Sunlight sneaked through ragged clouds as I toddled along the muddy lane outside our hut. The monsoon had eased overnight, leaving everything slick and alive—puddles rippling in the breeze, coconuts bobbing in low‐lying drains, and banana leaves dripping like miniature waterfalls. My tiny feet splashed in the mud, delighting in the cold tickle that shot up my legs with every step.
"Mama, look!" I shouted, pointing at a straw hat caught in a sudden eddy. It danced above the ground, flapping like a wounded bird. Before I fully understood what I was doing, I stretched out both arms and called, "Come back!"
A rush of wind swirled around me, gentle at first. The villagers paused mid‐chore to watch—wives straining to untie fastened shutters, fishermen hauling nets from their boats—until the hat drifted back into my waiting hands as if it had simply belonged to me all along.
For a moment, the world held its breath. Then a chorus of "Oohs" and "Aahs" rippled through the street.
My mother, sitting on our doorstep, wiped her wet hair out of her eyes and stood up so quickly that the stool clattered behind her. "Aiman—did you do that?" she asked, voice trembling with surprise. She crossed the small yard and sank to her knees, studying me like I was some puzzle she was still trying to solve.
I blinked up at her, proud and confused. "Hat came back. Mama, hat!"
She placed a hand on my shoulder, her fingers cool and damp. "You… made it come back?"
I nodded, tucking the hat under my arm. "Wind. I told him to."
"Show me," she said, half‐serious, half‐hopeful. She perched on her heels and held out a trembling hand.
I looked around, but nothing lay loose except for a single leaf that had drifted into our courtyard. I wiggled my fingers, thinking about the hat, then pressed my palm to the ground. To my amazement, a small breeze lifted the leaf, carrying it in a little arc before it landed again on the mud.
My mother exhaled, blinking back tears. "My son… he's speaking to the wind."
A soft chuckle came from behind her as my father stepped into view, wiping mud off his knees after helping a neighbor with a broken cartwheel. He knelt to inspect the leaf. "This is more than a happy two‐year‐old's luck," he said, voice low, as though he was explaining something sacred. "Aiman… you're something special."
His words filled my chest with warmth, even though I didn't fully grasp their weight. Special sounded good, though a tiny sliver of fear seeped in along with the pride.
From that day on, subtle changes rippled through our family's routine. I woke each morning before dawn to the gentle patter of water dripping from broad leaves. Mother would cradle me and hum a lullaby about heroes who rode storms like horses—songs Buyaan had taught her. My father, once reluctant to speak of anything but fishing nets and tides, began asking distant travelers and traders if they'd heard of "children born of the gale." I would hear him mutter about omens and legends when he thought I was asleep.
It was the daily chores that felt different, though. Unbound by school or formal lessons at two years old, I spent most of my daylight hours chasing chickens or tugging on my sister's sleeve. But whenever a stray breeze danced across our yard, I felt its rhythm more keenly than anyone else. The way it curled around palm trunks, flattened rice paddy grasses, or chased blackbirds away from open nests—it all felt as natural to me as breathing.
One morning, Mother asked me to help fetch fresh water from the well. I grabbed our small clay bucket and trudged ahead of her, following the familiar path lined with stone markers carved by ancestors. When I reached the well, I looped the rope over the wooden beam and began to turn the crank. Normally, the bucket would come up slowly, water sloshing inside, but before long I felt a gentle tug under my hands—as if the wind itself had reached into the well.
The bucket surfaced effortlessly, pressure guiding it out of the dark. Water sloshed over the rim, spilling out in a silver arc even before I grasped it. I couldn't help but giggle, marveling at the way the breeze seemed to share control.
Mother arrived just then, her sarong damp from morning dew. She watched me brace against the breeze as I lifted the overflowing bucket. "You didn't lift it yourself, did you?" she whispered.
I shook my head, blinking at her. "Wind helped."
She reached out, pressing a finger to the clay. "You're still my child, Aiman, but you… you're also the wind's child." She smiled, pride and concern in her eyes. "That's a heavy burden, little one."
