A letter came from the city where Arjun studied. It was sealed with saffron wax, and our father read it by lamp light. Arjun would return in a fortnight for the winter break. We whooped and hugged. Even our elders smiled.
I had almost forgotten his face. He came home wrapped in a new shawl and murmured "brother" only once, briefly, before returning to his studies at our village clay-floor school.
In those fifteen days, rain began again, gentle and refreshing. One evening, on that familiar roof, I finally asked the stars: Should I tell him more? about my gift.
The stars sang back with wind in the pines. I decided to say nothing, but watch him quietly.
Arjun seemed unchanged. Then, one dusk, as I sat reading by lamplight (I was not yet to the study of Sanskrit but loved the sound of letters), Arjun crept behind me. His breath held a secret.
"Father spoke of your stories." He pressed his palm to my shoulder. I whirled, unsettled.
"Stories?" I asked. My heart hit my ribs.
"The ones you tell yourself in the dark. About truth." He hesitated, eyes scanning the yard outside our shuttered window. He half-whispered, "I believe in you." Then he was gone.
I sat alone, crooked candle dripping, realizing others knew I was not the same as other children. A truth glowed in my chest: I must be careful now that even family suspected.
It was spring again. Mango blossoms and jasmines perfumed the air. My mother's herb garden was bright with marigolds. Each dusk, village women gathered at the well to sing, and men offered fruits to the sacred cow for good fortune.
One evening, Meena found a wild strawberry patch by the water mill. She smiled and handed me the first ripe fruit, shyly pressing it into my palm. It smelled like both earth and sweet life. We bit into it together – sour and sweet. In that instant, I imagined telling her about an even sweeter truth, but I did not.
Instead, I lifted my gaze to the flickering stars. I cannot use my gift for words as often as sunrise. I realized I had used it nearly every dusk and dawn. Too often, perhaps. There was still enough space in me to feel wonder without spells. The star overhead pulsed with quiet light, and I turned back to Meena. I must protect her from my secret, I thought.
One afternoon, as I fetched water from the well, a Brahmin elder blocked my path. He was known to sell aphrodisiac herbs at the market, and in truth, his red-ochre scribbles on palms always turned to gold. He smiled with crooked teeth.
"You are Arjun's brother, yes?" he asked, eyeing my jar. When I nodded, he continued, "Your brother has been telling tales, eh, of your strange ability? Interesting. How much truth would you give for something from me, young Bhadrak?"
I clutched my water pot tighter. I had been careful not to tell him anything – but the air felt heavy now. Perhaps the village rumors were spreading to distant roads.
He shrugged, "Just talk, child."
Fear surged, and with it, a warm truth inside me. Without thinking, I whispered to the air, "All lies are eaten by the wind."
The Brahmin's face paled, as if his breath left him. He scrabbled, almost stumbling. The water I carried dripped to the ground.
He coughed, eyes watering, and swayed. I grabbed the pot before it fell. His sneer had turned into a gape, and sweat dotted his brow.
"You– that man… mother used to say you weave spells with words. But now I believe it." He vanished as if swallowed by a dust cloud.
I let go of the whispered truth. The sky was empty. It had been reckless. I knelt, eyes closed, and prayed. From the well, the water jar slipped from my knees. It fell into the well with a hollow splash. I knew it was not an accident.
Frightened, I promised: "One day, I will fix this."
The next morning, the village was silent as if caught in a net. The Brahmin elder's stall had collapsed, barrels of herbs spilled everywhere. Villagers whispered that he had run off sick, never to return.
My father caught me tossing a small clay marble at the wall, trying to keep my hands busy. "Still angry, my son?" he asked softly. He must have known who I worried about.
I did not lie: "I am. But I also feel guilty."
He laid a gentle hand on my shoulder. "Your anger told a truth no one dared speak."
I looked away, ashamed. "But I used it."
Father shrugged. "We all carry burdens."
I wondered if any truth could be truly erased once spoken. Perhaps not.
Later, at dusk, I knelt in the field, offering a prayer: Let no harshness grow from my words. Tears filled my eyes. The ground smelled of damp clay. The sky was clear, and an early star twinkled, gentle as a promise. I whispered to it, "I will be careful from now on. I will not weave any more than kindness." The star seemed to shine a little brighter, as if accepting my vow.
The late spring rains came to knock on our roof and wash away the dry dust. A new priest had arrived in the village, young and mild-eyed. He held sermons in the evenings under the banyan tree.
One evening he spoke of Bhima's strength and Arjuna's bow, and how each man had a gift given by the gods. He said a child born under that banyan leaf was promised a special destiny. I shivered at the undercurrent of his story, though I didn't know how it applied to me yet.
Afterwards I followed him discreetly, asking if anyone else carried a hidden light. He stopped with a kind of start, as if he sensed the weight in me. "Gifts often whisper among us," he said, as if reading my mind. "Some find them as a burden, some as a blessing."
His words sank into me. The night was thick with leaves. He asked my name, then nodded thoughtfully when I told him.
"Bhadrak," he said slowly, as if the word itself was a weight. "Remember, even a single candle can brighten a dark cave."
I blinked, searching his face. Did he know? He only smiled, a little sadly.
Walking home, I felt less alone. Perhaps indeed others sensed these threads of truth.
It was nearing October. The paddy fields turned golden, the air turned cooler. Villagers prepared for the festival of ancestors. On the night the ancestors' spirits were honored with lights and offerings, I sat with my family in silence.
My gaze strayed to the troupe of children chasing lamp-circles on muddy puddles from lanterns. One of the boys wore a simple silver bangle. He was running, falling, laughing – but once he spotted me, his face froze. The bangle caught the light, and for a moment I thought I saw a flicker in his eyes as if he remembered me.
The children ran past, breathless, and the connection broke like dawn. I had remembered that boy: I had helped him once. His father had an uncanny way with cattle, and I teased the boy about it, only to have him burst into tears. Later I quietly told myself that he was brave like Vikarna from the epics; the truth had built him courage.
Now he looked like an ordinary village child. But that moment of recognition had me questioning: maybe he too had some buried knowledge of me. Maybe he was one of the others with a gift.
That night, the lamps were offered. I lit my father's small clay lamp with my mother's match. The flame danced and settled. I whispered to it a promise that my words would not be twisted by greedy hands. The bangle boy's small face haunted me. More than ever, I believed some quiet strength connected us.