The salty breeze carried the smell of fish as they walked toward the riverbank. Loud voices floated through the air—shouts of bargaining mixed with laughter and the clatter of knives on wooden boards. When they reached the spot, they saw the fisherman proudly showing off his catch: three enormous fish, their scales glistening like silver armour under the sun.
A group of men in bright red garments stood nearby, their presence commanding attention. Villagers whispered and called them generals. Behind them loomed a few muscular soldiers, their chests broad, arms veined like ropes, gripping spears and other strange weapons.
The fisherman worked his blade carefully, slicing the fish with surgical precision. Not a single drop of blood touched his clothes. If even a speck of blood splattered on his tunic, those red-clad men would seize the entire fish without paying. It was his survival.
Once in a while, one of the soldiers would take a bold step forward, almost shoving into the fisherman's elbow, trying to make him slip. But the old man's hands were steady as stone.
She leaned toward the boy and whispered, "Did you see how he cuts that?"
He tilted his head, his eyes fixed on the crimson stains dripping into the basin. He signed with his fingers: "What… are those red things?"
She giggled softly. "Blood."
His brows furrowed, lips curling slightly. He signed again: "Bad…"
She rolled her eyes and pinched his ear playfully. "Come on, philosopher. Let's go sit under that tree."
They moved away from the crowd and found a shady spot beneath an old banyan tree. A man sat cross-legged nearby, humming in a low tone. A few children scampered past, their laughter ringing like bells, and a handful of men lounged under the same tree, chatting lazily.
"Good morning, uncles!" the girl called out cheerfully.
One of them grinned. "Ah, Mala, you're here. And this must be that boy—the one who came by fate's river."
"Fate's river?" the boy signed quickly, his brows lifting. "What is that?"
The old man chuckled, his chant pausing. "Nothing serious. Just sit, watch the dances later."
The boy sat close, still puzzled, his curious eyes drifting to the old man's hands. They were thick, scarred, and lined like cracked earth.
"You never seen a hand before, lad?" the man teased, laughing.
The boy signed slowly: "Why… so many lines?"
The old man tilted his head, a grin flashing under his white moustache. "These aren't lines. They're the love marks of battle—the way steel kisses flesh."
"Battle…" the boy signed again, confused.
Before he could ask more, another man nearby leaned in. "What's your name, boy?"
Mala quickly cut in, her tone sharp. "He doesn't remember. He'll stay with us for some time."
The man smirked. "Huh… looks like you brought home a playboy."
Her eyes narrowed dangerously. "Should I call your wife?"
The man puffed up his chest. "What will she do?"
In a heartbeat, Mala screamed dramatically, "Aunty! He's beating me and saying bad things!"
A passing woman stopped, glaring. "Mala! You trying to get him beaten? Fine—I'm calling her right now!"
The man jumped to his feet, panic flashing across his face. "No, no! Don't call her! I'm coming!" He sprinted away like a goat chased by a lion.
The group exploded with laughter. "Marriage is like a laddu," one old man bellowed. "Sweet to see, painful to swallow—before or after!" Another roar of laughter followed, echoing under the banyan tree.
The banyan tree's shade was thick and cool, the air humming with idle chatter. Birds fluttered between branches, and the smell of river and wet earth lingered like a soft perfume. The boy sat cross-legged on the grass, glancing shyly at the men around him. Their voices rose and fell like a lazy drumbeat, punctuated by laughter.
One of them suddenly leaned forward, squinting at the boy. "What is your age, little one?"
The boy hesitated, then looked down at his hands. Slowly, he began counting each joint of his fingers, whispering in silence. At last, he held up his small hand and signed by fingers, "Seven."
The man chuckled, patting his shoulder. "Good boy. At least you know that much."
The boy nodded once.
Then another voice rang out. "Hey, Jaban! Check his hand lines."
The name belonged to a tall man who was humming just before. He turned without a word, grasping the boy's right hand gently but firmly. His calloused thumb ran along the soft palm as his brows knitted together. For a moment, it seemed like an ordinary curiosity.
Jaban stared longer, tracing the crisscross of lines with his fingertip. Slowly, he began to sketch in the dirt—a square… then connecting two corners… then another square intersecting the first square, splitting it by lines.
Jaban uncle took a keen stare this time but paused mid-stroke, his breath hitching. A sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead, and his knuckles tightened around the stick. When his eyes met the boy's, they held something raw—horror wrapped in disbelief.
