The first rays of dawn filtered through the palm-leaf roof of Hari's home, gilding the wooden walls with a golden warmth. The village of Ubhayam stirred early that morning, as if it had been waiting all night for the sun to rise. Birds flew low, chirping in excited chorus. Children ran barefoot across the dusty lanes, stringing flower garlands and giggling at the scent of jaggery sweets boiling in large pots.
It was the day of the Harvest Festival, the village's grand annual festival. Every year, people from neighboring hamlets traveled for miles to attend—traders, musicians, dancers, mystics, and more. The whole village bloomed like a garden after rain.
Hari stood near the doorway, silently watching the preparations. His mother's words from the night before echoed in his mind. Her stories of purpose, of the duties people fulfilled in this world, had carved a strange but calming path inside him. He wasn't sure where it would lead, but the heaviness in his chest felt lighter.
Mrudhula appeared beside him, adjusting her sari as she tied a jasmine garland in her hair. "You're awake early," she smiled, brushing a speck of dust from his cheek. "Ready to help your father today?"
Hari nodded, offering a small smile.
Outside, Ravi stood near the village square where a wooden dais was being built for the evening performances. He was directing the younger men to tie the canopy ropes tighter. Seeing Hari approach, he waved. "Ah, perfect timing! Come, we need another pair of hands for the stage decorations."
Hari jogged up and joined the others. His childhood friends—Ramu, Leela, and Suri —were already there, giggling and passing out flags to hang along the trees. Tillu grinned, "Hey Hari, want to see who can tie the highest flag?"
Hari chuckled. "Only if you don't cry when I win."
"Pfft. Dream on!"
As the morning passed, Hari found himself swept in the rhythm of joy. He carried bamboo poles, handed out sweets, and even helped decorate the bullocks with colorful beads and cloth. The scent of incense mixed with the aroma of fresh mango leaves and oil lamps. His worries didn't disappear entirely—but they had softened, like waves that had learned not to crash, but to sway gently.
Later in the afternoon, a group of village children gathered under a neem tree. Hari sat nearby, watching them fight over marbles. Suri, the quietest among them, stood alone, looking unsure of whether to join. Hari walked over and said, "Why don't you play?"
Suri looked up, fidgeting. "I always lose."
Hari knelt beside him. "Winning doesn't matter. But not trying at all… that's worse than losing."
Suri looked surprised.
Hari pointed to the game. "Go. Play like it's your last day to play."
The boy hesitated, then smiled and ran off, joining the others.
By evening, as the orange sky deepened into a velvet twilight, the village lit up with hundreds of lanterns. Music filled the air—flutes, drums, and the soft echo of bells tied to the anklets of dancers. Stalls offered spicy fritters, sugarcane juice, and roasted peanuts. Children ran with wooden swords and toy animals carved from soft wood.
Mrudhula handed Hari a sweet wrapped in banana leaf. "For my boy," she said softly. "You've been working all day."
Hari took the sweet and looked around. The village glowed like a world apart—simple, joyous, and full of life. His eyes paused on the flickering lanterns that hung from the trees. They looked like tiny floating stars, and in that moment, he smiled.
He didn't know who he was meant to become. But he was beginning to believe that maybe, just maybe, it was okay to take his time