The northern gorge was colder than the ashram terrace.
High black cliffs blocked the morning sun, leaving the narrow floor in deep blue shadow.
The ground was flat, packed hard with frozen mud and grey river sand.
A thin layer of white frost covered the boulders, crunching under Vidhar’s bare soles as he stepped into the cut.
He carried no bow today.
At the center of the gorge, leaning against a flat boulder, rested two training Parashus (battle-axes).
They were not weapons of polished bronze or painted wood.
The hafts were two feet long, carved from dense white ash and wrapped tight in rough deerskin.
At the top of each haft sat a heavy iron head, crescent-shaped and thick, weighing nearly four kilograms.
The edges were unsharpened, ground blunt to prevent accidental cuts, but the heavy mass of the iron was enough to crush bone through hide armor.
Bhagavan Parashurama stood by the boulder, wearing only his coarse dhoti.
His massive chest and shoulders were bare to the biting frost, unbothered by the cold air.
Beside his bare foot rested his own legendary black iron axe, its cutting edge buried three inches into the frozen stone.
“Pick up the right one,” the Teacher commanded.
Vidhar stepped forward, reached down, and closed his right hand over the wrapped haft.
The balance was brutal.
A bow balanced at its center, distributing its weight evenly between the limbs.
An axe had all its violence shoved into the top four inches.
The four-kilogram iron head dragged at Vidhar’s wrist, pulling his forearm down like an anvil.
When he lifted it, his forearm muscles clamped tight to stop the iron from twisting in his grip.
“Too loose,” Bhagavan Parashurama said, his deep voice rolling between the cliff walls.
“Hold an axe like a bird, and the first iron shield you strike will tear it from your fingers.
Grip it like a dying man clinging to a cliff, and your forearm will cramp before you swing three times.
Grip from the pinky and ring finger.
Let the thumb and forefinger guide the line.”
Vidhar adjusted his fingers.
He squeezed with the base of his palm, relaxing his index finger.
The heavy iron head stopped wobbling.
From a broken pine root protruding from the cliff three meters above, a dry croak broke the quiet.
Kakbhushundi sat puffed against the chill, his dark feathers dull in the shadow.
“Now the disaster begins,” the crow whispered dryly into Vidhar’s head.
“An archer trying to swing an axe looks like an ox trying to climb a coconut tree.
Keep your toes tucked back, scribbler.
If that lump of iron slips, you will spend the afternoon counting your remaining toes.”
Vidhar did not answer.
He grounded his bare feet into the frost, dropping his hips into a low, stable stance.
Bhagavan Parashurama reached out with one hand and picked up the second practice axe as if it weighed nothing more than a dry twig.
“An arrow kills with distance,” the Teacher said, turning the iron slowly in his calloused hand.
“It gives you time to think, time to draw breath, time to correct your mistake.
The axe gives you nothing.
When a man enters your reach with an axe, you are breathing his sweat.
If you hesitate for half a heartbeat, the iron splits your collarbone.”
He took two paces back, his bare soles silent on the frost.
“Cut at my left collarbone.
Vidhar blinked.
“Gurudev?”
“Did I ask you to recite a verse?” the Teacher’s voice dropped, cold and sharp.
“Cut.
If you pull the strike, I will break your ribs with the haft.”
Vidhar drew a sharp breath of mountain air.
He didn’t doubt the warning.
He stepped forward on his left foot, twisted his hips, and brought the four-kilogram iron head sweeping down in a vicious diagonal cut aimed straight at the Teacher’s left shoulder.
The heavy axe cut through the air with a low, whistling rush.
Bhagavan Parashurama did not step back.
He didn’t even shift his feet.
As the iron head descended, the Teacher’s right wrist flicked.
CLANG!
The impact rang like a temple bell.
Bhagavan Parashurama hadn’t blocked the cut with his blade; he had stepped inside the arc and jammed the wooden haft of his own weapon directly against Vidhar’s forearms.
The violent stop sent a numbing shockwave up Vidhar’s elbows.
His fingers flared open, the four-kilogram axe nearly flying from his hand.
Before Vidhar could recover his balance, the Teacher’s left hand struck.
An open palm hit Vidhar square in the center of his chest.
THUD.
Vidhar flew backward four meters, his bare heels plowing through the frost and gravel before he hit the frozen sand on his back.
The air blew out of his lungs in a ragged gasp.
