Days of monsoon rain turned the fields green. I helped my father shape clay pots in the cool morning, centering the wheel with practiced hands. Between spins, I traced patterns — sometimes simple lines, sometimes shapes that resembled the letters I had begun to understand. My fingers remembered them, even as our lives below had no place for written truth.
One dusk, I surprised even myself. Kittu and I sat playing in the courtyard with a shard of pottery and a smoothing tool. On a whim, I scratched three curved lines in the wet clay. When they dried, something stirred — I felt a quiet command. That night, I touched the carvings and silently willed, "This mark is my name." At dawn, the clay had set. I held it up to the light. There, in the earthen surface, was clearly etched: b-h-a-d-r-a-k — the sounds I knew as my name. A thrill rose in me.
I had done nothing except think it — and still my wish had become real. That morning, instead of washing it away as usual, I showed the pot to my father. He whistled in surprise. "When did you learn to do this?" he asked, tracing the letters with his finger. I only shrugged, avoiding his eyes. My parents believed it was luck or a blessing from Ganesha. I let them wonder.
Now I had proof — even if only to myself — of how I could change truth. If a simple shape could turn into my name by dawn, perhaps bigger truths were mine to weave. I carried that thought with me secretly, both hopeful and cautious.
School in the Brahmin's hall was unchanged — I still sat at the last row, copying oral verses in the dirt, knowing I understood them better than any child. One day, while the priest emphasized that only Brahmins could become scholars, a bright boy named Madhav jokingly shouted, "This Shudra's thoughts are still muddled by clay!" The class burst into laughter. I glanced at Madhav. In his shout, he had spoken an old prejudice as if it were truth.
That night, as rain pattered on the roof and lanterns glowed, I lay awake thinking of letters and names and destiny. Ash became ink in my dreams. I whispered to myself, "There are stories here that I will tell." Whether through clay or word, I sensed my truths were slowly taking shape under the watchful stars.
In the marketplace, fairness was measured by scales and words. One morning, my father carried clay pots to sell. A sly merchant at the stall tried to cheat him — tipping the scale to get more clay for less grain. I stood quietly by my father's side, feeling a knot of unease twist in my gut.
The merchant boasted, "Even clay dances to the hand that feeds it." He laughed, but his eyes were greedy. Kittu and I exchanged worried glances. My father gripped the scale's chain tightly.
As the merchant weighed our pots against a sack of grain, I remembered my promise to protect those I loved. The merchant was speaking an old lie: "Of course your poor arms cannot lift more than this." In the quiet of my mind, I softened those words and willed their opposite: "He will have fair measure."
By dawn the next day, it seemed everyone believed it was a joke or chance, but at the next market the grainman handed us twice as much grain for the same clay. The merchant's face went slack and pale. Villagers murmured — it was as if the scales themselves had been blessed. I said nothing.
Later, helping my father stack the grain, I wondered about balance. When the merchant realized he had been outwitted, he growled about curses, but my father only patted my shoulder and smiled in surprise.
That night, with moonlight through the slats, I wrestled with what I had done. Fairness had won today, but was it by my will alone or by fate's machinery? I shook my head and recalled each rule: I had only given the thought life; nature had done the rest. Yet, as I drifted to sleep under the silent watch of the peepal tree, one truth felt as clear as the morning sky: sometimes even a shadow can tip the scales toward dharma.
One hot afternoon, I slipped away into the woods to escape chores and thought. I carried nothing but a water jar and the weight of my questions. In a small clearing, I found an old man meditating beneath a banyan tree. His eyes were closed, but his lips moved softly in a Sanskrit mantra I almost recognized from my earlier life.
I settled on a nearby rock, pretending to drink water, but really listening. His words were like a quiet stream of sound, neither loud nor hurried. The silence around him felt sacred. A few moments later, without opening his eyes, he spoke. "A gift that lies hidden is like fire in a jar. One day it will break free." His voice was gentle but wise.
I jumped at the sound, heart pounding, but managed a smile. "My father says I have a sharp mind," I ventured, unsure. The sage opened his eyes, revealing pupils deep and calm like wells of water. He chuckled softly. "Many fathers say such things. But not all sons believe them."
For a long time we said nothing more, just inhaling the quiet. I felt both out of place and strangely at peace. Finally, the sage looked at my dusty hands and feet. "You do the work of a potter," he said, "but your eyes have seen other worlds."
I frowned. How could this stranger know? He had not heard the river's voice or the thunder's whisper. I merely observed, but he seemed to know.
"Are you a learned man, sir? My teachers never praised me so," I asked.
He smiled. "No, boy. I am no scholar by worldly measures. I read dust and stone more than books. Tell me — what do you carry in your heart tonight?"
His question caught me off guard. I looked at the carved symbols on my clay pot that I still carried — my name. "I carry many things," I answered honestly, "even those I barely understand."
His eyes grew distant as I spoke. Then he asked, "Are they dreams you carry, or the weight of truth?"
I thought of nothing to say. The question itself felt as weighty as a full moon. Finally I whispered, "Both, perhaps."
He nodded and closed his eyes again, as if satisfied. He took a white pebble from his robes and placed it in my hand. It was smooth and cold. "A small truth," he said. "Let it remind you: power grows quietly, like seeds in darkness. Use it when time is right."
I stared at the stone. It felt heavier than any jar of water I had lifted. "How do you know this?" I asked softly.
He only smiled, and as I watched, the sage faded back into the heat haze, returning to his meditation. In that silence, I realized one truth that even the sage hinted at: I was not alone in carrying secrets. Quiet and unseen as I was, the world had more mysteries than I could ever imagine.
My friendship with Ishaan deepened as we grew older, even as the world kept us separate by invisible lines. Once, after an afternoon of climbing trees by the river, he returned to my house as dusk fell, out of breath.
"Your father's pottery is prized beyond our village now," he said, picking up a large urn. But as he did, it slipped from his hands, landing with a crack on the packed earth. Both of us froze.
The pot shattered into fragments. A hush fell. Ishaan's face drained of color. I knew what this would mean: my father's earnings lost for the week.
I couldn't let that happen. I took the pieces and ran inside to our little shed. In the dark, I arranged them on the ground and whispered, "May this pot be whole again."
Then I waited.
Morning came, and light spilled through the door. I opened it. There, where broken shards had been, stood a perfect urn — my father's finest work, as if never broken.
When Father saw it on the table, he rubbed his hands in gratitude, calling me "blessed by the gods." I only nodded, stroking the cool clay.
All day, I watched Ishaan quietly. He seemed relieved, but puzzled. He hadn't known of my secret wish. I simply smiled and said nothing. Inside, however, I was amazed. If my will could rebuild what had been lost, then even larger destructions might someday be undone. But a child must be careful even of his own desires.
That night, I lay awake wondering: if truth can mend clay, should I try to change the past as well? The question was heavy and unfamiliar, like the weight of that repaired pot in my hands. For now, I made no further wish. Some things — I told myself under the silent stars — must grow slowly, like the clay itself before the artist sets it free.
And so the years of childhood and discovery continued, with each day weaving new threads of destiny under the watchful skies...