Rebirth of the Indian Chemist.

Velikara, Kerala – 1710 CE

I had attended exactly zero formal events in my modern life where goats were allowed to eat the snacks.

Apparently, that was not the rule here.

The Scholar's Assembly of Velikara was an open-air event held under a massive fig tree near the riverbank. Scrolls were stacked like roof tiles. Coconut oil lamps dangled from iron hooks. And scholars in layered dhotis and topknots discussed grain yields while stepping around chickens.

I sat cross-legged beside Devika, trying to pretend I wasn't ten years old and sitting on a stolen rice sack.

"You should stop fidgeting," Devika said without looking at me.

"I'm not fidgeting. I'm adjusting to the humidity."

"You're sweating like a guilty monkey."

"It's intellectual perspiration."

She rolled her eyes. "Don't talk. Just listen."

---

The scholars spoke in slow, heavy Malayalam, peppered with Sanskrit phrases like they were trying to make sure only half the room understood them. Discussions ranged from crop rotation to new Sanskrit poetry to the ethics of rainwater ownership.

Then came the turn for "proposals from junior members."

One of the elders, a thin man with long earlobes and a half-bored expression, waved at me.

I stood. My heart thudded.

"Namaskaram. My name is Amarnatha Varma. I would like to propose a new irrigation mechanism based on pressurized steam and rotational lift."

The words came out cleanly. Clearly.

The silence was immediate.

Someone coughed.

A scroll fell over.

The parrot from last time—yes, the same parrot—shouted, "Banana wheel!"

I pressed on. I spoke about the mechanism, the yield potential, the safety improvements, the possibility of using temple pond overflow to feed dry fields.

To my surprise, they listened.

Not like adults humoring a child.

Like real listeners.

When I finished, a heavy-browed scholar with ink-stained fingers spoke first.

"How do you ensure safety of pressure vessels?"

"Goat bladder valve," I answered confidently.

He blinked. Devika put a hand over her mouth to avoid laughing.

Another elder asked, "Who did you learn this from?"

"No one in this life," I said. "But I read everything I could. And I remembered… things."

He tilted his head. "Things?"

Devika jumped in. "He means he dreams of old knowledge. From long-lost texts. Maybe even from ancient Yavanas."

I nodded. "Something like that."

---

By the end of the session, three elders asked to visit my house to see the prototype. One invited me to copy my diagrams into temple archives.

And one man… just stared.

He wore pale yellow robes and hadn't spoken a word all day. His skin was sun-browned, his eyes a deep hazel, and his hair silvered at the temples despite his youthful face.

When the crowd dispersed, he approached me quietly.

"You have the mind of a builder," he said.

"Thank you."

"Do not let them tie your ideas to rituals. Or gods. Or kings."

"…Then who should I serve?"

He smiled faintly. "Serve what lasts."

Then he walked away, his feet silent.

---

Later that week, I got a second invitation. Not to speak. Not to demonstrate.

To tutor.

Apparently, a local noble family wanted someone "clever but not threatening" to tutor their daughter in mathematics.

Devika snorted when she read the letter. "You're definitely not threatening."

"Do I get to choose the snacks?" I asked.

"Just don't fall in love with the student."

I laughed. "I'd sooner fall in love with that parrot."

---

The noble house was far larger than ours, with carved pillars and fragrant courtyards. The girl I was to tutor was named Pavizham.

She was already waiting when I arrived—sitting cross-legged on the floor, her hair tied in two braids, her eyes half-lidded.

She didn't greet me. Didn't bow. Didn't even blink.

"Are you the steam boy?" she asked.

"…Yes?"

"You look like you'd faint if someone coughed too hard."

"Nice to meet you too."

She finally looked up. Her eyes were beautiful. Large, expressive, curious—but… distant.

No smile. Not even a twitch.

"I don't like numbers," she said.

"Good news," I replied. "I don't like boring lessons."

She raised an eyebrow.

That was a win, I decided.

---

The first lesson went terribly.

She kept correcting my handwriting.

I kept trying to impress her with equations she clearly didn't care about.

Halfway through, I realized she wasn't struggling.

She was bored.

So I changed tactics.

"Let's talk about water pressure."

She groaned. "Is that another banana tank thing?"

"No. This is about elephants."

She blinked. "Elephants?"

"Imagine an elephant standing in a pond. What changes the flow speed? The depth, the incline, the weight distribution… suddenly, it's not math. It's elephants."

She actually tilted her head. "Go on."

We spent the next hour talking about elephant movement, fluid dynamics, and how temple tanks could be better designed.

By the end of the lesson, she asked if I could come back tomorrow.

And still… no smile.

---

That night, I lay under the stars, thinking.

About Devika, who pushed me like a drill sergeant.

About Pavizham, who seemed like a riddle in human form.

About knowledge, and sparks, and elephants.

I was only ten.

But this world was opening, like a door creaking wider with every step.

And I intended to walk through it, no matter what waited on the other side.