the cursor blinked on his resume, a tiny, insistent pulse.

then a thought of kanha arrived, mischievous and flute-in-hand.
a small laugh escaped him.
of course. this was the play.

the resume became a character sheet for this level.
the interview was just another scene with a new actor.
he saw the sterile office park as a temporary set, beautifully absurd.

he scrolled through the job descriptions.
he imagined the recruiter as an npc offering a quest.
a surprising sweetness bloomed in his chest.
the game was everywhere.
the joy caught him off guard, right here in the hustle.

int. penthouse office - night

arthur stands at the vast window, looking down at the city sprawled below like a circuit board. beatrice sits in a severe leather chair.

arthur
the energy transfer is constant. it must be channeled. it has to build something.

beatrice
that's why you have all this.

arthur
this has me. it has this building and this city. it is a river of consequence. you can build a dam to generate power or you can be washed away in the flood.

beatrice
and people with power are the dam builders.

arthur
we are the ones who understand the water is rising. we are terrified into our positions. it is a terrible responsibility. to fail is to allow annihilation.

beatrice
i want to understand that responsibility.

arthur
that is why you have my money. your film is a machine you are building. it will direct a current. now you must face your own nature. get out of the way. let the work be done.

"if you were an algorithm, what would you be?"

oh, shiva, is this the divine comedy. you send me this boy with a stanford degree as my interrogator. let's dance.

i would be a sorting algorithm that arranges people by the absurdity of their dreams. the output would be a poem.

the interviewer blinked. his pen froze over the notepad.

"tell me about a time you failed."

thank you, kali ma, for the opportunity.

i fail constantly. i tried to build a chair last week and it looked like a threat. i tried to convince my neighbor his god was kinder than he thought. i fail upwards, towards something interesting. my entire life is a beautiful, cascading failure.

his curated confidence started to fray. he leaned back, away from me. the professional mask had slipped. he saw a strange animal in his clean, glass box.

he looked at my resume, then at me. he had no more questions.

i just waited. the punchline was for you.

i need a system, i told ananth ji.

he crushed cardamom pods for our chai. you believe the book is already written.

yes. my karma. this ambition feels like a fever.

he handed me a warm glass. a river flows. you can build a dam or you can learn to swim. the effort is the same.

he made me sit in a tailor's shop and just listen. to the scissor's snip, the machine's rhythm.

i returned to my room. i thought of the tailor's hands guiding the fabric. they know the way.

my own hands found the keyboard. a story about chai took shape. the work was still effort. it felt like breathing.

my hands feel like they belong to someone else, arjun said, pushing potato through fragrant rice. the offer arrived. i did nothing to receive it.

the sarthi watched the cook slap dough over a copper pot, sealing it. steam hissed before containment.

he has made biryani ten thousand times, the sarthi said. his hands know the path. he still chose to mix the masala this morning.

he held out a spoonful of rice layered with mutton and caramelized onion.

you will eat this. the taste is your own.

arjun took the bite. clove and cardamom filled his mouth. a bus roared past. quiet settled between the noise and the flavor.

the god gave him the land and the task. build a sanctuary. the man had the faith. he lacked the plans.

he knew the blueprint for a holy place must be a holy life. he would draw the plans with his own days.

his morning began with the foundation. each breath upon waking was a stone set in place. washing his face was clearing the ground.

his simple meal was the consecration of the worker. he ate to make his body a worthy instrument.

the hours of his craft were the raising of the pillars. every measured cut and every careful joint was an act of praise. his focus was a prayer. his labor was liturgy.

his period of rest was the setting of the mortar. stillness allowed the day's work to become strong.

his life was the design. the structure rising from the earth was its reflection.

the 8. i remember the struggle, the shaping with tiny hands.
that same focus returns to me, a whisper from somewhere.

each soul i meet, each piece of this mystic tech i build, is another 8.
it asks for that old practice, that patient tracing.
the teacher believed i could. maybe that's how the divine nudges.

meri koshish then, meri koshish now.
the knowing settles in. the lines connect.

love without judgment feels like finally getting the curve right, again and again.

i thought i could build self-worth like a house, brick by careful brick of good actions. each 'virtuous' act was meant to add to the structure. but the foundation remained shaky.

societal rewards follow a clearer path. a promotion, a degree. inner coherence feels like grace.

perhaps it's about alignment. the actions might matter, but their source, their resonance with something deeper, feels more significant.

the 'earning' is in the showing up, in the persistent, fumbling attempt to understand. the effort itself, over years, might be the quiet integration. the feeling of wholeness sometimes visits, unbidden, after long stretches of just trying to be decent. it comes. it goes.

the desire points to the ongoing process. it's a direction of travel. the narrative feels unfinished because life is movement.

spend ages trying to get it right with the gods, you know? showing up. doing the things.
and the whole time, this ache. this massive silence where my worth was meant to be.

but now it's like, what if this empty spot is actually intentional?
like they've been meticulously clearing a space.

this hollow feeling. i'm starting to see it as preparation.
the nothingness itself could be the whole point.
them, making room for something specific.

this careful hollowing. suddenly feels different.
almost sacred, this openness.