We were drawing water at a small unused shrine when Meena, suddenly startled, asked me to look at a faded carving. It showed figures each holding different tools: a plow, a harp, a bowl. Underneath, in broken letters, two words: Sarva Dhan Tyaag – abandon all selfishness.
I remembered my grandfather once quoting this: that the gods reward those who serve others selflessly. The second word tyaag – sacrifice – burned like a star in me.
At that moment, a traveler stopped by to take refuge from sun. I helped him fan away the flies. He noticed the carving too. With reverence he said it is an ancient lesson for village folk.
I asked him, "Sacrifice so truth can live?" He smiled, old as stone. "Or so we can live without hatred in our hearts."
I realized that sacrifice had little to do with what we give up, but with what we keep in our souls. On the way back, splashing through the stream, I dipped my hands deep and drank to the carved words. The village bell tolled in the distance. I felt another quiet promise form: one day, I would be ready to sacrifice for truth.
My birthday came in the mid-year heat. I turned twelve. The villagers blessed me, some said a boy from a "gifted" lineage. Grandmother, who had always doubted superstition, smiled and placed a garland of marigolds around my neck. "Now you are a man in spirit," she said.
That night, I dreamt of my past. A bow, a forest, tears in someone's eye – but I woke with a start. On a whim, I drew a symbol in the dust with a twig: a bow and arrow over the sun. An arrow flew straight between moon and star. It felt powerful.
I closed my hand on that dust symbol and promised my heart: It is truth that guides this arrow. When I opened my hand, the breeze had erased it. I smiled and slept.
The first full moon of summer meant a great feast for the spirits in the forest. My friends and I, guided by older youths, took lanterns along the riverbank. The moon was huge, its face silver on the water.
Sitting by the nightly fire outside the big mango tree, a friend, Hari, said the moon made him feel dizzy. I asked him what he meant. He answered softly, "It's like the moon is showing us everything – even thoughts we hide."
Looking into Hari's earnest face, I realized he, too, had sensed more than he said. Could he see into me? Or was it just me projecting?
The night passed slowly, with fire songs and roasted yam and red hibiscus petals. Children fell asleep in laps. I sat awake, pondering whether others had secrets I could not see.
When it was time to leave, I tried something. As I handed Hari his lamp, I said clearly, "We walk side by side."
Hari stiffened for a moment, then relaxed. He nodded at me, no words. It felt as if our bond had deepened. Maybe truth could knit friendship without being said.
Another winter approached. The village quieted into study and rest. With Arjun often gone learning with the city teachers, I felt more alone and responsible.
Our new priest visited often, lecturing to us every morning by the ghee lamps. He spoke of each man's duty and place. Sometimes, I looked at his gentle face and wondered: did he know I had spoken to the Brahmin about truth and avoided him?
Then one morning, he recited a line: "A candle loses nothing by lighting another." I glanced around. No one noticed who he meant it for.
Could it be for me? I brushed the thought away.
Instead, I turned inward more than ever. Each time I used my gift, I whispered a vow. Each night, I watched the sky, hoping to meet the eyes of one star, to ask it if my path was true.
The day of the annual assembly came, when teachers from distant lands arrived to meet our village council. I was thirteen now. Our small courtyard was full of rugs and trays of sweets. Among them, I recognized some faces: the man I called "ten teacher chief" and two of his companions.
The chief caught my eye as I passed them carrying water. He smiled thinly. It felt like I had been seen by a hawk in flight.
Later, hidden behind a palm pillar, I overheard them discussing my family. "The boy," said one, pointing at the distant rice fields, "has shown potential. We must educate him further."
My heart hammered. I was not ready for schooling beyond the village. What knowledge did they want from me?
That night I cried quietly beside my mother, who stroked my hair. I told her of my fears. She only kissed my forehead. "Your gift will guide you, my son," she said.
In the cold nights, the wind would often extinguish the lamps in our houses. Our new priest taught us then under the only large flame – the great torch on his dais.
One evening he told of Vasishtha who held a torch that blazed with truth. He said: "If one person carries truth's torch, the entire forest of doubt may blaze away."
I listened, eyes closed. When he finished, I saw a hundred sleepy eyes fixed on the midnight fire. Suddenly I felt a strong hand on my shoulder – Arjun. He whispered in my ear, "Are you afraid?"
I felt tears burn in the corners of my eyes. "Yes," I admitted.
He squeezed me. "Then hold onto the light."
I nodded, grateful for the flame, for my brother, and for the strange warmth building inside me.