Rebirth of the Indian Chemist.

Velikara, Kerala – 1709 CE

I didn't set out to build a water tank the day I nearly burned down the temple.

But that's how these things go.

It began, as most disasters do, with optimism.

---

Bhairav and I stood in the shade of the banyan tree, looking at a scroll that used to be a land tax receipt until I scribbled over it with a charcoal pen.

"So this… is a cannon?" Bhairav asked, frowning at my drawings.

"No, no. This is a low-pressure compressed steam chamber," I corrected.

"That looks like a fat banana with wheels."

He wasn't wrong. It did look like a banana.

"That banana could change the future of irrigation."

"So it shoots water?"

"Technically, it releases it in controlled bursts. To rotate the lift arms."

Bhairav stared at me. "Can it shoot water at Krishna?"

"...Possibly."

He nodded. "I support this project."

---

We needed space to build the prototype. And water. And patience. We had only two of those things.

The temple pond was the only nearby body of water where no one asked too many questions. So we snuck in at dawn with a cart full of bamboo tubes, coconut shells, and a very ambitious sense of purpose.

I assembled the base first: hollow bamboo poles connected with cloth seals, then reinforced with crushed clay and resin. I used a wooden drum to serve as a boiler, heating it with charcoal.

It wasn't dangerous.

Yet.

"Where does the water go?" Bhairav asked.

"In here," I said, pointing to the barrel.

"And then it explodes?"

"No, it releases steam through these channels."

"And then it explodes."

"No explosions. Hopefully."

---

The first test went beautifully.

Steam hissed through the channels and made the bamboo arms rotate just enough to scoop pond water and drop it into a trough.

I had made the first rotary water-lifting device in Velikara.

Bhairav clapped like a proud parent.

Then we tried to increase the pressure.

---

What followed was a shriek, a loud pop, and an unfortunate splash that hit the temple wall.

Which was covered in delicate rice-paste designs for an upcoming festival.

The priest, who had arrived just in time to witness this aquatic desecration, let out a shriek that echoed off the coconut trees.

Bhairav and I froze.

"Amarnatha!"

That was my mother. She had arrived, probably summoned telepathically by the gods or perhaps just because Bhairav ran like an anxious goat.

"We were building a water distribution system!" I explained, pointing at the soaking mess.

"Using fire? In a temple?!"

"Controlled fire!"

She glared at me like I had invented sin.

---

I spent the next three days cleaning temple floors with a coconut husk brush.

And honestly, it was worth it.

Because the design worked.

In its rough, exploding way.

---

When the punishment ended, I returned to our house and quietly rebuilt the machine under the watchful eyes of Bhairav, who now insisted we name it.

"Call it the Banana Tank," he said.

"That makes it sound like it runs on fruit."

"You built it. You suffer the name."

So the Banana Tank version 2.0 was born, with a better pressure release valve (made from a goat bladder, but we don't talk about that).

It didn't explode.

It lifted water.

It turned.

And this time, no priests were harmed.

---

The day after the successful test, Devika came to see it.

She didn't say much. Just stared at the rotating arms, the scooping blades, the gentle trickle of water flowing through the stone channel.

Then she crossed her arms.

"Why does it look like a banana?"

"I told you!" Bhairav shouted from behind the tree.

Devika rolled her eyes. "Does it work when it rains?"

"Better. Cooler temperatures help condense steam faster."

She paused.

Then she smiled.

Devika's smiles were rare. They were like eclipses. Beautiful and usually accompanied by strange weather.

"You should show my father."

I blinked. Her father was the chief tax officer and regional magistrate.

"Will he arrest me for the temple incident?"

"Only if he hears it from someone else."

---

Two days later, I gave my first official demonstration of steam-powered irrigation to a group of six adults, three goats, and a parrot that repeated "banana wheel" twice for no reason.

The adults were impressed. The goats were indifferent. The parrot remains my enemy.

Devika's father nodded slowly.

"You… want to build more of these?"

"Yes. One per ten fields. We could double rice production."

He stroked his beard. "And who pays for the materials?"

"Investors. Landowners. Temple trustees."

He raised an eyebrow. "You plan to convince all of them?"

"Eventually."

"And how old are you?"

"Ten."

He stared at me. Then at Devika. Then at the Banana Tank.

"Ten going on seventy," he muttered.

---

That night, I got a message: I was invited to join the local scholars' assembly next month.

An honor reserved for boys twice my age.

"This is how it begins," I whispered to Bhairav.

"What? Fame?"

"The path. The one I saw in my dreams. The one I remember."

Bhairav didn't laugh.

For once, he just nodded.

---

Later, while tinkering with the pressure valve, I thought of my old world.

Of electricity. Of bridges. Of trains.

All built by people who dared to get their hands dirty.

One day, I would build more than a banana tank.

I would build a nation.

But for now, I just needed to not set fire to another temple.