The sun had returned full force. In the field of ripening millet, I helped my father scatter seed. The rhythmic clatter of his work was a tune I hummed along to. The air smelled of sun-baked earth and sandalwood from the shrine up the road. Our village danced with insect life.
My mother called out that evening, "Come eat." I realized I had sketched lines in the dust at my feet, wondering about the seeds of truth. My heart was full of questions. One of them had been: Are there others like me?
That night a traveling merchant came, eyes round as marbles, carrying a frogskin drum on his back. He spoke of a child in another village who could also feel hidden things. "He guessed a thief in the night," the merchant said with a chuckle. His campfire flickered as he strummed a sitar. "Miracles are commoner than men think," he said between songs.
I listened. The crackling of fire mixed with his tales of gods and mortals. Something about the moonlit way he described that other child's gift made me warm. Perhaps I was not unique in this strange journey.
After the musician left, the cicadas slowed their song. I lay on the cool ground outside our hut, eyes closed. If he can help the sick with a whisper, maybe the truth can heal the angry heart too, I thought. I made a promise: I would continue to use my gift, but always for mercy, never for pride.
It was the time of our rain festival, when the river goddess was honored with colors. Women drew radiant kundans (designs) on their foreheads with powders of turmeric and vermilion. By the temple steps, the old pharmacist offered remedial pastes.
I helped Meena paint her cheeks with saffron, and she looked back at me in the mirror, wearing a shy grin. Then one of my friends, Usha, slipped a petal into my hand – a small, blood-red rose. Her eyes were wide, her mouth moving as if she had something hidden.
I realized Usha was a Sudra, and I am also from a lower caste, but our boyish game of stealing sweets from the feast had no caste barrier. Yet tonight, as we sat with other children in a circle listening to a priest chant in the smoke, Usha's friend Naeem, taller and leaner, came between us. Usha's petal fell to the ground with a whisper.
After the chants, when the priest left, Usha accused Naeem of grabbing the petal from her hand out of jealousy. Naeem denied it fiercely. The conflict grew like a torn clap of thunder in my heart. Both were my friends.
I took a deep breath, the torches hissing around us. Under the dim light of lamps, I realized the argument was like a festering sore, hurting more than anyone deserved. Quietly, I let a truth flow from my lips: "Naeem would not take joy from Usha's hands. Usha, you must see he meant no harm."
Naeem blinked. Usha's face softened. He put a hand gently on her shoulder and whispered an apology. Usha nodded, wiping tears at the corner of her eyes.
We walked home together under lantern-lit lanes, my heart fluttering. The gift had sewn peace between my friends, not with force, but a small shift, a revealed truth that they felt themselves. They left the petal on the temple steps as an offering to the goddess, who I believed smiled down on that honesty.
Days turned to weeks, and the harvest was nearly in. In the early nights, I loved to sit outside on the flat roof, listening to an old local singer tune her reed flute as the sky bled orange into night. The quiet was a balm after the day's work.
In those moments, my mind often drifted to the Mahabharata again. The name Arjuna whispered through the wind once, carried by a traveler's plea at the well. My heart jumped. That night, under a lone star, I fashioned from memory a prayer to that legendary archer, asking for guidance.
Could it be I remembered faintly the ways of truth from my past life? Or was the name just a gift from my father's devotion to Rama and heroes? I touched my chest where I knew my gift stirred and closed my eyes. The wind answered with cricket songs.
Night after night I dreamed scenes I could not place: a battlefield lit by moon, a bowstring pulled taut, a voice reciting verses. I woke each morning with chill-spine, unsure if they were warnings or lessons. Whatever the truth, I felt a destiny forming like shadows at dawn.
I thought often of the small villages around our own. What if there were others with gifts like mine, dreaming dreams of arrows and truth? Would they know each other? Our stories were distant, weaving in the dark.
It was deep winter, the time of the festival of lights, when we honor the fires of knowledge. Our village temple held a great havan (fire ritual) at dusk. My whole family dressed in wool shawls and carried pots of oil. We placed them at the shrine with prayers – for rain, for harvest, for wisdom.
I knelt on cool ground, chanting softly with the priest. The scent of ghee and sandalwood rose in the night air. The fire's glow danced on the stones, and stories of Agni roared on the breeze in Sanskrit chants I could barely follow.
As the flames crackled, I remembered a line from childhood: "Fire tests the gold." Was my spirit pure gold yet? I lifted my chin to the spark of stars, feeling his gaze. I resolved to use the next day's gift with clarity, not muddied by fear. Perhaps at dawn I would speak truth to someone in doubt or sadness, like the morning dew reveals fallen petals.
Now I was around eleven and a half. Life settled into harvest routines. My older brother Arjun (named after the hero, though no one knew of my inner memory), was often away, studying under one of the ten teachers rumored in the far city. He was both proud and distant – sometimes harsh when he found me playing in the fields instead of studying.
One morning, Arjun returned home with a head scarred from a thorn. The jagged cut looked angry and wet. We carried him to the house altar to be blessed. He hissed at the pain.
I sat quietly, thinking I could ease any pain with the same gentle word I had used on Padma. I placed a cool cloth on his wound. "Each cut can teach how skin grows stronger," I said softly.
Arjun glared at me, "What nonsense, Bhadrak. Don't prattle."
I bit my tongue. The urge to speak the truth of his anger was there, but I did not. Instead, I sang an old lullaby under my breath, one taught by my mother. The tune wove around his spasms and seemed to calm him.
Later, mother said, "You have a gift of healing hearts, little one." I wondered if I had done anything miraculous at all, or just waited for Arjun to trust the pain away on his own.
That night, I found myself forgiving my brother. Maybe one day he would learn to forgive me. I resolved to hope in small truths, not grand illusions.