They called him Pagal Baba—the Mad Ascetic.
He lived alone, past the cremation grounds, near the cursed fig grove. His beard reached his knees, his eyes were wild, and his voice was a scream one day, a whisper the next. Children mocked him. Adults avoided him. He'd been part of the village once, long ago, before something broke inside him and he walked into the forest barefoot, never to return—except to watch.
He watched Aarav.
One afternoon, as Aarav practiced postures by the river—chest open, legs trembling, sweat painting the dirt—the ascetic appeared. No footsteps. Just presence. Like a ghost.
"You sit like a frog," he rasped.
Aarav looked up, startled.
Pagal Baba sniffed the air like a jackal. "But your breath carries memory. Not yours. Older."
He turned to leave, then paused. "If you want to stop being a shadow, come to the burning field at dawn."
At dawn, Aarav stood on the edge of the cremation ground. The air reeked of ash and ghee. Pagal Baba was already there, standing on one leg, eyes closed, arms raised like branches.
"You came," he said, without looking. "Good. Time to burn what's not yours."
He gave no instructions, no words of encouragement. He simply was, and Aarav followed.
For three days, he mimicked the old man—breathing when he breathed, sitting when he sat, suffering through heat, cramps, and thirst.
On the fourth day, the ascetic dragged him to the river and held his head underwater.
Panic hit.
Aarav kicked, thrashed—but the grip was iron.
Then something clicked.
He stopped fighting. Focused. Found a thread of breath within the breath. Not lungs. Something deeper.
When the ascetic pulled him out, Aarav coughed water, eyes wide.
Pagal Baba smiled, the first time. "When you want breath like that—more than life itself—you're ready."
And that was how training began.