They say time drowns all dangers, but in the reflection of that old lake…. lives the friend he could not keep safe.
~~~~~
Once, centuries ago — long before the world with phones and wires — KaanKuwar had a friend. It was somewhere in the 1500s, in a small Himachali town called Pulga, where pine-laden winds whispered to the lake he called home.
Few came near the lake.
Some said a monster lives in its depths, others claimed a god kept watch beneath its mirrored surface.To the villagers, the line between blessing and curse was too thin to cross.
Yet a man, only him, not at all afraid, used to come to that lake's bank every afternoon, a bundle of food in hand, resting after long hours of labour beneath the sun. From the water's depths, KaanKuwar would watch him.
One day, while wandering through the village in human form, KaanKuwar saw an elderly couple struggling uphill with heavy sacks. Without hesitation, he took the burden from their frail arms and carried it to his shoulders. The man from the lake — the one he had watched from afar — happened to see this.
Later, when KaanKuwar returned to the water's edge, the man was there, chewing slowly, his gaze fixed on him.
"Oh… you," he said, a bite still in his mouth. "You're the one who helped that old couple, aren't you?"
KaanKuwar said nothing.
"Come here." The man patted the earth beside him.
KaanKuwar walked over in unhurried steps and sat down.
"I haven't seen you in this village before. Are you new?" the man asked.
KaanKuwar nodded.
"So… where are you living?"
The dragon hesitated, cleared his throat. "In the west, near the statue."
"Hmm." The man's eyes studied him for a moment before softening. "Want some?" He held out the meal.
KaanKuwar accepted, biting tentatively — and then his eyes widened. His face lit up with a boyish wonder.
"Why do you look so surprised? Haven't you eaten this before?" the man asked.
He didn't answer.
"Here, have more," the man said, smiling.
KaanKuwar obeyed gladly. He had truly never tasted anything like it.
While they ate, the man said casually, "You don't live near the statue. I know every house there, every family in this village."
KaanKuwar froze. "Well… I'm only here for a day or two. Came from a nearby village," he said.
"Which one?"
"A village nearby… Why so many questions? Are you a spy?" KaanKuwar asked.
The man chuckled. "No. I just… don't tell me you're homeless." His gaze flicked over KaanKuwar's faded, threadbare clothes — the same ones KaanKuwar had worn for years whenever he walked the land as a man.
"I'm not homeless," KaanKuwar said firmly.
The next day, the man returned to his lunch spot. Hidden beneath the lake's surface, KaanKuwar watched — and remembered the taste of yesterday's food. Desire drew him to the shore again.
Shifting into human form, still in the same worn clothes, he approached quietly until the man noticed.
"Hey, you…"
KaanKuwar waved and sat beside him, glancing at the food. The man caught his look and smiled, offering some.
The first bite made KaanKuwar's eyes sparkle even more than before.
"Don't tell me you've never had this either. It's so common here," the man said, curious now. KaanKuwar was unlike anyone he had met — wearing the same clothes every day, ignorant of simple village dishes, vague about where he lived. He must be homeless, the man thought. But how could a homeless man carry such radiance in his face, such quiet cleanliness in the way he moved? But he didn't bother to ask.
Day after day, they met at the lake. The man began to wait for KaanKuwar at lunch.
One day, as they rested on the bank, the man tore off a piece of bread and handed it to him.
"You know," he said, "I've been calling you 'hey' in my head. That won't do. What's your name?"
"KaanKuwar," he replied after a pause.
The man smiled. "I'm Mohan."
KaanKuwar repeated it quietly, as if testing the shape of the word.
Their bond grew stronger, as they used to meet every day.
Sometimes Mohan spoke; sometimes they simply watched the sunlight ripple over the water. Once, Mohan shared a sweet jaggery chapati; another time, KaanKuwar surprised him by naming every bird that called from the trees.
One afternoon, the man brought him new clothes. He took him to the market — a noisy maze of colours and smells — and guided him through the stalls. It was all strange to KaanKuwar, yet he found himself enjoying it, enjoying him.
It was the first time KaanKuwar had befriended a human — the first time he felt the warmth of a human company outside the solitude of the lake. They laughed together, shared small stories, sat in easy silence.
Mohan never pressed him for more answers. Over time, he realised KaanKuwar was different. He had noticed how KaanKuwar always seemed to appear at just the right moment — never a second early, never a moment late. It was as if he had been waiting just out of sight. He never asked why he came from nowhere, never questioned why he seemed both part of the village and apart from it. He simply accepted him. And that acceptance felt… rare. Precious.
KaanKuwar liked being with him. Mohan was someone who had brought him clothes when he had none, who had fed him food richer than anything he had tasted, who had laughed with him. He is a demigod…. he had no need for food or clothing. Yet these small acts — born of kindness rather than necessity — were precious to him. They were proof of a bond freely given, not demanded. He loved Mohan as a brother, and in his company felt at home. And he could see that Mohan, too, found peace on that lakeshore — sitting shoulder to shoulder with a quiet stranger who had become a brother in all but blood.