Devkahar was not just a village—it was a living rhythm, a breath in sync with nature. Here, time didn't rush. It walked, barefoot and unhurried, through fields of swaying grain and under the shade of banyan trees older than empires. The mornings arrived gently, dressed in golden sunlight that filtered through palm leaves and kissed the earth awake. And each evening was a painting, soaked in hues of amber and wine, with the sun folding itself behind the distant hills like a secret.
Children ran wild through muddy paths and paddy fields, laughter clinging to the wind like prayers. Buffaloes bathed lazily in the stream, birds sang songs that only the old trees seemed to understand, and the scent of wet earth mixed with incense from household shrines.
Shaurya Malhan had grown in the heart of this rhythm.
A New Face in His World
And then came Raveena, the daughter of Bhairav Nanda. Her skin bore the golden warmth of the earth, her eyes sparkled like river stones, and her hair danced freely in the wind like uncut silk. She had an irreverent curiosity, the kind that made even wise elders pause when she asked, "Why do people lie to themselves?"
She met Shaurya on the third day after his arrival, beneath the old neem tree by the village square.
"You're not from around here," she said with an easy grin, hands behind her back, rocking on her heels.
Shaurya, still guarded, stared at the dirt. "I am now."
That was enough for her.
From then on, she was everywhere. She dragged him to see the sunrise over the eastern ridge. She made him wade through the shallow river to catch fish with bare hands. She whispered legends about forest spirits and challenged him to races across grain fields.
Shaurya resisted at first—but she was stubborn. Her presence became like wind: impossible to ignore, sometimes irritating, but always refreshing. Over time, he laughed more. He fell down, and this time, didn't cry. He smiled without realizing it.
And though neither of them knew it yet, Raveena's admiration was already blooming—an innocent, unspoken affection. She didn't know what drew her to the boy with eyes too deep for his age. Only that she wanted to be near him, always.
Few months have passed,
He had matured in body and mind. His gaze had grown steadier, his footsteps firmer. The awkwardness of being an outsider, the boy from a fallen noble family, had slowly faded. Though a few still whispered, casting glances heavy with memory, most had come to accept him as their own. With Naren always nearby—his constant shadow, rival, and friend—Shaurya began to laugh more, live more. He joined the other children, racing through fields, climbing the ancient banyan trees whose roots twisted like sleeping serpents, or folding paper boats and setting them afloat down the slow-moving stream that curved past the village.
And on one such day, when the monsoon had arrived with its drumbeats of rain, the peacocks began their dance. Twin jewels of Devkahar, they spun with tails spread wide—iridescent blues and greens flashing like the banners of forgotten kingdoms. Shaurya stood in silence, watching them through the mist and rain, mesmerized. There was something about their grace—proud and unbending—that stirred something ancient within him.
As the rain sang its lullaby to the land, the village carried on. Men and women, sun-browned and sinewy, returned home from the fields with sickles slung over shoulders and quiet strength in their eyes. Each face told a story—of struggle, survival, and the unbroken pride of those who belonged to the land.
Within their wooden home on the village's edge, a new light flickered—soft, gentle, and pure.
Isha Malhan, Shaurya's mother, moved through the house like a calm breeze—her footsteps lighter, her eyes brighter. And then, on a morning wrapped in the hush of rainfall, a cry pierced the silence.
The cry of new life.
A girl. Shaurya's sister.
They named her Saumya, meaning gentle. And true to her name, her arrival brought gentleness back into a home that had known too much fire and ash. Her tiny fists flailed in the air like spells not yet cast, and her laughter—fragile and sudden—dispelled the last remnants of shadow from their hearts.
For the first time in many years, the Malhan home was full again.