The sun had returned full force. In the field of ripening millet, I helped my father scatter seed. The rhythmic clatter of his work was a tune I hummed along to. The air smelled of sun-baked earth and sandalwood from the shrine up the road. Our village danced with insect life.
My mother called out that evening, "Come eat." I realized I had sketched lines in the dust at my feet, wondering about the seeds of truth. My heart was full of questions. One of them had been: Are there others like me?
That night a traveling merchant came, eyes round as marbles, carrying a frogskin drum on his back. He spoke of a child in another village who could also feel hidden things. "He guessed a thief in the night," the merchant said with a chuckle. His campfire flickered as he strummed a sitar. "Miracles are commoner than men think," he said between songs.
I listened. The crackling of fire mixed with his tales of gods and mortals. Something about the moonlit way he described that other child's gift made me warm. Perhaps I was not unique in this strange journey.
After the musician left, the cicadas slowed their song. I lay on the cool ground outside our hut, eyes closed. If he can help the sick with a whisper, maybe the truth can heal the angry heart too, I thought. I made a promise: I would continue to use my gift, but always for mercy, never for pride.