The boy's arms still carried faint tremors from the training, yet his eyes were calm as he lay staring at the sky. The evening clouds floated lazily, painted orange by the setting sun. Granny's voice came slow and heavy, like a mountain that had seen too much.
"Are you gonna stay, or are you going from here?" she asked.
He didn't answer right away. His gaze lingered on the drifting clouds as if they might carry an answer for him. Finally, in a quiet voice, he said, "I don't know."
Granny exhaled, long and knowing. "Stay here for more six days. You will eventually go. No—" she leaned forward, her eyes sharp, "—you will be running like hell."
Mala, who had been half-listening while cleaning the bucket, put her hands on her hips and added, "Stay up to that time. Learn as much as you like, practice as much as you like… because time is moving. You will have to go."
The boy frowned. "Why every time you all are asking about time, time, and time? I don't understand a single thing you say."
Mala grinned mischievously, but Granny stepped closer, making her eyes were level with his. "Then remember one more teaching from me," she said. Her voice was firm, but not unkind. "There are two things in this world most valuable. Even rich people want more of them. And even poor people—if they have one of them—it will be enough for a lifetime. One is money."
She held out a round coin. The boy stared at the rough iron disk, marked with a strange symbol.
"The other," Granny continued, "is time. And time is more valuable than anything."
The boy reached out and touched the coin. His fingers traced the mark. "I've seen this before. Jaban uncle had a pouch with these. But… I don't know what it is called."
Granny nodded. "This is called Kari. See this mark?" She traced ꞎ in the dust. "The smallest coin. Rough iron, used by common folk."
Then she set another coin beside it, shining faintly in the dim light. "This is Tarn. A circle mark on that coin. A hundred Kari makes one Tarn. Copper, heavier, better for trade."
She placed a third coin—silver this time, bright even in dusk. "This is Veth. (Mark = ◇) One thousand Tarn makes one Veth."
The boy blinked, counting silently.
Then came another—gold, polished, heavy. "Orin. It bore the mark ⬡. Ten thousand Veth makes one Orin. Only nobles and merchants trade with these."
Finally, Granny placed one last coin, different, almost ceremonial. It bore the mark ✶. "And this… Soln. A hundred thousand Orin makes one Soln. Few will ever see it. Kings hoard it. Armies move for it."
The boy's mouth fell open. "Five kinds of money?"
"Yes."
He thought for a moment, his brows furrowing. "But why so many kinds? Isn't one enough? You can buy anything with just one, right?"
Granny's lips curved. "Good question. answer is...."
Granny leaned closer, her voice soft like she was about to share a secret."Listen, boy. Think of it this way. Imagine a mother with five children. All of them are hers, but each child is different. One runs fast and does errands quickly. One is strong and carries heavy loads. One is clever and counts the numbers. One is gentle and keeps peace in the house. And the last one—small and playful—makes everyone smile.
Now, tell me, could the mother live with just one child? Maybe yes, but her house would always be unbalanced. If she had only the strong one, things would be heavy but joyless. If only the playful one, laughter would be there but no work would be done. Together, the five make her house full, alive, and steady.
That is why we have five coins. Each coin is like one child. The small ones take care of small needs, the larger ones take care of bigger matters. Alone, one coin can do something, but together, all five keep the world moving without quarrel or confusion. Each has its place, each has its duty, just like those five children."
She chuckled, tapping his forehead with a wrinkled finger."So, remember, boy—life is not only about 'one enough.' Balance is made when many different pieces live side by side."
He leaned forward eagerly. "So if I gather many, I can buy many things?"
"Yes," Granny said. "You can buy food, land, houses, even people's loyalty. But…" She lifted her finger and tapped his forehead. "You can't buy time. Not with all the coins in this world."
The boy's eyes flickered with confusion. "Granny… again you say time, time. But what is time?"
Granny sat back. For the first time that day, her voice softened like a lullaby.
"Time is… when you wake up today?"
The boy thought hard. "Before sun rise." Mala said "that is called... dawn?"
Granny smiled. She pointed at the sky, where the red sun was sinking. "And now, what is this?"
He looked up. "Evening."
"Good. So you woke at dawn. Then came morning, then noon, then afternoon, and now evening. But tell me, what happened in between?"
He tilted his head. "The sun rose… and then it set."
"Exactly." Granny bent down, picked up a straw, and drew two circles in the dirt. One for sunrise. One for sunset. Between them, she left a wide gap.
