There are rivers that flow across the land, carrying water from mountains to oceans, and then there are rivers that flow within the heart—quiet, persistent, and unyielding. The Yamunā did both.
I sat that morning beside its shimmering expanse, not far from the place where the eldest sons of noblemen bathed under the eyes of their tutors. From the shade of a leaning fig tree, I watched the glint of spears and the soft flutter of silken robes. The world across the river was gilded by privilege—clean-shaven heads oiled and disciplined, brows marked by wisdom and war.
On my side, the grass grew wild and the wind carried smoke from low-caste cooking fires. My fingernails were packed with the soil I had dug to plant turmeric bulbs. I smelled of ash and goat's milk. The river marked more than a geographic divide. It cleaved destinies.
I had crossed the Yamunā only once before, when I was younger and clung to my father's shawl during a festival. But even then, I sensed the current could not be escaped—only endured. What I did not realize at the time was that I had been crossing subtler rivers every day since my rebirth.
A fish broke the surface near the bank, sending out ripples that reached me like a coded message. I did not look away.
Behind me, Kittu whistled tunelessly as he tried to untangle his slingshot from the folds of his dhoti. He was only a year younger than me but had none of my preoccupations. He could speak to buffaloes as if they were cousins and argue with bees like a barterer. I loved him, though he never understood the silence I wrapped around myself like a shawl.
"Are you thinking again, Bhadrak?" he called, laughing. "That river's not going to write back, you know."
I said nothing. Not because I had no reply, but because words sometimes felt too small for the thoughts I carried.
Kittu gave up and sat beside me, munching on roasted chickpeas wrapped in a banana leaf. "What did Master Hari say today? Will he teach us about eclipses or punish us with sweeping again?"
I shook my head. "He said the Kauravas are returning soon. From Drona's camp."
Kittu's eyes widened. "The princes? Here? Why?"
"To perform a ritual for the temple priest's son. The boy was bitten by a cobra, but they say the gods spared him."
"He must be very lucky."
"Or very important," I murmured.
Luck was a strange word. In the village, it was used like turmeric—applied quickly to soothe wounds. But I had begun to suspect luck was another name for power in disguise. And power, in this world, traveled with lineage, coin, or blessings not visible to the eye.
I did not tell Kittu that I had already seen one of the Kauravas days earlier, during a foraging errand. The boy—tall, broad-shouldered, with eyes like a lion in repose—had been inspecting cattle near the outer enclosures. He had spoken dismissively of their quality.
He had not noticed me beneath the neem tree.
But I had noticed him—and more importantly, what he represented.
Duryodhana. The name rippled through whispered conversations and overheard legends. Stronger than Bhima, fiercer than Arjuna, they said. Others called him cruel, proud, and dangerous. But none called him dull. I wanted to understand him not as a prince, but as a shape in the puzzle of dharma I was still assembling.
That night, as the stars bloomed like silver blossoms above, I lay staring at the thatched ceiling of our hut. The smoke from the dying hearth curled in lazy spirals. My mother's snores were soft. My father murmured prayers in his sleep. Kittu kicked the wall gently, dreaming of mangoes or perhaps a duel with a snake.
And I remained awake.
Not out of fear, but preparation.
I had decided to cross the river again.
The next day, I offered to carry water to the priests. It was not a common request for one of my caste, but I had developed a knack for offering help without seeming ambitious. I had learned that in this world, true rebellion often began as obedience.
The boatman did not question me as I boarded, only glanced at my bundle and asked for two cowrie shells.
On the opposite bank, I walked slowly through the courtyards of the temple district, head bowed, eyes lowered. The sacred loam felt different beneath my soles—less like soil, more like protocol.
I found the ritual already in progress. The injured boy lay beneath a saffron canopy, forehead anointed with ash and turmeric. Priests chanted in overlapping cadences. Incense coiled like serpent smoke around the shrine.
And near the edge, watching with the intensity of a hungry wolf, stood the boy I recognized—Duryodhana.
