Every day I walked the fine line between two realities. By sunlight, I was the simple Shudra boy, serving my family and absorbing lessons of nature. By moonlight, I was a city scholar pondering ethics and destiny. I started keeping small accounts: grains I needed, favors done, knowledge stored like memory jewels. I imagined scenarios: if I wished for gold, would it appear? I dared not try — the balance felt sacred, meant only for small truths, not grand wishes.
But sometimes the urge grew too strong. When the local moneylender cheated my father's herd in a trade, I caught his lie and thought, "Let justice prevail." Coins I'd hidden by my bed streamed onto the table overnight. The moneylender's eyes widened, but he blamed a bargain — he would never know otherwise. I felt guilt and pride entwined; my family had bread for weeks, but at what unseen price?
Schoolwise, nothing had changed: I still helped pour water when Brahmins taught, learning from scraps of their lessons. But I sensed they avoided looking at me directly now, as if unsure of my skill. Once the teacher announced, "No Shudra shall write the Vedas," and I quietly argued, "All men breathe truth," to myself. When I woke up, I found a single lesson sketch in the sand with my mother's name — I had written it in my sleep. They called it a miracle; I called it a clue: even if they forbid me, I was capable of writing the very truths they held sacred.
On foggy mornings I crept into the forest, testing not magic but maths. I tracked my footsteps home exactly, even as a child was expected to get lost. The birds sang in languages I once knew; I began to decipher their morning calls. In these hidden moments, each discovery assured me: I could survive between these worlds, slowly turning the gears behind fate's screen.