The attack in Beijing had been chaos—shouts, gunfire, smoke. In the middle of it all, little Mukul had clung to his mother's hand. Then came the blast. A push, a scream, darkness.
When he opened his eyes again, there was no mother, no family. Only the sharp sting of salt on his lips and the endless roar of waves. His small body lay on wet sand near a wide sea bay. The air smelled of brine and smoke, and his head throbbed from where he had fallen.
"Maa?" His tiny voice cracked, but only the cry of gulls answered.
Confused and trembling, Mukul tried to stand. The world swayed. He pressed his fists into his eyes, wishing it was a dream. But the cold water licking his feet told him otherwise.
Then, from somewhere beyond the rocks, came a sound—low and guttural, like the growl of an animal. His breath caught. At five years old, his courage was fragile, and fear rushed in like the tide. Heart pounding, he staggered back. His feet slipped on the slick stones, and he tumbled into the water.
The current dragged him away from the bay. He flailed, coughing, choking on salt water. His small hands clawed desperately until they caught something—an old, broken wooden pole floating by. Hugging it tightly, he let the sea carry him. Tears mixed with seawater as exhaustion closed over him. Slowly, his eyelids fell.
Darkness claimed him once more.
When Mukul finally woke, the world was different. The sound of crashing waves was louder, closer. His cheek pressed against warm sand, and above him stretched a blindingly blue sky. He sat up slowly, every muscle aching. The pole that had saved him lay nearby, half-buried in the tide.
He turned his head. The place was unlike anything he had ever seen. A deserted island—thick with palm trees, vines curling around their trunks, and strange birds darting overhead. The air buzzed with life, yet no human voices called to him.
Mukul's throat tightened. "Mama… Papa… anyone?" His call scattered the birds into the sky, but no answer came.
He tried to be brave, but his small body shook. The sand was hot under his feet as he wandered along the shore, leaving tiny footprints that the tide quickly erased. He picked up a seashell, turning it in his hand as though it could comfort him. For the first time in his short life, there were no cousins chasing him, no grandparents to lift him, no sister to scold him. Just silence.
As evening crept in, the island glowed orange under the sinking sun. Hunger twisted in his stomach, but all he found were coconuts lying under the trees. He remembered watching Anand once crack one open at the villa. With trembling hands, Mukul dragged a small rock against the husk. The juice that spilled tasted strange but sweet, and he gulped it desperately.
The night was harder. The forest came alive with noises—chirps, rustles, far-off cries that echoed like monsters in the dark. Mukul curled up under a tree, clutching his knees. His sketchbook of stars, soaked and torn, had been lost to the sea. That thought broke him, and silent tears slipped down his cheeks.
He whispered into the dark, "Dadu said the sky has guardians. Please… send one to me."
Above, the stars shone bright, the same seven he always drew. He stared at them until sleep finally claimed him.
When dawn broke, Mukul awoke to the sound of waves again, his hair tangled with sand. The island stretched endlessly before him—mysterious, frightening, yet strangely alive. Though fear still gripped him, a small spark flickered in his chest. He was lost, yes, but not broken.
And somewhere deep within, as the sea breeze brushed his face, he felt it—the stars were watching.
This was not the end. It was only the beginning.