My life had become a tapestry woven of unlikely threads. The morning light caught our simple thatch roof like a promise: I was still alive, still me. By my tenth year, the world around me had not changed — we were still poor, people still judged each other by birth. But I had changed. I moved among villagers not as a pawn of birth but as a silent storyteller of truth.
I sat once more with the elders under the sacred peepal tree. They discussed distant wars, the rise of great kingdoms. I kept those names in mind. One afternoon, a messenger came from Hastinapur saying that a great archery contest would allow commoners to witness princes. Many villagers quarreled about going, saying we had no right to watch where Brahmins stood. I quietly resolved that I would be there, somehow. They said, "Bhadrak, you must obey." Inside, I thought, must I?
Yet I listened to the debates, noting who argued and who bowed their heads. I weighed possibilities in silence, careful. If I attended and nothing happened, no one would notice me. If something did — I was ready. My secret gift hummed beneath my calm exterior.
As dusk fell on that day, I walked alone to where destiny awaited. Each step I took was forged by every decision I had made. The threads of my two lives finally converged: the truth I held and the truth I would speak to the world.
I looked up to the stars that night, feeling the promise form anew. I was no longer a stranger in this world; I was shaping it.