"Who… are you?" he whispered, his voice barely a breath.
The boy blinked at him, mute, small fingers curling inward.
Around them, the others noticed the tension. "Jaban, what's wrong? Are you sick? Why aren't you finishing the reading?"
The man swallowed hard, forcing a strained smile. "Ah… nothing. It's nothing. Not the right time yet." His tone was light, but his eyes darted like startled birds.
Mala's voice cut through, sharp with worry. "Does he… have bad lines?"
Jaban looked at her, lips tightening, and uttered only one cryptic phrase: "The lines have changed."
No one asked further. The laughter resumed, awkward at first, then louder, villagers slipping back into gossip and trivialities, the way people do when they sense a storm but choose to ignore it.
An older man plucked a neem twig from a low branch, snapped it clean, and handed two sticks to Mala and the boy. "Here. Brush your teeth."
The boy frowned, staring at the twig. "How?" he signed, confusion plain on his face.
Mala groaned dramatically, clutching her head. "You moron! You don't even brush your teeth? Ugh, the smell—chchch! Uncle, let's go before I faint!"
The group burst into laughter again, and the boy shrank back, cheeks burning.
"Hey, this way," the uncle said gently, crouching to show him how to peel the bark, chew the fibres, and scrub. His big hands moved slow and patient. The boy followed every step, his clumsy motions earning more teasing—but this time, he laughed with them.
When he finally got it right, his eyes sparkled like river light. "I… learned something new," he signed proudly.
The uncle ruffled his hair. "Good. Do it every morning."
The boy nodded, clutching the bitter stick like treasure.
Just beyond the tree, voices rose in anger—those red-clothed officers from earlier were now bickering with the fisherman. Their heated shouts sounded more childish than fierce, like kids squabbling over sweets. The boy's gaze lingered on them, head tilted in curiosity.
He tugged at the uncle's sleeve and signed: "Are they… monkeys?"
The uncle burst into laughter so loud it made the birds scatter. "Monkeys? Boy, don't insult monkeys like that! Even they have better manners."
The boy blinked innocently. The uncle leaned closer, grinning. "If we compare them to monkeys, it's an insult to the monkeys. Understand?"
The boy nodded gravely, then suddenly lifted his hand and pointed toward the officers again. His finger stretched, his face breaking into a sly grin as he mimicked their quarrels—puffing his cheeks, stomping his feet like a tantrum-throwing child.
Mala and the uncle both doubled over, laughter ringing through the air. "Did you just mock them by seeing those?" Mala gasped between giggles.
The boy only smiled wider, the neem stick dangling from his mouth like a cigar. His earlier shyness melted away in bursts of laughter, playful signs, and quick words. Sometimes he talked, sometimes he mimed; sometimes his laughter rang so pure it silenced the men for a heartbeat.
...........................................
The village square was alive with laughter. People sat in small groups on the dusty ground, teasing one another, sharing silly jokes, and giggling like children. More villagers joined in, drawn by the cheerful noise. Soon, a small crowd had gathered, forming a loose circle. Everyone was laughing, poking fun at each other, and pulling harmless pranks—until a voice cut through the merriment like a whip.
"What's going on here?"
Heads turned. A young officer, barely older than a boy himself, walked into the square. He was dressed in a faded khaki uniform, a rope coiled in his hand like a snake ready to strike. His narrow eyes scanned the crowd with irritation.
"You lazy fools!" he barked. "Standing around laughing when there's work to do?"
Before anyone could answer, he lashed the rope through the air with a sharp crack. The villagers scattered like startled pigeons. Men who had been grinning seconds ago now stumbled over one another, scrambling away from the rope's sting. Laughter vanished, replaced by panic.
All but one.
Amid the chaos, that boy stood still. He didn't flinch as the officer turned on him.
"You," the officer growled, his face twisting. "Think you're brave? I'll teach you a lesson."
The rope whistled again, striking the boy's shoulder. The sound of impact was sharp, but he didn't move. The officer sneered and raised the rope for another blow—until the boy's hand shot up.
In one smooth motion, he seized the rope. His fingers clenched with such force that the officer froze. For a heartbeat, silence fell. Then, with a sudden jerk, the boy yanked the rope free. The officer stumbled, lost his balance, and fell hard on his back, dust rising around him.
The crowd gasped. Someone let out a nervous laugh.
