I was three, almost four, when I first sensed something extraordinary stirring within me. Mother had been ill for days, fever burning through her bones. One evening, as the sky bloomed purple with dusk, I whispered under my breath, "She will be well." It was a crazy thought — she was weak and fevered. Yet at dawn, her eyes fluttered open, the flush gone. I looked around, bewildered. Had it been my prayer? Did that even make sense? I felt a tremor of power — but also fear. What strange gift had I?
Father had been weeping beside her cot, frantic and helpless. When he saw her alive, he embraced her gratefully and glanced at me with wonder, murmuring, "Our child is blessed." He did not know why he said it. I kept my secret, but inside I was astonished and uneasy. All I had done was think a wish in the dark. Was it just luck, or was it something more?
I spent that day testing possibilities in my mind. Each time someone said "It will not happen," I quietly thought, "It will." When Kittu's kite was stuck in a tree, I flicked the words, "It will come down," and it fluttered down into my hand on its own. When a hungry beggar at the gate worried about no food, I imagined bowls of rice appearing, and soon neighbors shared an extra meal. No one noticed; they were accustomed to small miracles of hospitality here. But I noticed.
Lying in bed that night, I felt both powerful and terrified. Was I bending reality now? What if someone discovered? I vowed silence, but I could not deny: the whisper in my heart might truly weave truth into life.