It's been a week since I arrived in Suryapuram, and I have to admit, this place is like a small slice of heaven—if heaven had a faint smell of cow dung, overenthusiastic roosters, and the occasional waft of jasmine. The village has wrapped me in its serene embrace, and every day here feels like a blessing, though I'm pretty sure I've gained at least five kilos from all the food Grandma keeps shoving my way.

Each morning, Munna drags me out of bed for what he calls "farm walks." Now, let me tell you, Munna's idea of a walk is more like a military drill. He marches me through the fields like a general inspecting his troops, pointing out crops and explaining farming techniques with the enthusiasm of a TED Talk speaker. "This is paddy, Akka," he'll say, gesturing to a field of green. "And over there, that's sugarcane. Sweet, just like you!" I roll my eyes, but secretly, I'm impressed. The guy knows his stuff.

The fields are breathtaking, though. Stretching out in every direction like a green ocean, they're dotted with farmers bent over their work, their faces shaded by wide-brimmed hats. The air smells of earth and fresh grass, and the occasional whiff of manure (because, you know, farms). It's invigorating, even if my city legs are still getting used to walking on uneven ground without tripping over my own feet.

Back at the house, Grandma is in full "feed Aarushi" mode. Every meal is a feast, and I'm pretty sure she's trying to fatten me up for some kind of ritual sacrifice. "Eat, eat!" she insists, piling my plate with idlis, dosas, and her famous kuzhi paniyaram. "You're too thin. Look at you, like a stick!" I protest, but let's be real—her food is too good to resist. By the time I go back to Chennai, I'll probably need a forklift to get me to the train station.

Between eating and napping (because all that food makes me sleepy), I've been helping Grandma revive the garden. It's a mess—overgrown, wild, and full of weeds—but it's slowly coming back to life. We've planted new flowers, trimmed the bushes, and even started a little vegetable patch. There's something therapeutic about digging in the dirt and watching something grow. Plus, it's a great excuse to avoid writing.

In the evenings, Grandma and I visit the village temples. They're ancient, with intricate carvings and a serene ambiance that makes you want to sit down and meditate—or take a nap, depending on how much Grandma fed you that day. The scent of incense fills the air, and the soft chanting of prayers is like a lullaby for the soul. It's peaceful, though I'm pretty sure the gods are judging me for all the paniyaram I've been eating.

Now, let's talk about Ranguski, the black Poligar Hound who still hates my guts. I've been trying to win him over with treats, belly rubs, and enthusiastic compliments ("Who's a good boy? You are! Yes, you are!"), but he's not having it. Every time I approach, he glares at me like I've personally insulted his ancestors and growls like a tiny, furry demon. Munna finds this hilarious. "Don't worry, Akka," he says, grinning. "He'll warm up to you eventually. Maybe in a decade or two."

I haven't switched on my phone yet, and honestly, it's been liberating. No emails, no notifications, no existential dread about deadlines. I'm sure Naveen knows I'm here—Grandma or Munna must have told him—but he hasn't reached out. Part of me is relieved; the other part is... well, let's not go there.

As I wander the house with a book in hand (pretending to read but mostly just staring at the pages), my eyes keep drifting to Grandpa's locked room. Three days ago, I asked Grandma why it was locked. "That was his creative space," she said, her tone firm. "He didn't like anyone touching his things." Naturally, this made me even more curious. Grandpa used to give me his freshly written comic books when I was a kid, but he never let me see his process. He'd lock himself in that room for hours, emerging only when the book was finished. If any of us tried to peek inside, he'd get so mad you'd think we'd committed a crime.

Now, the mystery of that room is driving me crazy. What's in there? Old manuscripts? Secret diaries? A portal to another dimension? I don't know, but I'm dying to find out. Of course, Grandma's warning keeps me in check. "Stay away from that room," she said, giving me *that look*. You know, the one that makes you feel like you're five years old again and about to get scolded for stealing cookies.

Sighing, I slump onto my bed and stare at the half-written notebook on my desk. I've been trying to finish the new book I started, but the words just won't come. It's like my brain has decided to go on strike. "Writer's block," I mutter, burying my face in a pillow. "More like writer's *black hole*."

Just then, there's a knock on the door. It's Munna, holding a plate of kozhukattai like a culinary savior. "Akka, Appuchi, and I are heading to the town market to get groceries. We'll be back by evening. Appuchi asked me to ask you if you want to join or stay home and relax,"

Something clicked in my brain—like the sound of a lightbulb switching on, except this lightbulb was probably powered by mischief. "Oh, I think I'll stay home and relax. I'm a little tired," I replied, putting on my best

*I'm-so-exhausted-from-doing-absolutely-nothing* act. I even threw in a dramatic yawn for good measure.

