder than the wind. His vision narrowed.
He clenched his fists.
Time began to bend.
Then it hurt.
His chest screamed. His veins pulsed. His ears rang.
He thought of his mother — her last scream, her blood on his hands, the flame that took her. The ache returned, raw and cold.
His lungs burst for air.
He gasped — and collapsed.