The city of Vaidyanagari woke with the sound of many centuries colliding. Dawn spilled like saffron dye across the river, painting the ghats in molten gold. Temple bells clanged in uneven chorus, some solemn, some impatient. From the tramlines came the metallic groan of carriages grinding into motion.
Overhead, swarms of delivery drones buzzed toward balconies, dropping milk packets and breakfast parcels with clipped mechanical voices: "Payment reminder… subscription renewal… surge pricing applied." Vendors on the lanes shouted louder to be heard — "Malli puvvu! Fresh jasmine!" Their calls tangled with the hiss of sprinklers on glass towers.
In Vaidyanagari, time was not a straight road but a knot. On one street priests smeared sandal paste on ancient stone deities; two lanes over, holo-billboards flickered awake with adverts for brain implants and meditation apps.
Beneath a crooked neem tree stood a lime-washed house whose gate sagged with age. The walls bore turmeric stains from festivals past, and the verandah smelled faintly of coffee, wet stone, and lived-in years. The house was never silent. It hummed with voices — colliding, rising, overlapping — the sound of family that refused to shrink before the city's noise.
"Kalki! Ra ra! Before dosas turn into rubber!"
Amma's voice cracked out of the kitchen, sharper than any temple bell.
In the courtyard, Kalki crouched with a small cloth pouch. A coin slid across his knuckles, gleaming like a sly secret in the rising light. He tilted it to the sun and whispered, "You and I, we understand value. We don't rush."
"Kalki!" Amma again, firmer.
On the verandah, Ajja sat folded into his easy chair, a tumbler of filter coffee steaming in his hand. The strong brew scolded the morning with its bitter fragrance. A lotus-shaped clasp pinned to his kurta blinked in rhythm, recording his mutters. "Your Amma is right, ra. Dosas don't wait for philosophers."
From inside, Nana's voice rose like an order from an office desk. "Where is my white kurta? Amma, the Society Chair is visiting today. That grey one is too casual!"
"I pressed it last night, Nana," Amma snapped, flipping a dosa with surgical precision. "If you cannot find it, blame your eyes, not me."
On the staircase, Chinna Dev leaned dangerously over the railing, eyes gleaming at the chance to contribute. "Amma! Kalki is playing with coins again!"
Amma appeared at the doorway, slipper already in hand. "Coins will not feed you!"
Kalki stood up solemnly, jingling the pouch. "But Amma, coins can buy chutney powder. Isn't chutney powder just dosa in disguise?"
The slipper sailed past his ear with a whistle.
Ajja chuckled, shaking his head. "Quick tongue, slow legs. One day that slipper will teach you dharma better than any priest."
They finally gathered at the low steel table in the hall. Plates clattered, chutney spread like paint across steel, sambhar steamed in the center. The ceiling fan rotated lazily, more ornamental than useful.
One chair remained empty: Akka Ananya's. Her photo smiled down from the wall, hair neatly tied, shoulders straight in her Academy uniform. She was away in another city, already a success, already praised in neighbourhood whispers. Her absence had the weight of presence; it sat at the table like an uninvited but honoured guest.
"Ananya never needed reminding," Amma said, handing a dosa to Dev.
Nana folded his newspaper, the ink darkening his fingertips. Headlines screamed of scholarships announced by the Luminists, rallies planned by the Qalists, committees debating funding for the next Academy. He lowered the paper and fixed his gaze on Kalki.
"This family is watched, ra. People know us. They expect you to walk straight, to be serious, to prepare yourself. Not waste mornings with coins and sticks."
Kalki tore his dosa carefully, dipped it into sambhar, and replied without looking up. "And what if I walk straight into the wrong place, Nana? At least if I wander, I might find something no one else is looking for."
Dev snorted. "You'll only find Amma's slipper."
Ajja coughed into his coffee, pretending to hide his grin. "At least the boy aims for discoveries. Even if it's footwear."
Nana's lips twitched despite himself, the ghost of a smile tugging free. Amma's eyes, however, swept across them like a broom. "Enough. Let the boy eat before his tongue gets him into more trouble than hunger."
The table settled into the noisy silence only families know: clinking spoons, sighs, mutters, and the occasional smack of chutney-smeared fingers on steel.
Breakfast was not merely food; it was negotiation.
Nana chewed like each bite carried paperwork. Amma moved between plates, refilling, scolding, sighing, as if managing a small army. Ajja read headlines aloud just to irritate her. Dev, the tattler, tested the limits of his reach, trying to snatch more potato masala without being caught.
And Kalki? He ate with a grin too wide, as though the dosa on his plate and the coin in his pocket shared the same flavour.
At times, the family seemed like separate instruments clanging in chaos. But together, even their arguments had rhythm.
Above it all, unnoticed, came a faint metallic tink. Outside in the courtyard, the small brass square at the base of the peepal tree rattled once, like something restless behind it. No one heard. No one except the wind.
When the sambhar pot emptied, the battles shifted.
Nana resumed pacing, muttering lines for the Society visit under his breath. "Thank you for your time… proud to host… budget constraints, but we manage…" His hand gestured as though already shaking another.
Amma banged plates into the sink. "Dev, don't wipe your hands on the curtain. Kalki, tuck in your shirt. Nana, stop rehearsing in the hall like a politician. Ajja, finish your coffee before it ferments into pickle."
Ajja nodded serenely, sipping slowly just to prove her wrong.
Kalki leaned back, twirling the coin between his fingers, and let his gaze drift toward Ananya's photo. His smile faltered for the briefest second.
Akka was the star. The one who always did right. The one whose name neighbours spoke with admiration. He was the shadow expected to shine the same way. Everyone wanted him to become something. But no one seemed to see what he already was.
He flicked the coin high. It spun, caught sunlight, and dropped into his palm with a ringing sound that seemed louder than metal should be.
Ajja looked up at him, eyes narrowing with something between amusement and understanding. He didn't say a word.
By the time Amma cleared the table, the house was already pulling in different directions again. Nana muttered to his kurta about speeches. Dev ran circles around the hall until Amma yelled. Ajja's clasp blinked lazily, storing fragments of muttered wisdom no one had asked for.
Kalki slipped outside, stick in hand. He tapped it once against the tiled floor. The sound came back heavier, as though the earth itself had whispered back. He frowned for a heartbeat, then spun the stick playfully over his shoulder and smirked.
The neem's shadow stretched across the courtyard. And at the foot of the peepal tree, the brass door rattled faintly once again.
The morning was far from finished.
Glossary
Amma (అమ్మ): mother
Nana (నానా): father
Ajja (అజ్జా): grandfather
Akka (అక్క): elder sister
Chinna (చిన్న): younger sibling/cousin
Ra ra (రా రా): "come here" (casual, affectionate)