Munna nodded, completely buying my Oscar-worthy performance, and left. The moment the gate creaked shut, I felt a surge of excitement mixed with a healthy dose of *oh-my-god-what-am-I-doing*. This was it. My chance to finally sneak into Grandpa's locked room—the mysterious creative lair I'd been forbidden from entering since I was old enough to understand the word "no."

As I finished my Kozhukattai (because, let's be real, no grand mission can start on an empty stomach), I started plotting my afternoon adventure. Grandma and Munna were gone, the house was quiet, and I was about to do something that would either make me a legend or get me grounded for life. Spoiler alert: it was probably going to be the latter.

As soon as the sound of the car faded into the distance, I sprang into action. My first stop: Grandma's room. I knew exactly where she kept the keys to Grandpa's room—hidden in the almirah, tucked between her neatly folded sarees and a collection of mothballs that smelled like regret and old age.

I opened the almirah, trying not to disturb the precarious tower of sarees that looked like it could collapse at any moment. After some rummaging (and a near-death experience with a falling stack of *pattu sarees*), I found the keyring. It was small, rusty, and looked like it hadn't seen the light of day since the British left India. Perfect.

Clutching the keys like they were the One Ring, I tiptoed to the second floor. The house was eerily quiet, except for the occasional creak of the wooden stairs, which, of course, sounded like a full-blown orchestra in my paranoid mind.

Before inserting the key into the lock, I looked around like a character in a bad spy movie. *Coast is clear. No witnesses. Let's do this.*

The door creaked open, and a musty smell hit me like a slap in the face. The room was dimly lit, with a single beam of sunlight streaming through a small window. Dust motes floated in the air, giving the place a mystical vibe—like I'd just walked into the set of a low-budget fantasy film.

The first thing that caught my eye was the sheer number of comic books. They were everywhere—stacked on shelves, piled on the floor, and probably hiding under the bed. It was like a library, except messier and with more cobwebs. I ran my fingers along the spines, marveling at the titles. *How did Grandpa even have time to write all these? Did he ever sleep? Or eat? Or blink?*

The walls were covered in sketches of characters—some familiar, some completely new. There were heroes, villains, and creatures that looked like they'd been dreamed up after a particularly spicy meal. The room was a treasure trove of creativity, and I felt like a kid in a candy store—except the candy was made of paper, ink, and a whole lot of nostalgia.

In the corner of the room was a large wooden desk, cluttered with papers, sketches, and notebooks. It looked like the kind of desk where geniuses go to die. I picked up a few pages, marveling at the intricate details. Grandpa's handwriting was a mix of English and Tamil, with doodles in the margins that made me smile.

And then it happened.

As I was examining a bookshelf, a stack of books toppled over with a crash that could wake the dead. I froze, my heart pounding like a drum solo. *Oh no. Oh no. Oh no.* I quickly bent down to pick them up, my hands shaking like I'd just chugged ten cups of coffee.

That's when I saw it—a pen rolled out from one of the books and landed at my feet. It wasn't just any pen. It was *the* pen. The kind of pen that looks like it belongs in a museum or a wizard's pocket. The top was adorned with swirling colors, and the body was gold—not the cheap, fake gold you find in bazaars, but the kind that glows like it's alive. There were inscriptions in an unknown language, and the whole thing looked like it had been plucked straight out of a fantasy novel.

I picked it up, and it felt... different. Like it had a story to tell. Or maybe I was just overthinking it. Either way, I was hooked.

Just as I was admiring the pen, I heard the front gate creak open. *Oh, crap.* Grandma was back.

Panic mode: activated.

I shoved the books back onto the shelf, grabbed the pen, and bolted out of the room. I locked the door, ran to Grandma's room, and put the keys back in the almirah—all while trying not to hyperventilate. By the time I reached my room, I was sweating like I'd just run a marathon.

As I caught my breath, I realized I was still holding the pen. *Double crap.* I had forgotten to put it back. Now what? I didn't even have the keys anymore. This was not going to end well.

After dinner, I sat with Grandma, trying to act normal. We talked about the village, my parents, and my childhood antics (apparently, I once tried to ride a goat. Don't ask). Her laughter was soothing, but my mind was elsewhere. All I could think about was the pen hidden in my bag.

When Grandma finally went to bed, I retreated to my room and pulled out the pen. Under the soft glow of my bedside lamp, it looked even more magical. The inscriptions seemed to shimmer, and the gold glowed faintly, like it was alive.

I uncapped the pen, feeling a strange jolt of energy as the tip touched the paper. And then—everything went black.