My life had become a tapestry woven of unlikely threads. The morning light caught our simple thatch roof like a promise: I was still alive, still me. By my tenth year, the world around me had not changed — we were still poor, people still judged each other by birth. But I had changed. I moved among villagers not as a pawn of birth but as a silent storyteller of truth.
I sat once more with the elders under the sacred peepal tree. They discussed distant wars, the rise of great kingdoms. I kept those names in mind. One afternoon, a messenger came from Hastinapur saying that a great archery contest would allow commoners to witness princes. Many villagers quarreled about going, saying we had no right to watch where Brahmins stood. I quietly resolved that I would be there, somehow. They said, "Bhadrak, you must obey." Inside, I thought, must I?
Yet I listened to the debates, noting who argued and who bowed their heads. I weighed possibilities in silence, careful. If I attended and nothing happened, no one would notice me. If something did — I was ready. My secret gift hummed beneath my calm exterior.
As dusk fell on that day, I walked alone to where destiny awaited. Each step I took was forged by every decision I had made. The threads of my two lives finally converged: the truth I held and the truth I would speak to the world.
I looked up to the stars that night, feeling the promise form anew. I was no longer a stranger in this world; I was shaping it.
The dawn crowd stirred in the cool morning air as we neared the grand arena of Hastinapur. Painted banners snapped in the breeze, and I watched with wide eyes as chariots rolled past, gilded steeds shining in the sun. My heart pounded despite my resolve to remain calm. I, a boy of ten, had sneaked into the gathering — for today, common folk were allowed to watch the princes compete in archery.
"Arjunārya," I reminded myself softly, smiling at the name I had given myself in secret. As Bhadrak, the potter's son, I should have stayed behind; but somewhere inside me a quiet pride bloomed. The city I remembered from dreams stood at my feet again.
The contest field stretched before us, marked by stone pillars with golden crowns atop. Across the field stood the princes of Hastinapur. I recognized them from distant stories: towering Bhima and graceful Arjuna on one side, stern Duryodhana and crafty Dussasana on the other. Even from afar I could feel the weight of destiny in their stances. Bhima flexed his muscled arms, and Arjuna adjusted his quiver with a calm smile. In that moment I wondered: what truths did each of them believe about themselves?
We stood in a cluster of villagers. A Brahmin scowled at us from the edge of the crowd. He spat, "Shudras here? Mind your place, children." Kittu shrank behind me, and I gripped his arm to comfort him.
There — a tall soldier was loudly proclaiming something to a small group of merchants. I caught the last words: "A Pandava will surely triumph." The man's voice was certain, almost like a challenge. My mind stirred: if this were false, if Kuru's fate lay differently… but the sun had not yet risen fully, and I knew better than to use my gift heedlessly. Instead, I simply listened.
As the contest began, strings of polished wood sang with bowstrings drawn tight. Arjuna loosed an arrow and it split the air like a thunderbolt, burying cleanly in a distant target. Gasps rose in the audience. I could almost taste the speed of that arrow on my tongue, even across the field. A chance, just for a heartbeat, to shout a wish — "May he not miss" — flickered in the back of my mind. But instead I stayed silent, marveling at the power of human skill rather than my own subtle art.
Arjunārya felt small among them. Here were kings and heroes, living legends, and I was just a boy with secrets. Yet watching Arjuna's arrow arc perfectly, I could not help but think In another life, under another sky, perhaps I might have been standing on that field.
When the contest ended, the princes departed amid cheers and fanfare. I returned home with dusk turning the sky purple, my young mind buzzing. I had seen greatness today — but I also felt a gentle resolve. One day, I told myself as I lay on my straw mat that night, I will stand without fear in a place like that, and speak truths as grand as these arrows. As the stars watched silently overhead, I drifted to sleep with hopes hiding in my heart.
After the archery contest, life returned to its familiar rhythm. I carried water at dawn and swept the courtyard with my brother. Yet inside, memories and questions whirled endlessly. I craved knowledge — the sacred rhythms of the Vedas, the secrets hidden in scribbles, even the language of the stars.
One evening, I lingered near the temple porch after my mother's prayer was done. A scribe inscribed a copper plate by lamplight, etching words in Sanskrit for a petition. Each motion of his stylus felt like a dance. I remembered strokes from old computer fonts — tiny lines that spelled worlds. My fingers itched to imitate them in the dust at my feet.
As the scribe finished, I watched him tie the plate around a pillar. When I touched it gently with my thumb, letters imprinted faintly in the chalk dust on my skin. The shapes seemed to glow in my memory. Were these letters real, I wondered? I closed my eyes against the cool dusk and let myself recall the luminous characters I once knew on a glowing screen.
When I opened them, a verse came to me. It was an old prayer — not one I had learned here — but I whispered it anyway. The words were strange on my lips, a melody from a dream. The priest walking past halted and turned toward me, his eyes wide. He asked my mother, "Did he just chant the Gayatri Mantra?" She hesitated, then nodded. I felt warmth on my cheeks as villagers began to murmur. "A child blessed," one said softly.
At night on my straw bed, I marveled at the prayer. Had I truly spoken that? Without understanding, I had made sacred truth flow from my lips. I smiled quietly: though I had not consciously willed it, it felt as if some memory had surfaced. Perhaps it was the gift, quietly growing.
Over the next weeks, whenever I heard any phrase I did not understand, I let it echo in my mind until meaning found me. A wandering minstrel taught me a simple Sanskrit greeting to a handful of farmers — by the time he left, I knew it. I scrawled an attempt at writing on sandy ground, and the shapes came out clear as if guided by some unseen hand. Each piece of old knowledge returned like light to a locked corner of my mind.
In secret, I began keeping a small record. Each evening I traced letters in the ash hearth's cooled ashes, forming words: Rama, Dharma, Vedam. The shapes faded, but I saw them in my mind's eye, solid and familiar. For now, it was just me and the stars knowing this.
No one else dared admit it, but to their eyes, I was becoming special. The priest blessed my palm with sandalwood paste, and my parents folded their hands in thanks. I kept my secret hidden in my heart: that even as my tongue and hands learned these truths, I was still only a humble potter's son by the laws of the world. Yet if fate had written a lie on my soul, I had at least learned to read between its lines.