"How dare you?" the officer roared, scrambling to his feet, his face burning red with shame. "You dare make me fall? I'll kill you!"
He charged forward like an enraged bull, teeth gritted, rope dangling uselessly from his hand. But when his eyes met the boy's again, something made him hesitate. Those eyes were cold, unblinking but held a strange weight, as though they could swallow the very fire from his veins. Fear flickered across the officer's face, but pride shoved it down.
"Bastard," he spat. "I challenge you to a duel!"
The words hung in the air like a storm cloud. The villagers, who had crept back to watch, stared wide-eyed. A duel? Here? With that boy?
The officer snatched a dirty napkin from the ground, its edges stained with mud, and flung it at the boy's chest. It stuck for a second before sliding off. The boy looked down at it, then up again, his expression unreadable. Slowly, a smile curved his lips. Without a word, he turned and began walking away.
The officer's pride shattered like glass. With a roar, he sprinted after the boy, kicking up clouds of dust. His boots pounded the earth as his body lunged forward, shoulders hunched like a bull ready to gore its prey. Even his legs moved comically, almost cartoonish, flailing in a blur as the ground sprayed dirt behind him. The villagers, forgetting their fear, burst out laughing again.
Just as the officer closed in, the boy sidestepped with a grace that looked almost lazy. The officer stumbled past him, but before he could regain his footing, a hand gripped his head. The boy twisted and hurled him down with brutal precision, slamming him into the ground as easily as tossing a sack of grain.
A heavy thud shook the dust. The officer lay flat, his face buried in mud. Stars seemed to twinkle above his head—at least, that's how the villagers imagined it as they roared with laughter. Someone slapped his knee. Another doubled over, tears streaming down his face. Even those who had feared the officer moments ago now clutched their stomachs, laughing so hard they could barely breathe.
The boy said nothing. He simply brushed the dust from his hands, his calm eyes sweeping the crowd for a second before he turned to her sister mala. His voice was soft but clear.
"Let's go," he said.
The villagers, still stunned, nodded slowly. The boy walked away without looking back, his steps quiet and unhurried. Behind him, laughter rolled like thunder across the square, drowning out the officer's muffled curses as he lay in the mud, humiliated and broken.
....
He yanked the officer's head down, forcing him to sit on the ground. In one swift motion, he snapped the officer's tooth stick and pressed it against his nose like a mocking gesture. The boy jolted upright, dazed and blinking. For a moment, confusion clouded his eyes—then laughter erupted from every corner. People clutched their stomachs, roaring at his ridiculous state.
Suddenly, the officer's memory returned. His expression twisted. Shame burned his cheeks. Tears welled up as he stumbled to his feet and ran, mud still dripping from his clothes. Before the crowd could settle, Jaban uncle stepped forward, frowning. "Mala, go home before they return," he warned. But the laughter only grew louder, echoing through the street like a festival of mockery.
One curious voice broke through: "Hey! How did you do that? Teach us!" All eyes turned toward the boy. He stared at his own hands, bewildered, a strange storm of emotions churning inside him. "Let's go," she whispered urgently, tugging his arm. They bolted as if chased by a snake. Breathless, he suddenly remembered—the man's broken tooth stick was still in his grip. Before he could speak, her palm smacked his back. "Idiot! I'll teach you some manners one day, foolish boy!"
And together, they vanished down the lane, leaving whispers behind.
..........
They reached home and found Granny crouched near the veranda, drying long strands of roots on a rope strung between two bamboo poles. The afternoon sun fell across her wrinkled hands as she tied the last bunch. Without looking up, she muttered, "Did you show him the whole village?"
Mala gave a sharp breath. "Those bastards came again… I'll take him after lunch."
Before the boy could speak, his gaze wandered toward the drying roots swaying gently in the breeze. Curiosity sparked. He plucked one from the rope and held it up. "Hey, these are drying up... what's this for? Medicine?"
Before he could sniff it, Mala snatched it away. "Put that back! Granny will skin you alive if she sees you playing with her roots." Her eyes widened in mock horror.
He quickly hung it where it belonged and asked again, "What's the use of this?"
Mala sighed and softened her voice. "Granny makes paste, balms, medicine, sometimes even a bitter liquid for fevers. We keep them safe and sold them, understand?"
He nodded silently and sat cross-legged on the soil yard, the earth still warm under the midday heat. Minutes passed, and the aroma of herbs mingled with the faint smell of fish from a nearby basket. Granny came with a steaming bowl, her voice cracking like dry wood. "Drink this when it cools."
