They named him Hari—a name that meant light, hope, and the warmth of morning sun after a long, dark night.
Mrudhula had chosen it. She believed it was the kind of name the gods would whisper when blessing a child with a second chance. Ravi agreed, even though he didn't understand why the boy's presence filled their home with a peace he hadn't felt in years.
Hari grew under open skies and golden fields. Their home stood on the edge of a small village nestled between two hills, where every morning began with the low hum of cattle and the smell of wet soil. It wasn't a grand place—but it was full of life, laughter, and the scent of tamarind trees swaying in the wind.
As a toddler, Hari would crawl barefoot through the furrows of tilled land, chasing dragonflies with clumsy fingers and giggling at the way sunlight danced on puddles. By the time he could walk, he was helping Mrudhula sort grains in the courtyard and watching Ravi guide the oxen through the fields. He didn't speak much, but his eyes were always wide—observing, absorbing.
The villagers loved him. Even those who never had children of their own would often call him over and hand him sweets or sit him on their lap just to listen to the quiet boy hum tunes while staring at clouds. "There's something calm about him," they'd say. "Something… different."
And there was.
Hari never got sick. Not once. He never feared snakes, never cried when scratched by brambles, and once, when lightning struck a tree near the fields, every child ran away screaming—except Hari, who stood still, staring at the fire as if it were an old friend.
But Ravi and Mrudhula never made much of it. To them, he was their son—nothing more, nothing less.
As he grew older, Hari began to carry water pots, feed animals, and run barefoot across fields with other children. He would laugh freely, wrestle in the dirt, and come home with cuts and bruises that faded overnight. His body grew strong from working the land, and his heart grew soft from being loved deeply.
In the late evenings, he would sit beside Mrudhula as she churned curd, or beside Ravi while the old man repaired broken tools. He listened more than he spoke, but when he did speak—it was with a strange clarity that caught people off guard.
By the age of seven, Hari could recite every folk tale the village elders told, mimic the calls of birds from across the valley, and predict rain before the skies showed a hint of gray.
But sometimes… in the quiet hours before dawn, when even the cows were silent and the wind didn't move, Hari would wake up from dreams—his heart pounding, his skin hot, and the smell of smoke lingering faintly in the air.
He wouldn't remember the dream.
Only that it made him feel like something vast and ancient was watching him from somewhere far away… or perhaps from deep within.