"Can you measure this space between the two?" she asked.
The boy squinted. "I… don't know. But… I saw that girl who kicked me out of training one day. She was using incense sticks. They burned slowly. She said it was for keeping time."
Granny chuckled. "Yes, that is it. The burning of incense, the fall of shadows, all are measures of time."
She pressed the straw into the dirt between the two circles. "Dawn to dusk—this is a day. Night comes after, and then another dawn. That, boy, is time. A river that never stops flowing. Whether you run fast or crawl slow, it drags you with it."
The boy's face grew serious. "So time… is like a river?"
"Yes. And unlike money, you cannot save it in a pouch. You cannot stop it from flowing. Once a moment is gone, even kings can't buy it back."
Mala crossed her arms, grinning. "So if you waste time, you're poorer than a beggar."
Granny swatted her with the straw. "You're not wrong. But don't act clever with half learning."
The boy sat silent, eyes fixed on the dirt circles. His small hands clenched into fists. "So if time flows… then I must run faster than it."
Granny shook her head. "No, boy. You can't outrun time. No one can. The best you can do is fill it. Use it. Each breath, each sunrise, each scar from training, those are your coins. Your true wealth. Waste them, and you will be the poorest of all."
His eyes glimmered with something desperate, something both childlike and broken. "Then… if I gather enough coins… can I go back to my mother?"
For a moment, silence clung to the room. Then Granny threw her head back and let out a raspy laugh that echoed off the wooden beams. "Hunh! This boy hasn't understood a single thing! Coins or no coins, you can't buy back what the heavens already took. Try it, though, try it with all your might. Who knows, maybe one day you'll find your own way."
Still chuckling, she rose and shuffled toward the front door, her back bent but her voice sharp. Mala was already sitting by the threshold, covering her mouth with both hands as laughter slipped out in little bursts. "Granny's right," she teased. "You really don't understand a thing!"
The boy sat with his arms crossed, glaring at her but still laugh.
Not long after, the sound of heavy feet and muffled voices came from outside. Jaban uncle returned, bringing with him the same boys who had earlier come crying, along with several other villagers. Their faces were tired, their clothes muddied, but their eyes were restless. They gathered in the sleeping house, where mats were spread thinly on the ground, and began their hushed talking.
Granny didn't waste time. She fetched her bundles of dried herbs, crushed them swiftly with practiced hands, and boiled water in a blackened pot. The smell of bitter roots filled the house. With Mala running back and forth carrying buckets and jars, the boy also joined in, holding tools, fetching leaves, and stirring the pot.
In the middle of the chatter, one of the adults turned to the boy, narrowing his eyes. "What are you doing in this house?"
The boy hesitated, then raised his hands in small, careful movements, showing the signs Granny had taught him. I am learning medicine.
The man blinked at the gestures, then leaned back with a grunt. Another boy, older than the rest, tilted his head and asked, "Well then, do you do this every day?"
The boy nodded earnestly.
That same boy's gaze dropped to the scars and bruises that covered the child's arms. "Then why does your body look like that? Cuts, swellings, bruises everywhere… Did you fight in training like we do? Did that girl kick you out again?"
The boy shook his head quickly. "No, no," he said, his hands moving clumsily in signs. "My head still hurts from before. I just… fell down here and there. Got cut. But don't worry. I'm fine. Granny's medicine is working. And…" he hesitated, then added, "my memory is coming back slowly. Just like a dream."
A smaller boy piped up with bright certainty. "Of course it's working! Granny's medicine is the best. No one in the village is better than her. If anyone can bring back your memory, it's her!"
Several nodded, murmuring their agreement.
But then a man sitting near Jaban uncle leaned forward, his voice low and grim. "Hey, boy. Don't go too deep into this. If you learn too much at this age, they'll take you away. Send you to the battlefield or to those big towns, work you until death. Maybe even worse."
The boy's small hands moved again, his face serious. I am from the lower class. They will not take me.
Laughter broke out across the room, harsh and sharp. One of them slapped his knee. "You silly brat! Do you really think that saves you? Just one month ago, five children were taken. Five! Only three bodies came back. Two… never returned at all."
The boy's lips trembled. "Dead body means…?"
Before anyone could answer, Granny's voice cut like a knife. "Enough!" She slapped a bundle of herbs onto the table, startling them all. "Go study those acupuncture points! If you've got time for nonsense, use it to learn. Then come to me, and I'll show you how to mix medicine with it."