He stared at the dark concoction, his reflection trembling on the surface. She left without waiting for an answer, and after ten long minutes of silence, he gulped it down in one go. The bitter taste lingered like old secrets.
Moments later, Mala returned, carrying a bamboo basket brimming with fresh greens—hinchey, lotus seeds, tender sajne leaves, mushrooms, and two bright lemons. A single large fish lay on top, its silver scales catching the sunlight like shards of a broken mirror. She smiled mischievously. "Why are you sitting there like a lost nitwit?"
"Waiting for my mother," he muttered.
"Oh? Then come inside and help me wash these—" Her words froze. From the corner of her eye, three bulky figures appeared at the gate, flanking a plump man with a cruel grin. The boy they had humiliated earlier trailed behind, his smirk sharper than any blade.
"Trouble just walked in," Mala whispered. "Granny! Come quick—fat pig brought his hounds."
The fat man pointed a stubby finger. "That's him. Take him."
The soldiers moved in like vultures. The boy stood still, heart pounding, watching their rough hands stretch toward him. But then—like a shadow melting from the earth—Granny appeared behind them, silent as the wind. In her hand glinted the curved edge of a boti. She pressed it against one soldier's throat so smoothly that his breath hitched.
"Touch him, and you'll leave without your head," her voice rasped, carrying the weight of storms.
One soldier sneered. "See? The old hag thinks she can scare us."
Before the words faded, another lunged with a spear. Granny's eyes flashed. "Little nitwit…"
A thorn flew from her fingers like lightning. It made a single spot on his throat with surgical precision and made him feint.
........
That boy felt his pulse pounding in his ears. He wasn't even sure what had happened just moments ago. One instant, the man lunged forward like a predator, and in the next, his body moved on its own. His hands had gripped the man's hand, his legs shot out, and the tip of his toes pressed precisely against a point on the man's body—just like he had seen granny do earlier without any hesitation.
The man collapsed in an instant, stunned, eyes wide as though lightning had struck him. For a second, the entire yard froze in silence. Then he, suddenly realizing what he had done, scrambled backward like a frightened deer and hid behind granny's worn shawl. His small head peeked out from behind her side, eyes wide with confusion. He didn't understand what he had just done, but the fear on everyone's faces told him it was something serious.
The soldier who had come swaggering moments ago now lay sprawled on the dirt, groaning like the other man before him. Granny's sharp gaze flicked between the boy and the fallen men. Her thoughts whirled. What a talent… He just watched me once and copied it with his foot! No miss, no hesitation. Perfect pressure. That's no ordinary child.
The soldier's hands trembled as he pushed himself up, glaring at granny with a mix of anger and fear. But her voice sliced through the tension like a blade.
"Take your men and leave. If you come again, the thorn won't just sting—they'll be dipped in poison next time."
The man stiffened, swallowed hard, and nodded like a beaten dog. Even he could feel it—granny wasn't bluffing. He quickly slung the unconscious men over his shoulder, leaving behind the red-clothed boy they'd dragged along earlier. His footsteps thudded away faster than a rabbit escaping a wolf. And through it all, he stared down at his own hands, trembling slightly.
Later that noon, as the simple clay plates of food were set out, granny broke the silence.
"Where did you learn those things?" she asked, her voice calm but laced with curiosity.
He blinked at her, chewing slowly, a grain of rice stuck to his lip. "What… things?"
She studied his innocent eyes for a moment and then exhaled softly. "Ah, forget it." So, it was instinct… she thought. Muscle memory, maybe. Humans forget their past, but instinct… instinct never dies.
Her thoughts were cut short by a deep, resonant sound echoing through the valley—a drum beating like a heart made of thunder.
BOOM… BOOM… BOOM…
His head shot up. "What is that sound?"
Granny rose slowly, her joints creaking. "An announcement," she muttered. "Eat first. Then we'll go."
They finished the meal in haste and set out toward the source of the sound. Mala walked beside him, her steps brisk, but her mind somewhere far away. She kept glancing at him, lips pressed tight like she was holding in a secret.
Finally, he tilted his head, curiosity sparking. "What?"
She stopped for a second, looking straight into his eyes. "Your name will be Arnesh," she declared softly, almost as if sealing a promise. "Alright?"
He hesitated, then nodded. Arnesh… The name tasted strange yet comforting in his mind.
