Time carried me forward like a river in flood. Each day my body grew sturdier and my mind grew restless with knowledge that few here could grasp. By the time I was two, I spoke in short sentences that astonished my parents. They smiled when I asked questions they did not expect, like naming five grains by sight or counting the cattle in our field faster than any herder. I could recite five prayers long before I understood their meaning. Still, to the villagers I was just a sweet, quiet child who helped at chores and fell asleep by dusk.
One morning I crawled with my brother Kittu to the edge of the temple courtyard, curious about the commotion inside. A group of high-caste boys strode past after a prayer, and one tall boy turned to me with a sneer. "Stay back, Shudra dog!" he spat, kicking at dust. Kittu pressed me close. My father, standing nearby, laid a hand on my shoulder and whispered a soft word. Inside me something burned — shame, anger, and confusion. I wanted to cry out, but the only sound was my quiet whimper. My father carried me home, murmuring a prayer for protection, and I realized fully the walls between our worlds.
My mind often drifted to questions no child should ask. I was a village boy to everyone around me, but inside I had memories of libraries and strangers. During temple rituals I would hum softly to myself, surprised when the villagers said I had chanted an old verse from Sanskrit. The elders nodded knowingly and declared I was chosen by fate, but I only felt scared of betraying my secret knowledge. A wandering sage once spoke of karma and rebirth as I hid behind a pillar; I strained to catch his meaning. Could I have lived before, as they said? It made no sense, and I hardly dared to think it. My parents never explained, treating me like any child, but I kept my wonder locked inside.
Still, I learned at every turn. In silence I made the world my classroom. I helped the potter collect clay to watch how the wheel spun, recognizing patterns I had seen in math. I tied bundles of straw for the smith, using the chance to ask quietly why some metals glowed red and others did not. I offered to herd our sheep in the hills so I could see the land's layout from above. None of it felt like play to me; it was gathering tools of understanding. Each act of help filled me with a little knowledge and a little hope.
At night I listened to tales the older children told. They spoke of princes and heroes I'd only read about in my old books: the Pandava brothers living in exile beyond these hills. I recognized the names Bhima and Arjuna and pointed out details they had wrong. They scratched their heads at the Shudra boy who knew so much about distant kings. I even made a cautious friend of one kind boy, Ishaan, who shared his sweet wheat cake with me when others wouldn't. But even friendship seemed gilded here — I knew Ishaan could someday ride as a warrior, and I would likely remain in the shadows. For now I reveled in these small connections that made me feel less alone.
As I approached my third birthday, I understood more of my place and yet felt even more out of place. I helped milk the goats each dawn and returned to bed each night thinking of algorithms. I often stood at our hut's door under the inky sky, feeling the cool breeze on my cheek and staring at a single bright star. Was my fate written in the heavens? I whispered to it sometimes, promised silently that I would not be bound by the roles written by birth. Inside me stood a boy for this village and a man who remembered another life, locked in silent truce. I had learned patience and obedience, but I kept that promise close as armor against these quiet days.
Nature became my silent teacher. I watched how a single seed would multiply into countless stalks of grain, feeding us through the year. Even a small idea in my mind felt capable of growing and helping others. I promised to nurture these thoughts quietly.
I was learning to be patient, to observe where others did not. Each day I grew a little stronger in heart. Even if they did not realize it, I was weaving the first threads of my destiny from the fabric of these two worlds.