The festival ended and winter winds rolled in. We sat around smoky hearths, warming ourselves with flatbread and goat stew. Meena, now old enough to ask real questions, turned to me one dusk.
"Tell me, Bhadrak... would you ever tell a lie for someone you love?"
I froze, fork halfway to my mouth. Lying was the forbidden thing. "Why would I do that?" I said carefully.
She shrugged. "Because perhaps truth can hurt. I heard the traveling merchant yesterday, he said sometimes one truth is heavier than a whole lie."
I considered. How odd that a child could proffer such a thought. She looked up at me with earnest eyes.
Before I could answer, an ember leapt from the fire between us. I watched it travel in the smoke. In it, I saw my life's path - flickering but not extinguished. I answered gently, "Truth is like light, you know. It might cast shadows, but lies only breed darkness. Even I, who can shape truth, must hold it tenderly."
Her face was solemn. I squeezed her hand. At that moment, I understood the gravity of what I did every day. It was not an easy thing to carry at ten.
That night I prayed for wisdom. The wind rattled the straw of our roof, and I felt once more the tug in my chest. I was made to do this.
In those cold mornings, as the sun rose lazy and pink, I often walked barefoot to our small shrine. One chilly morning, as the lamps were lit by others, I knelt and remembered a vow from ages ago. The memory was like a song half-heard. I offered a few coins, closed my eyes and whispered, "Truth, may you be my guide."
I recalled a scholar in the town who once said that a promise under flame could never be broken. That stayed with me. Because of him, I felt bound.
Walking home through a narrow lane, I saw a group of ten men – the rumored "ten teachers" – marching purposefully toward an open field. Curious, I followed at a distance.
They stood under banyan trees, robed and solemn, surrounding a low fire. My family name among their hushed voices made me freeze. They were whispering something about our village, about destiny and duty. The words drifted to me. They were reciting a chant about svabhava – one's nature.
"...thus is the lie passed from master to disciple," I heard one say. Another added, "Even to bend the truth is our Svarga's will."
My heart stopped. The phrase was dangerously familiar: Svarga, the heavenly order. They were speaking knowingly of "the lie" as if it were some tradition.
I slipped away in panic, mind whirling. From what I could hear, it sounded as if our deepest teachings – passed by ancestors – were said to be false. Ten men, ten voices, all in agreement that something about our world was a lie.
That night I could barely sleep. My gift flared as a roaring alarm in me. If they believed something vital was false, did that include the truths I held sacred? Could I believe, or should I suspect even the teachings of elders? The lie of the ten teachers haunted me in dreams until dawn.
By the next evening, word had somehow seeped through the village that a strange chanting had been heard. Some said evil spirits had congregated. Fathers pulled their sons indoors early. Mothers fussed and tied red threads at doorways.
My father was away in the fields. I was left alone, center of attention as people stared. Finally, when too many worried faces circled me, I closed myself in our hut. My throat felt raw.
Under my mosquito net, I traced my palm by candlelight, remembering the symbol of truth I had once carved on earth during a fever. It gave me resolve. If my teachers truly lied, then the truth might soon need defending. But I did not know how.
Sensing my distress, father returned early. I confessed to him exactly what I'd heard those teachers saying. He took my face in his hands, cold and worn.
"You have seen too much too early," he murmured, eyes misty. "Perhaps I was wrong to send you to hear them."
The next morning, our school's regular class did not happen. Instead, the villagers assembled under the banyan tree. The head village elder, asked us to sit on mats in silence.
One of those ten teachers, the chief among them, quietly ascended the dais. He held a book bound in copper. He told us those words from last night were an old parable misunderstood. "We never speak of it," he said.
I realized then – they had lied. The story about the lie of svarga was itself a lie, or at best a mistake. Ten teachers told us not to believe in it, but it seemed they believed it enough to hide it.
I watched faces. Some villagers nodded, believing him. Others glanced my way, curious about how I had heard their secret. I clenched and unclenched my fists, heart thudding. The truth of what they hid was still heavy on me. I would never forget it, if they could.
Two days later, Arjun returned. He found me in the yard, gently picking at the seam on an old drum.
"You look troubled," he said, stooping down.
I told him softly about the meeting. Arjun listened, lips tight.
"At their old school, we were also told certain things, tested on what not to know," he said. "They call it loyalty to dharma. But I don't trust it." His green eyes were serious.
I saw for the first time not my brother, but a peer who had begun to question. His words gave me courage.
That afternoon I slipped under the scholar's oak tree outside the temple, book in hand. I found a passage in an old epic that spoke of how blind belief can fail a person. I read it quietly, the mossy bark at my back. It said, "A man who speaks truth is the greatest of nobles."
I felt the firmness return to my shoulders. I had the truth, and perhaps that was enough.
Soon it was spring again. At the seasonal fair, I watched a wolf-dancer perform with children around a fire. I noticed in her eyes something sad, as if she too knew a truth no one believed.
We spent a day at the fair: sugar canes, earthen cups of butter milk, rattling swings.
I saw the Brahmin I had whispered at months ago. He watched me from a distance, clutching a wooden spearstock.
I avoided him. But later, as twilight fell, he found me near the well. He said nothing for a moment. Then, with his raspy calm, "Truth works in our bones," he muttered.
I realized he was testing me.
I dared say, "Not against me."
He gave a sudden laugh, pain mingled in it. "Be careful. Even truth has its hungry shadows."
He walked away. The answer sank in: sometimes we become what we search.
On the walk home, I sang softly – a song mother taught me, about honesty and humility. The night was cool. Somewhere a dog barked far off.