When they reached the gathering spot, it was already buzzing with people—the same faces from the morning, murmuring among themselves. Jaban Uncle, the tall man with the loud laugh, spotted them and waved.
"What's going on?" Mala asked, her tone guarded.
"They're recruiting young ones," Jaban replied. "Looking to make martial artists out of them."
"Just like every year," she muttered.
"Yes," he grinned, eyeing Arnesh. "Hey, boy—"
"Not boy!" she snapped before he could finish. "His name is Arnesh. I gave it to him." She puffed her chest a little, like a mother tiger shielding her cub.
Jaban chuckled, and the others laughed too, though not unkindly. Arnesh shifted awkwardly.
Then a voice cut through the noise, a voice like autumn wind, crisp and cool. Everyone turned.
A girl stepped onto the platform, and for a moment, time slowed. Her presence was like a painting come alive—bright yet serene, strength veiled beneath grace. Men who had spent years tilling fields and carrying loads stared with open mouths.
"We are here," she said, her voice ringing clear, "to find the talented among you. Children who can be trained… who can endure and rise."
Her gaze swept over the crowd, eyes sharp as an eagle's. Then she asked, "But before that… can anyone here truly work hard?"
A murmur of voices rose instantly. One man barked, "What are you saying? We work hard every day! You think we're lazy? If not for us, you wouldn't even have food!"
The girl's faint smile never wavered. "I'm not asking about that hard work," she replied calmly. "I'm talking about the kind that will strip you bare. That will make you unable to walk, unable to talk, barely able to eat. The kind that will break you a hundred times… and still demand that you stand. Can you do that?"
Silence fell like a heavy curtain. The murmurs died. Not a single voice rose to answer.
Her smile softened, almost sad. "I understand," she said quietly. "If anyone still wishes to learn… your names can be added there." She pointed to a wooden board where a few names were already scrawled.
The crowd exchanged uneasy glances. Feet shuffled.
To be continued...
......................................
Two Mouths of Fate
A white face said: "All is written." Every breath you take, every stumble on the road, every triumph in the dark—all of it carved long before you were born. You are nothing but an actor, repeating lines on a stage whose ending has already been decided. You may shout, you may resist, but the river drags you forward regardless. This is the black mouth of fate, swallowing freedom whole.
A black face said: "Nothing is written." Each choice splits the world into a thousand possible futures. With every step, you redraw the map; with every thought, you cut new threads into the tapestry. Fate is not a chain but a canvas, and your will is the brush. This is the white mouth of freedom, painting possibility where certainty once stood.
A white face said: "The world is a river, and you are but a leaf. You may catch on a rock, you may swirl in a small eddy, but the current's pull is constant. You will always end up where the river ends."
A black face said: "The world is a canvas, and you are the painter. Each stroke, no matter how small, changes the image. What others see as a finished portrait, you see as a work in progress, waiting for the next layer."
A white face said: "History is not a story that you write, it is a story you uncover. All the twists and turns you think are your own are simply the reveal of what was always there."
A black face said: "The past is a phantom, a story told differently by every person who lived it. The future is an uncarved block of stone, and every day you wield the chisel."
A white face said: "Do not mourn your losses. They were never yours to keep. The joy and the pain, the light and the shadow—each was placed in your path for a purpose you cannot yet see. The plan is perfect; your understanding is simply incomplete."
A black face said: "Do not fear your pain. It is the kiln that hardens you, the fire that forges new paths where none existed. Every wound you heal is a new freedom won, a testament to your power to mend what was broken."
A white face said: "Your life is a scroll that has already been unrolled. The path is set from birth to death, a continuous line without a break. To believe you can change it is to believe you can walk back up a waterfall."
A black face said: "Your life is a story with every page blank. Each morning is a new inkwell, each moment a word written in your own hand. To believe in a single, pre-written path is to refuse the pen."
A white face said: "Regret is a foolish emotion. It is to wish for a different outcome in a world where only one outcome was ever possible. Let go of the illusion that you could have chosen differently."
A black face said: "Regret is a sacred emotion. It is a signpost pointing to the path you did not take, a whisper of the infinite possibilities that still exist just beyond your reach. It is the fuel for your next choice."
And between them—the silence.
Perhaps fate writes the music, but we decide how to dance. Perhaps the truth is not in the mouths, black or white, but in the echo that lingers between them. Perhaps fate is the paper—blank or marked—and choice is the hand that trembles as it writes.