The heavy axe tumbled from his grip, landing with a dull thud in the dirt near his hip.
“Flat on his back,” Kakbhushundi croaked from the cliff.
“A glorious demonstration of warrior arts.
The rocks of Mahendragiri have never seen such graceful tumbling.”
Vidhar rolled onto his side, coughing to pull cold air back into his bruised chest.
The blessing of Prana-Vayu (the vital breath of nature) rushed into his lungs, clearing the burning ache in his ribs within three heartbeats.
He scrambled back to his feet and snatched up the axe, his knuckles white against the deerskin wrap.
Bhagavan Parashurama stood in the same spot, his weapon resting loosely against his thigh.
“You swung with your arms,” the Teacher said, his voice flat.
“You saw an opening and you reached for it with your hands.
When you swing with your hands, your chest opens, your balance dies, and your weapon arrives late.”
He stepped forward, tapping the blunt heel of his axe against the hard earth.
“The power of the cut does not live in your bicep.
It starts in the ball of your back foot.
It travels through the twist of your hip, locks through your core, and snaps through the wrists only at the final inch.
Again.”
Vidhar wiped sand from his ribs.
He set his feet, planting the balls of his toes into the gravel.
He lowered his center, eyes locked onto the massive frame before him.
Through Kala-Drishti (seer’s sight), he watched the tension in the Teacher’s shoulders, searching for the subtle lines of movement before they happened.
This time, Vidhar did not rush forward.
He took a short, explosive shuffle step.
His right hip fired first, whipping his torso around like a coiled spring.
The four-kilogram axe followed the turn of his body, sweeping down in a tight, compact overhead chop that kept his elbows tucked close to his ribs.
Bhagavan Parashurama raised his haft to jam the strike again.
Vidhar saw the counter coming.
Instead of letting his arms crash into the wood, he dipped his knees, shifted his weight to his rear foot, and aborted the chop three inches short.
He dropped his right elbow, twisted the haft in his palms, and thrust the blunt iron butt of the weapon upward, aiming straight for the Teacher’s solar plexus.
Crack!
The Teacher’s free left hand moved like striking lightning, slapping the rising butt aside with his bare palm.
The force of the parry knocked Vidhar off his line, but this time, Vidhar didn’t lose his footing.
He spun on his left heel, carried the momentum through a full circle, and brought the blunt crescent of the iron head swinging flat toward the Teacher’s ribs in a horizontal sweep.
CLANG!
Bhagavan Parashurama caught the cut clean on the flat of his own axe head.
The two heavy iron masses slammed together with a shower of pale sparks that hissed into the frost.
The shock rattled Vidhar’s teeth in his skull, but his feet stayed dug into the gravel.
He didn’t drop the weapon.
He pressed his weight against the lock, his face inches from the Teacher’s bearded jaw.
Bhagavan Parashurama looked down into Vidhar’s eyes.
The dark gaze was unyielding, but for the first time that morning, the heavy brows lifted a fraction of an inch.
“You used the rebound,” the Teacher murmured, his breath a pale plume of steam in the cold.
“You did not freeze when the strike missed.”
With a flick of his wrists, Bhagavan Parashurama disengaged the blades, stepping back two paces into the frost.
He lowered his axe to his side.
“Your hands are still stiff,” he said, turning back toward the boulder.
“You treat the iron like an enemy you have to wrestle.
By midday, your forearms will be wooden, and you will not be able to lift a cup of water.”
The Teacher set his practice axe against the rock and picked up a coarse whetstone.
“There are thirty pine logs stacked near the south stream,” he commanded without looking back.
“Each is two feet thick.
Take your practice axe.
Do not leave until all thirty are split into four quarters.
If the cut is jagged, do it again.”
Vidhar stood breathing hard in the frosty shadow of the gorge, his forearms burning like hot copper, the deerskin wrap damp with his sweat.
He looked down at the blunt iron head in his hand, then up at the towering back of his Teacher.
“Yes, Gurudev,” Vidhar said.
From the cliff above, Kakbhushundi fluttered down, landing on the handle of Vidhar’s axe.
“Thirty logs of seasoned pine with a blunt four-kilo head,” the crow croaked softly.
“The son of Bhrigu is truly generous.
You wanted to learn the battle-axe, scribbler.
Now go turn your blisters into calluses.”
Vidhar shook the bird off the haft, swung the heavy iron over his shoulder, and marched toward the south stream.