Our village sacred fig tree, old as memory, was bloomed with early summer leaves. I went there to think one evening. Beneath it lay a carved bench.
A wandering healer woman, eyes like storm clouds, sat there playing a delicate drum. Her daughter held a talisman of rough beads.
She caught my gaze and said, "Do you know, child? Everyone must guard their gift. It can weave truth, or it can ensnare."
I stayed silent. Something about her seemed to know us both. The girl beside her smiled shyly and showed me a small bowl of flower petals, chanting a soft prayer.
I watched quietly as they gathered herbs and left. The air smelled of jasmine and dirt. I knew then – she believed in my gift too.
As I walked home in the dusk, I said softly, "I will weave only truth." It was a prayer and a promise all at once.
The sky turned grey once more, not with rain, but with coming clouds. News spread that thieves were on the outskirts of another village. By evening, they had reached ours – cunning bandits who craved spices and grain.
Under the lightning flashes, our little community panicked. Children were carried inside, doors bolted. My father held my hand tight, fear in his eyes.
An hour after midnight, a masked man appeared at our door. He demanded rice for his hungry companions. My father refused.
I could have stayed silent, but for a moment I saw in those masked eyes not just hunger, but confusion, fear. The man threatened to harm us if we did not comply.
Something inside me raged to speak. I stepped forward, voice steady despite pounding heart. "You claim hunger," I said softly, "but you wander as ghosts in search of peace. Let us not harm each other."
Confusion flickered behind the mask. I felt my gift in every heartbeat. "Please, share our meal with us. The gods do not wish for blood tonight."
Outside, lightning flared. The masked man stuttered, unsure. Slowly, he lowered his weapon. Something in my voice forced him to relent. He muttered a furious excuse and pushed his way out with his men.
The storm broke then, and rain fell hard. We were safe. But as I sank trembling to the floor, wet and shaking, I understood that speaking truth had saved our village. Even thieves had felt the power of words whispered in their minds.
I collapsed into sleep at sunrise, wrapped in my mother's arms. She wept quietly over me and said, "You have done well." I only let the exhaustion take me, dreaming of storm clouds swept away by morning light.
By this morning, the village was uneasy but unharmed. I sat quietly under the veranda, watching sunlight melt the last clouds.
Arjun came and sat beside me. He took my hand in a way a friend might, no longer just my older brother but a comrade. We recalled how we had always tried to do right, even when others doubted.
"My gift frightened them," I said softly.
He nodded. "Truth often does."
Suddenly, I remembered their words under the oak. How ten teachers had spoken of lies as if truth was dangerous. I met Arjun's gaze. "They think me a living parable," I said. "But I cannot let lies spread under their cover."
Arjun smiled proudly. "Then do not."
I took a deep breath. Under the temple bell's gentle ring, I lifted my head. Speaking clearly, I voiced the truth I had carried: the story of the chant, and the teaching of the ten elders. My words fell into the quiet morning, steady as rain.
Village women came from behind walls to listen. Among the teachers and villagers, there was shocked silence. The chief teacher stepped forward, eyes hard.
"You know truth, boy," he said quietly, gaze softening. "But you are young."
"I am not a child," I said firmly. "If our elders are not careful with truth, what lies will our children learn?"
Those last words held the answer. The council broke into murmurs. The priest, who had taught me about Vasishtha, laid a gentle hand on the teacher's shoulder. One by one, nine more villagers stood with me.
They spoke then, not so much in anger as in quiet correction. No violence came. That day, beneath the warm sun, they named what had been hidden. The elders apologized softly, admitting that they had clung to false fears but recognized my courage.
When I finally left that gathering, afternoon sunlight on my face, I felt something new: purpose. I was still Bhadrak, the boy with the quiet truth, but now I understood why I was meant to speak.
The last monsoon rains of summer came early that year, as if the sky itself celebrated. I stood in the courtyard, rain soaking my hair and shirt. For the first time, I smiled without worry.
I had faced lies and made my choice: to be a truth weaver, not a wielder of power. The storms had passed, and I would guide our village with nothing more than sincerity and hope, one day at a time.
Three days after the council meeting, a stranger arrived. He came down from the northern mountains, where the air thins and the gods are said to walk in silence. He wore no shoes, and his robes were sun-bleached and torn by wind. On his back, he carried a small, smooth stone carved with a spiral – a symbol I had seen once before in a dream I could not name.
The villagers whispered that he was a sadhu, a holy man. But when he came directly to our hut, eyes bright and searching, I felt a twinge in my bones. Not fear. Not recognition. Something deeper – as if a memory inside me had stirred awake.
My mother offered him buttermilk and bananas, and he smiled politely. When she left us alone, he turned to me and said:
"You speak truths that grow, Bhadrak. You've earned the world's attention."
His voice was not booming, not magical. It was soft, tired, full of quiet journeys.
I sat straight. "How do you know my name?"
He chuckled gently. "You carry a name older than your birth. And your gift – it sings louder than temple bells to those who've been listening."
He told me stories then. Not the kind from scrolls or teacher's lips, but oral tales passed down by those who watch the world behind its curtain. He spoke of children in distant valleys who dreamed truths that changed their villages. Of a girl who could sing to stones and make them rise. Of a boy who saw lies as shadows behind people's heads.
And then he said this:
"There are ten across the land. Ten children gifted by fire, speech, silence, wind, echo, bone, dust, and dream. You are one."
I couldn't speak for a long moment. He watched me, calm as the evening wind.
"But why?" I asked at last. "Why me?"
The man shrugged. "Sometimes truth plants itself where no one's looking. Sometimes the soil is cracked, the sun too hot, but still the seed rises."
I felt dizzy. The spiral symbol glowed faintly in the firelight.
He stood and placed the stone on the ground between us. "Keep this. It doesn't give answers. It reminds you to keep asking."
As he turned to leave, he looked back only once. "Your voice will be tested again, Bhadrak. Not by those who hate lies – but by those who use truth like a weapon. Be ready."
And then he was gone. Into the dusk, into the trees.
That night I couldn't sleep. I kept the spiral stone near my pillow. I didn't know what test was coming or what it meant to be "one of ten," but I knew this: the story was no longer only mine.
Somewhere out there, nine others walked a path like mine. And somewhere ahead, all our truths would meet.