The morning sun had barely climbed the horizon when Anand set out again, leaving behind the comforting ashram and the friendly village that had been his brief refuge. The path stretched ahead, winding through gentle slopes and rising hills that shimmered in the early light. The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of wildflowers, earth, and the distant smoke of morning fires from scattered villages.
Anand trudged along, feeling each step in his legs as though his body were reminding him it had walked too many miles in the last few days. His bag swung lightly against his back, the amulet Satyaka had tied around his wrist brushing occasionally against his forearm.
Despite the beauty surrounding him—the fluttering of birds from tree to tree, the soft glimmer of sunlight on leaves, the occasional butterflies darting across the path—he felt a creeping fatigue and a dull, nagging boredom that no amount of scenery could banish.
He recalled the journey from its beginning. Three weeks had passed since leaving the ashram, yet each day carried its own trials. He had started the trip with eagerness, almost bouncing along the uneven paths.
He had wanted to see everything, learn everything, and push himself to explore as much as possible. Every slope, every hill, every bend in the path had been a challenge to conquer with a spring in his step.
Satyaka had remained as stoic as ever, walking silently beside him, offering only brief confirmations when Anand spoke. Conversations had been short—sometimes stilted, sometimes corrected mid-thought—but even that had felt preferable to walking in total silence. Still, even those interactions were fading into routine now, replaced by the monotony of the road stretching endlessly ahead.
At night, they had found shelter wherever they could. Sometimes in small villages, where kind strangers offered them food and a bed. Other nights, they had slept in the open, beneath trees whose branches swayed gently in the wind.
Anand had grown adept at foraging for fruits in the forest, balancing the occasional meal offered by villagers with what he could find for himself. He remembered the comfort of the previous night's ashram, where he had been given a proper meal and a soft place to sleep. That memory now felt distant, almost like a dream.
By the fifth day, his motivation had plummeted. Every step felt like a battle. Every slope seemed steeper than it had been yesterday. The sun beat down, sweat soaked his brow, and fatigue tugged at every muscle in his body. His mind wandered to doubts, and boredom wrapped around him like a heavy cloak. For the first time since leaving the ashram, Anand considered stopping altogether.
He shook his head. "No… I can't do that," he muttered aloud. "I need… something. Motivation. Just one… song. That's it."
He pulled his phone from his bag. The device had become a rare luxury in this time and place, a small tether to a world he barely recognized anymore. He had amassed a large collection of songs before leaving, but today he needed something specific—something that would push him forward, keep him moving, keep him alive in energy if not in body.
He scrolled through the collection until he found what he wanted: a thirty-minute playlist of Arijit Singh's songs. He smiled faintly, feeling a spark of familiarity and comfort in the thought of it. "Just this," he murmured. "Walk. Listen. Sing. Finish the playlist, then I'll be fine."
He pressed play.
The soft strains of the first song floated out, and Anand began walking again. He sang along quietly at first, then louder as the melody carried him forward. The rhythmic cadence of the music lifted his spirits, filling his chest with energy he hadn't realized had been missing.
He felt the boredom lift, replaced by a rhythm that matched his footsteps. Hills became challenges to overcome rather than obstacles. Slopes were nothing more than notes in the song of his journey. The road no longer felt endless; it felt alive.
The music played continuously, moving from one song to the next, thirty minutes of lyrical beauty and melodic intensity. By the time the final track, Shayad, ended, the path had fallen silent once more. The last note faded into the distance, but the energy remained with him.
He closed the device, taking a deep breath, and began singing the song to himself, letting the melody carry him forward, step by step, word by word.
And then—the sudden voice.
"Why?
Why did you stop it?
It was going so well! Why did you stop it?
Why won't you keep playing it?
The sounds… they were so beautiful. The emotions… so bare… you could feel them. Why? Why have you stopped it? Why?"
Anand froze. His heart skipped a beat. The voice was so sudden, so urgent, that it almost felt like it had come from the wind itself. He turned sharply, scanning the forested path ahead.
There, standing with a grace that seemed almost otherworldly, was a man.
He wore a yellow dhoti, a simple shawl of the same hue draped across his chest, and a sacred thread across his upper body. Prayer beads hung from his wrist, his hair tied neatly in a topknot. Across his shoulder rested a veena, supported effortlessly by one hand, angled just enough to suggest readiness, poise, and a strange elegance that seemed effortless. His presence was both startling and serene.
Anand tilted his head, confused. "Who… who are you?" he asked, his voice careful. "And… what are you talking about?"
He immediately followed with a polite cough, realizing his words might have been abrupt. "I… I apologize for asking so rudely. I just… it came to mind without thinking. May I ask your name?"
The figure smiled faintly, as if amused by the sudden caution. "I am a traveling musician," he said. "Narada."
Something clicked in Anand's mind. The barrage of questions, the urgency, the intensity—they were all about the songs. The music.
"I… I see," Anand said slowly. He hesitated, conflicted, and then explained carefully. "The device… it can only be played for a certain time. If played too long, it stops working, and there is no one in this world who can repair it. That's why I didn't play longer. I had to… save it. Use it sparingly."
Narada's eyes reflected a hint of disappointment, but he nodded in understanding. "I see," he said. "It is… prudent, then."
The questions began again, each one rapid-fire. "What is the name of the song? Who is the singer? What instrument is played? What… is this device?"
Anand took a deep breath, preparing for the onslaught, and answered carefully. "The song… is Shayad. The singer… Arijit Singh. The lyricist… Irshad Kamil. And the musician… Pritam."
Narada's eyes sparkled with curiosity. "Lyricist… singer… but you said Pritam is the musician?"
"Yes," Anand said patiently. "Irshad wrote the words, the lyrics, for the song. Pritam created the music, the melody, that would carry those words. And Arijit… he sang it. All together, they made something truly beautiful. Each of them contributed their talent to create it, so it could be heard and felt."
Narada nodded thoughtfully, as if absorbing the reasoning. "Indeed," he said. "Talented ones can make something great together. Thank you for allowing me to hear this song."
Anand felt a wave of humility wash over him. "It… it's my pleasure," he said quietly.
Narada tilted his head, a soft smile forming. "Where are you headed, traveler?"
"To… Ayodhya," Anand replied humbly. "I am traveling to see the city, the people… to learn I guess."
Narada's smile widened. "Ah… Ayodhya. I am traveling there as well. Would you… like to travel together?"
Anand hesitated. He was wary—this was a stranger, after all—but something about Narada's demeanor, his gentle presence, and the veena across his shoulder suggested no ill intent. After a moment, Anand nodded. "Alright," he said. "We can travel together."
Narada's smile broadened, and he adjusted his veena. "Then let us walk, friend. The road awaits, and Ayodhya is not so close as to be reached without companionship."
The two began walking together, side by side. Anand felt a strange energy as Narada hummed softly, the notes of some unseen melody trailing behind him. His own step seemed lighter, his burden less.
The path ahead remained long. Slopes would rise, rivers would cross, forests would stretch endlessly. But now, with the music lingering in his mind and Narada at his side, the journey felt… possible.
Anand sighed, a mixture of relief and anticipation. Ayodhya still lay ahead, almost at the end of the journey or more depending on the challenges of the road. But for the first time in many days, he felt that familiar spark—the one that had driven him from the ashram, the one that pushed him to see the world for himself.
He adjusted his bag, took a deep breath, and continued walking.
The road stretched ahead, endless yet inviting. And with music, companionship, and purpose, Anand took each step forward, letting the journey itself become part of the song.