I considered her words as I trudged back to our hut, my curious gaze drifting to the sky. If the wind truly was my kin, was it always a friend? Or would it one day turn on me? Those thoughts fluttered in my mind like birds awakening at dawn, though I knew I was not to concern myself with such things until I was older.
Back home, I placed the bucket on the mud porch and turned to see a cluster of neighbors gathering at the edge of our yard.
"There he is," whispered Maturin, our neighbor, as he pointed at me. "The Stormborn child."
"A storm comes in his breath," added Jalila, an old woman whose shrewd eyes seemed to miss nothing. She fingered her beaded shawl and mumbled under her breath about "wind spirits and inheritance."
I felt my heart stutter. They watched me as if I was both a spectacle and a hazard. I looked at my mother, hoping she could make sense of their silent judgments. She offered me a tight smile and shifted me onto her hip, brushing a wet curl from my cheek.
"Don't pay them mind," she said firmly. "Your wind is a part of you—nothing more, nothing less."
Sister—three years older—clucked her tongue, wrinkling her nose. "So he's a wind magician now? What's next, Mother? Will he turn our roof into a sail and float away?"
I pouted at my sister's teasing. "I won't float away."
Mother ruffled my hair. "Maybe not today," she replied, "but if you ever get lost, remember the wind will show the way home."
That afternoon, the rain came in gentle sheets rather than the monsoon's usual fury. I sat by the low wooden fence, trying to conjure a breeze, squinting at a brown coconut husk that teetered on the edge of the fence post. I focused, thinking of my mother's voice, the feeling of raindrops against my skin, the memory of the hat returning to my arms.
After several attempts—each ending in nothing more than a stir—I felt a subtle shift: the air around my fingers tingled. I exhaled, letting that sensation grow into a small puff. The coconut husk trembled once, then slipped from its perch and tumbled into a puddle below.
I grinned, heart racing. The world felt both warm and buzzing, as if I had discovered a new secret. My sister watched, eyebrows raised. "Okay, that's… impressive."
The bucket of water I had fetched earlier sat at my feet, now partly filled with muddy droplets. The rainwater formed concentric ripples in the clay bottom. I extended my hand above it, and a swirl formed on the surface, tiny vortex rings stepping outward before fading into circles.
Mother emerged from the doorway, wiping oil lamps clean. She watched the ripples with quiet satisfaction, then reached into the bucket and dipped her fingers into the water. "Show me, Aiman."
I nodded and braced myself, focusing on the droplet on her fingertip. Slowly, a wind current rose from my hands and guided that single drop across the brim of her finger and onto her palm. A drop of cool water slid down her wrist.
Her breath caught. She met my gaze, and for a moment, neither of us spoke. The only sound was gentle rain pattering on the roof. Then she squeezed my shoulder. "You have the wind inside you, my child. Always remember: you must be as gentle as the breeze, or the storm will swallow you."
I didn't understand precisely what she meant, but her words settled in my chest like a pebble sinking into water—creating ripples that spread to every corner of my thoughts.
Later that evening, as twilight deepened and fireflies flickered among banana trees, I lay wrapped in a hammock woven from palm fronds. The hut's door was open, revealing the silvered sheen of the wet courtyard and the soft, relentless drum of drizzle on the roof.
I listened to the world breathing around me: the wind sighing through coconut trunks, frogs croaking from nearby paddies, distant dogs calling out in greeting or warning—perhaps both. In the hush between raindrops, I felt, for the first time, a quiet confidence.
Tomorrow I would wake and chase chickens again, practice calling little breezes to toy with stray leaves, and splash through mud puddles while the village whispered about "the boy who spoke to the wind."
But tonight, I drifted between sleep and wakefulness, letting the wind cradle me. In my dreams, I heard the monsoon's roar transformed into a lullaby—gentle, patient, promising that wherever I wandered, the breezes would always guide me home.
And so I fell asleep, the wind humming softly around me, as though greeting its new companion in this wide, wet world.