The mountain beside Anantpur was not tall enough to be called majestic, nor steep enough to frighten travelers, yet it stood apart from the village like a quiet observer. Its lower slopes were gentle, covered in grass, scattered rocks, and a few stubborn trees that had learned how to survive thin soil and strong winds.
About four hundred meters above the village, along a narrow, winding path, stood a small house.
It was simple—stone walls, a wooden door, and a sloping roof repaired more times than anyone could remember. The path leading to it was well-trodden, proof that the house was not abandoned nor forgotten. People walked it often, though never without purpose.
This was where Vikram lived.
And every morning, before the sun fully rose above the hills, laughter echoed from that house.
"Papa!"
The voice was small, excited, and loud enough to cut through the calm of dawn.
Vikram stepped out of the house, tightening the cloth around his shoulders just in time to see a tiny figure stumble out after him.
Krishna, barely three years old, ran forward on unsteady legs, arms spread wide as if the world itself might rush to embrace him.
"Slow down," Vikram said calmly, already moving closer.
Krishna ignored him completely.
The boy tripped over a stone, fell onto the dirt, and rolled once. For a heartbeat, Vikram tensed—then relaxed as Krishna burst into laughter, face dusty, eyes shining.
"I fell!" Krishna announced proudly.
"Yes, I noticed," Vikram replied, lifting him with practiced ease. He brushed dirt from the child's knees and hands, checking for scrapes. Finding none, he set Krishna down again.
Krishna immediately ran off once more.
Vikram watched him with quiet focus. He did not shout again. He knew it wouldn't help. Children learned better by falling, laughing, and standing up again.
After a simple breakfast, Vikram took Krishna by the hand and began the walk down the mountain path toward the village. The path curved gently, offering a wide view of Anantpur below. Smoke rose from cooking fires, and the faint sounds of morning life—voices, footsteps, animals—floated upward.
Krishna pointed excitedly at everything.
"Papa! Bird!"
"Yes."
"Papa! Smoke!"
"That's from cooking."
"Papa, big rock!"
Vikram answered every time, even when Krishna repeated the same question twice. Sometimes, he lifted the boy onto his shoulders so Krishna could see farther, higher, wider.
The village welcomed them without ceremony.
"Good morning, Vikram."
"Careful on the path today."
"Krishna's awake early again, I see."
Krishna waved at everyone, even strangers, his smile wide and fearless. Some villagers bent down to greet him, ruffling his hair or offering him small fruits. Others simply nodded as they passed.
To them, Vikram was not a mystery.
He was not treated as a hero, nor as someone dangerous. He was simply Vikram—a man who worked, spoke little, and raised his son with steady patience. A few elders watched him with eyes that knew more than they said, but even they offered no special treatment.
Respect, not reverence.
Krishna spent his mornings wandering the village under Vikram's watchful eye. Sometimes he sat by the well, dropping pebbles into the water and clapping when they splashed. Sometimes he followed the village cattle, laughing whenever one snorted or flicked its tail. Other times, he sat beneath the peepal tree with the elders, legs swinging as he listened to conversations he barely understood.
He didn't need to understand them.
He liked the sound of voices. He liked the rhythm of stories, even when they were only half-stories—memories, complaints, jokes. Whenever someone spoke loudly or dramatically, Krishna clapped, earning laughter from everyone around.
"Your boy brings life with him," an old man said once, watching Krishna chase his own shadow.
Vikram only nodded.
By afternoon, Krishna's energy finally faded. He leaned against Vikram's leg, eyes drooping, and soon fell asleep in his arms. Vikram sat still, letting time pass, ignoring the stiffness creeping into his limbs. The village moved around him, but he remained unmoving until Krishna woke naturally.
In the evening, father and son began the walk back up the mountain.
The climb was slower than the descent. Krishna insisted on stopping every few steps.
"Papa, flower."
"Papa, bug."
"Papa, I tired."
Vikram eventually lifted him again, carrying him the rest of the way. The village grew smaller below them as the sky turned orange and gold.
Their house greeted them with silence.
Vikram prepared dinner while Krishna sat nearby, playing with smooth stones he had collected during the day. He stacked them carefully, tongue sticking out in concentration, then knocked them over with delight.
Night came gently.
After eating, Vikram stepped outside with Krishna and sat on the low stone ledge near their door. The air was cool, the sky clear. From this height, the village lights looked like scattered stars of their own.
Krishna lay on his back, staring upward.
"Papa," he said softly.
"Yes?"
He pointed. "Lights."
"Those are stars."
Krishna stared at them for a long time. Then he smiled.
"They're nice."
"Yes," Vikram said. "They are."
Krishna turned his head, studying his father's face with serious eyes.
"Papa always here?"
Vikram felt something tighten in his chest—but his voice remained steady.
"Yes. I'm here."
Satisfied, Krishna yawned and curled against him, small fingers gripping his clothes. Within moments, he was asleep.
Vikram stayed where he was.
He did not think of the past.
He did not think of what lay beyond the mountain or beyond the village.
He focused only on the gentle rise and fall of Krishna's breathing.
For now, this was enough.
A quiet village below.
A simple house above it.
A child who knew only laughter, safety, and the warmth of a father's presence.
No one in Anantpur spoke of fate.
No one spoke of power, circles, or stars.
But the world was vast, and it never stayed quiet forever.