The years passed like the flowing Ganga—steady, graceful, and full of silent wonder. In the winding lanes of Kashi, under the shade of peepal trees and the echo of temple bells, little Aryan began to grow.
From the moment he could crawl, there was a sparkle in his eyes—not just the sparkle of innocence, but of awareness. He would stare at the sky longer than most children, his tiny fingers pointing at clouds as though trying to decipher their meaning.
His sister, Anaya, now ten, never left his side. She brushed his hair with neem combs, told him stories of gods and kings, and giggled when he tried to repeat big words in his tiny, chubby voice.
"Aryan! What did I just say?" she would ask, holding up a lump of jaggery.
"Bhārat... Mata... ki..." he'd fumble, and she would clap like he had performed a miracle.
---
By the time Aryan was three, the signs were unmistakable.
He would sit beside his father during trading discussions, eyes wide, lips sealed, soaking every word. Once, when a customer argued over the price of saffron, Aryan suddenly chirped:
"Tell him saffron is rare this season! Baba said the harvest was low!"
The trader blinked. Vishwanath raised his brows in surprise.
"Aryan… how did you remember that?"
Aryan only shrugged, sucking on a mango seed. "I listen."
---
He loved wandering through the alleys, barefoot and curious. He spoke to the potter, asking how the wheel spun without breaking. He asked the priest why the conch was blown at twilight. He asked his sister what stars were made of, and why birds always returned home.
"What sort of child are you?" Sushila would murmur, half-laughing, half-worried.
"I'm just… learning," Aryan would reply, touching his fingers together thoughtfully.
---
At night, as the lamps flickered and the family dined under the open courtyard, Anaya would rest Aryan's head in her lap and hum lullabies from old legends. Even then, Aryan didn't sleep immediately. He stared at the stars with thoughtful silence.
"Didi," he once whispered, "do stars ever fall... and wake up in a new place?"
She looked down, confused. "Fall?"
"Yes... like if they get tired... and sleep for a long time... then wake up somewhere else."
Anaya chuckled. "Maybe. But you're not a star."
Aryan turned his head slightly, smiling. "Not yet."
---
And so, the soul of Gautam, now Aryan, continued his journey—this time with the fire of curiosity, the heart of a traveler, and the mind of a Vedic sage waiting to awaken.
In the sacred city of Kashi, under the gaze of gods and time itself, a new legend was beginning to form—quietly, beautifully, and with every step, deeper into destiny.