The knowledge of my power was both exhilarating and terrifying. Every morning I awoke half expecting miracles, half fearing disasters. If a Brahmin scolded me for my caste, I found myself either mute or mysteriously absent from earshot — I could not remember. If a stable lantern broke, I mumbled "It is fixed," and it was. With each happening I felt a guilty wonder. In the quiet dark, I worried I was cheating some cosmic balance.
My world began to split in two. During the day, I was the obedient peasant's son — playing with other children, mimicking their chores, learning stories of kings and demons. But by night, I lay awake replaying the subtle marvels I had sparked. Had that been real or just wishful thinking? If I could make things true, why did I not simply wish my status higher, or demand to join any school? Perhaps it was still too dangerous to try something that obvious.
I sought answers in books and men, but none would come. On my own, I tested moral lines: once I saw a boy fall from a cart and fracture his leg. I held his hand and thought, "May he stand up." He did — but limped in pain again. I learned then that I could not break destiny recklessly, that the threads I wove were fragile.
Yet I could not ignore the potential. I began to save small seeds of strength for myself. Each time I softened a hunger, eased a quarrel, or freed a trapped cat, I told myself it benefited me too — a kinder life, less sorrow around me. In those acts I tasted both relief and responsibility. I realized I could be a weaver of truth, but at a cost. That knowledge weighed on me as I vowed to use my gift only when no other choice remained.
Every day I walked the fine line between two realities. By sunlight, I was the simple Shudra boy, serving my family and absorbing lessons of nature. By moonlight, I was a city scholar pondering ethics and destiny. I started keeping small accounts: grains I needed, favors done, knowledge stored like memory jewels. I imagined scenarios: if I wished for gold, would it appear? I dared not try — the balance felt sacred, meant only for small truths, not grand wishes.
But sometimes the urge grew too strong. When the local moneylender cheated my father's herd in a trade, I caught his lie and thought, "Let justice prevail." Coins I'd hidden by my bed streamed onto the table overnight. The moneylender's eyes widened, but he blamed a bargain — he would never know otherwise. I felt guilt and pride entwined; my family had bread for weeks, but at what unseen price?
Schoolwise, nothing had changed: I still helped pour water when Brahmins taught, learning from scraps of their lessons. But I sensed they avoided looking at me directly now, as if unsure of my skill. Once the teacher announced, "No Shudra shall write the Vedas," and I quietly argued, "All men breathe truth," to myself. When I woke up, I found a single lesson sketch in the sand with my mother's name — I had written it in my sleep. They called it a miracle; I called it a clue: even if they forbid me, I was capable of writing the very truths they held sacred.
On foggy mornings I crept into the forest, testing not magic but maths. I tracked my footsteps home exactly, even as a child was expected to get lost. The birds sang in languages I once knew; I began to decipher their morning calls. In these hidden moments, each discovery assured me: I could survive between these worlds, slowly turning the gears behind fate's screen.
My plan took shape quietly over months. I would not rush to reshape the world, but I would protect those I loved. Mother fell ill again with a cough. The herbal medicine was failing. Remembering my first miracle, I stroked her forehead at night and softly thought, "Strength returns." In the morning her fever broke. Mother whispered a thank-you to the corner of the room. I just clasped my hands. Part of me rejoiced that a loved one recovered; another part shivered, knowing I was its cause.
With each success, I grew more confident in strategy. Instead of acting on whims, I began to choose moments: where a single truth could ripple outward. When a spring washed away the main road, I envisioned a sturdy wooden plank bridging the stream. The next day, wood lay conveniently across the gap, and villagers praised the gods. In truth, I had willed it to be. I was careful, leaving room for chance to bless the deed.
I tested my power among friends: once, Arun, the caste bully, taunted me by the river, claiming no Shudra could dream of being more than grass. I quietly fixed my gaze on the reflection of the water. "Someday he will be kind," I murmured to the currents. Weeks later, Arun fell ill and befriended me, kneading dough in our house to make amends. He never admitted why he had changed, but I let the secret pass.
Slowly, I realized I was no longer merely an observer: I had become an actor. I wove small truths — bread and healing and a ladder over water — each as personal as my life. Yet the world was like a tapestry too large to mend with whispers alone. Still, my confidence grew: perhaps one day I could learn the language of fate, and speak only the words needed to lift our lives from these humble patterns.
Word of my subtle fortunes began to circulate like a breeze in the grass. A Brahmin merchant who had cheated another for a handful of grain suddenly claimed the gods had warned him; a cruel tax collector found his accounts mysteriously balanced one night. Some villagers murmured about hidden justice, but no one suspected my quiet hand. Even I noticed how power must remain hidden: if the Brahmin knew, he would never show his face to me again.
One day at the market, a village woman accused a moneylender of unfairly raising prices. The dispute grew heated, and I fingered a cool stone in my pocket, thinking, "Let truth calm them." The woman's voice shook as if struck: she suddenly stammered that the lender had only asked a golden coin in error. The men turned skeptical eyes on me. I shrugged innocently. Was it luck, or the benefit of the doubt I willed upon her?
But not every thread stayed calm. A tree I wished would bear fruit cracked violently on a stormy night. The next day, thunder had split our granary door in two. Father said it was how the gods reminded us of humility. I laid the wood straight and left the rest; better to accept my mistakes silently.
Each episode taught me caution. Sometimes even nature resisted me — our buffalo calved too early, and for days the calf would not nurse despite my urges. I felt helpless. In frustration, I wished I could fix everything with a single thought, but that night I learned: power had its limits. Some truths could not be conjured, and for every blessing, the world demanded patience and gratitude.
I was learning balance. I realized that the rules of this age were like a great loom: a Shudra had a weave to follow. My dreams lay in another pattern entirely. But for now, I would continue weaving quietly at its edges, careful not to rip the cloth.
Weeks turned to months, and with each passing season I grew bolder and wiser. I had seen both wonder and warning in my powers. Deep inside me, a storm of reflection grew. Was I playing god, or merely exploring the bounds of fate?
My introspection deepened when I saved Arun, that cruel boy, from a fall in the forest. He lay safe and unconscious after slipping on mossy stones. I had impulsively willed, "Let him awake unharmed." When he did, bleeding only a scratch, he woke smiling, thanking me in confusion. Once he recovered, he looked at me differently — with humility and curiosity instead of arrogance. Arun's change stirred guilt and pride in me. I realized that in weaving someone's truth, their path altered. Was it fair that I could change their fate so easily?
Sometimes I would catch my reflection in water and see two eyes: one thoughtful and sad, the other firm with resolve. The two souls inside me — the village child and the secret scholar — were finding an uneasy truce. I understood: with great ability came great silence. I could not tell family or friends what I truly was; the risk of exposure was too high.
So I tightened my secrecy like a knot. Even Kittu noticed only that I sometimes seemed happier if Mother or Father were safe from a problem. I would simply smile at him. In my heart, the knot held my ambitions and fears together. Even as I took cautious steps to improve our lives, I was aware that every strand I pulled could snap another.
At night, lying under starlight, I asked myself if I was worthy of this gift. The ancestors in our stories faced trials of virtue; perhaps this was mine. In the silence, I found clarity: no matter how I had come by this power, I must use it wisely — for family, for fairness, but not for frivolous dreams. Tomorrow was another test, and I was ready.