He was not dressed as a prince. His garments were modest, and his arms bore the marks of training. He held a staff, not for ceremony, but for readiness. As I approached with the water urn, our eyes met for the briefest instant.
Something passed between us. Recognition, perhaps not of faces, but of thought.
I did not look away. He did.
That was when I knew I had chosen the right day to cross the river.
Later, I lingered near the back of the temple, pretending to clean a copper urn. The procession had ended. The crowd dispersed. Duryodhana remained behind, flanked by two guards, both younger than him but more richly adorned.
He was speaking to a priest. "The cobra was not ordinary," he said. "Its eyes were too still."
The priest smiled nervously. "Even death has its rules, my prince. The gods can bend them."
"But who decides which deaths are spared?" Duryodhana asked, voice quiet.
I felt the question strike deep inside me.
The priest bowed and changed the subject.
As the trio turned to leave, one of the guards paused to ask the way to a grove. I stepped forward, pointing with unfeigned calm.
"Straight past the stone platform, then east where the banyan roots rise like knuckles."
Duryodhana's eyes flicked toward me again.
"You're not a servant of the temple," he said, more as an observation than a question.
I bowed. "No, Prince. But I bring water when needed."
He studied me, then nodded once.
"What is your name?"
"Bhadrak."
"From which family?"
I hesitated. Then said, "From the side of the river that sleeps less."
His brow rose. But he said no more. And they walked on.
In the days that followed, the memory of that brief exchange lingered like the scent of burnt ghee—faint, acrid, and oddly comforting.
What had I meant? I was not sure. Only that on my side of the river, life did not allow dreams. We could not afford to sleep as long, hope as freely, or pray as loudly. We had to stay awake—in body, in mind, in awareness.
And now, someone like Duryodhana knew my name.
It meant nothing. And yet, it meant everything.
Because a thread had been spun.
Weeks passed. The Kauravas returned to their formal quarters. I heard from the potter's guild that Duryodhana had spoken in the assembly, criticizing the temple's use of funds. Others said he had offered a bull to a poor farmer, breaking caste expectations.
He was not simple, this prince. Not merely cruel, as stories often claimed. He was dangerous because he did not always follow the rules—and yet had the strength to redefine them.
I began to wonder: Could such a boy become ally or enemy?
It was a childish thought, perhaps. I was still only ten.
But childhood in my world did not last long.
One moonless evening, as I sat writing figures in the dirt behind our hut, I heard a rustle behind me.
A man stood there, cloaked in common cotton. His beard was short, eyes sharp. I recognized him as one of the guards from that day near the temple.
"You are Bhadrak?"
I nodded, heart beating slowly but loud.
"My master has remembered you. He asks: Would you carry word to a sage near the southern bend of the Yamunā?"
I did not ask why me. I only said, "Yes."
He handed me a scroll, bound with black twine. No seal.
"Do not open it. Do not read it aloud."
"I understand."
He vanished before my mother could ask who had come.
I made the journey before dawn. The sage—older than any man I had seen—sat beneath a tree with a blindfold over his eyes. When I placed the scroll before him, he did not touch it. Only nodded.
"The one who sent you," he said, "has shadows too large for his own feet. But his intentions are not yet poison."
I did not ask how he knew.
He added, "You too will wear shadows one day. But you must let your shadow fall behind you, not ahead."
I thought long about that.
By the time I returned, the river seemed changed.
It shimmered as always, but now I could feel its watching.
As if it knew my footsteps had traced paths that were no longer entirely a child's.
That night, I lay under the sky, arms behind my head, thinking not of spells or divine power—but of networks.
Networks of words, of glances, of favors.
Webs that were beginning to grow around me without my needing to lie.
I had not used my gift in weeks. Yet I felt more powerful than ever.
Because power, I realized, could be gathered in silence—like water behind a dam.
And someday, that water would be released.
The Yamunā did not sleep. And neither, truly, did I.