Dahana

1. The First Test

There was a clan of monks living in the southeast of the subcontinent who had the curious ability to manipulate fire. Long ago, their ancestor, a man who was to become a rishi, undertook a very serious tapas and propitiated the mother goddess, and took from her the boon that he and his descendants would have some degree of control over the element of fire. This boon manifested itself in various ways—six subsets of control over flame were observed. But it was prophesized that when the seventh and final flame came to be, its owner would either destroy the clan or conquer the world.

For a thousand years the clan continued to grow in power and number, meeting with outsiders only rarely. So it was that they passed into legend, known only as the Dahana clan of the southeastern mountains.

But now, as this story begins, they passed into history again—for the wielder of the seventh flame was born!

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To protect. That was Mahendra's only goal. It was a noble, selfless one. So why was he always being punished by such difficulties. He sighed.

"Hey, are you listening to me?" repeated the man in front of him, brandishing his sword. "If you give us all your valuables, we might let you go."

Mahendra had been walking along the main road, a wide, stone-paved way that cut through the forest between two cities. Along the way were planted great trees on either side, providing shade for the weary travelers.

He looked around him. Two in front, two in the back, and two hidden in the bushes on the side of the road. One man with a sword, two with bows, a scythe, and two pitchforks. Nowhere to run. "Go home," said Mahendra, sighing once more.

The man was taken aback. "What's that? Are you a fool? Do you want to die?"

"You're obviously not very used to this," explained Mahendra. "The way you're gripping the sword is all wrong. How did you manage to get that one anyway? The rest of you are holding things that could reasonably be a peasant's possession. I'm guessing by the age that it's your father's... no, your grandfather's keepsake. You all are farmers, not bandits. Maybe you thought that you would still be able to win over helpless travelers by sheer force of numbers, and you'd be right, if your luck wasn't so terrible."

"What do you mean?" asked the leader, warily.

Mahendra stretched. The man tensed at the movement, but did nothing. "I'm not easy prey. You six won't be able to defeat me." The men looked at each other in shock when he said 'six.' Mahendra was really not in the mood to deal with these people today. A little push and they would probably let him go. He eyed the six would-be bandits. The leader had a badly woven bracelet on his upper arm. "What would your daughter think of this? What if she saw you now?"
"It's for my daughter that I'm doing this," growled the man, but Mahendra could tell by the movement of his eyes and the intake of his breath that he had touched a difficult point.

"I understand that the harvest has been hard," he said, addressing all of them, "but what are you in the eyes of your loved ones, in the eyes of the gods, if you act this way?" He paused for effect before playing his trump card. "Now let me pass. I'm going to take the Maya Gana test."

He could see that they were shocked. Of course. In this area, the people had an almost superstitious reverence for the Gana. Their faces betrayed their emotions: fear and doubt. They had not had total faith before coming here, and now they looked desperately to their leader to leave this one alone. But Mahendra had slightly miscalculated. The leader still looked unconvinced.