Her eyes burned into the boy's until he finally nodded and scurried off toward the smaller room where the practice doll and masks waited. Still, before stepping out, he turned once, casting a faint smile back at the circle of adults.
The room quieted for a moment. Jaban uncle leaned back, his arms crossed. "Don't scare the boy too much. Let him learn as he wishes. Medicine is a great virtue. Healing others is the highest good. But remember this, if you know how to heal yet never apply it… that is no virtue. That is the greatest sin."
Granny's voice snapped back instantly. "You're talking too much to a child, Jaban! He doesn't understand half your heavy words. Don't plant shadows in his head." She rubbed her temples. "Go now, all of you. The night is coming, and my head is already pounding. I'll sleep early today."
He sat quietly in the yard that night, the cool earth pressing against his legs as he gazed up at the moon. The round dish of light hung steady above the trees, glowing so brightly it looked almost close enough to touch. His small hands rested on his knees, still scratched from the day's work, and he breathed slowly as if trying to steady the ache that had grown into his bones.
A boy from the village wandered up to him, his feet kicking dust as he approached. He tilted his head and grinned."Hey," the boy said, "why aren't you coming to play with us? Mala sister isn't here to call you. Come tomorrow afternoon. We do fun things out in the fields. Come with Mala sister—she knows."
Before he could answer, a firm voice came from behind. Jaban uncle had appeared, leaning against the wooden post of the yard. His eyes were half amused, half sharp."Fun things?" Jaban asked. "Stealing fruits from other people's trees is fun? Fighting and shouting until night is fun? If that's the case, then maybe I should keep you on night guard duty. That would be my fun."
The boy's grin dropped. He stammered, laughed nervously, then bolted down the path, his slippers slapping against the dirt.
The boy sitting in the yard looked up at Jaban uncle, who now walked closer with a smile tugging at his lips."Don't mind them," Jaban said, placing a heavy hand on his shoulder. "They're evasive boys, doing nothing with their days. They'll grow up weak, stealing, bickering. You're not like them. You've got work to do. Fight with Mala every day, carry your loads, study your medicines. That is the real way. Don't think too much on their words."
The boy nodded slowly, watching the man's weathered face in the moonlight.
"From now on," Jaban continued, his tone firm but not unkind, "go to the banyan tree at dawn. Carry back whatever load Mala prepares for you. Do it before the sun rises. Every day. That is your task."
The next five days blurred together with sweat, aching limbs, and dawn mist. Each morning, before the first hint of sunlight, he rose and strapped bundles of wood or sacks of herbs to his back, trudging toward the old banyan tree at the edge of the fields. The tree stood wide and ancient, its roots tangled deep into the soil, watching over him like a silent guardian.
Sometimes villagers passing by would smile at him, shaking their heads in disbelief at the sight of such a small boy bent under such weight. Some offered him water, pressing a cool clay cup into his hands with quiet encouragement. Others mocked him lightly, asking if the loads were bigger than his body. But no matter what they said, when he stepped back through Granny's doorway, he felt safe again.
On other days, his tasks grew harder. Buckets of water replaced the sacks, and he had to run while balancing them, spilling not a drop. At noon, Mala had him climbing trees with those buckets strapped to him, forcing his muscles to stretch, his grip to tighten. Later, Jaban uncle added sword training while water buckets rested on his shoulders, teaching him control of posture and balance. Every misstep meant icy water splashing down his back.
He also returned to the old training poles. Before, he had toppled almost instantly. Now, though his legs shook and sweat dripped into his eyes, he could hold longer. Sometimes he swayed, sometimes he almost fell, but each day his body learned to steady itself a little more.
Evenings were no easier. By the dim light of oil lamps, he worked alongside Granny, learning the feel of roots between his fingers, the right grind of leaves for medicine, the faint scent that told when a mixture was balanced. Mala joined him too, teaching him to throw small pins at straw dummies marked with acupuncture points. When he hit the right place, Mala only nodded. When he missed, she scolded, making him try again until his arms grew numb.
Bit by bit, Granny began showing him the flow of acupuncture across the entire body. She guided his small fingers along the wooden practice doll, tracing paths of energy with patient precision. "Not yet," she would say softly. "You haven't grasped it. But the path is here. One day, you'll understand."
And then Jaban uncle returned with even harsher methods. In the mornings, the boy punched into trays of heated sand until his knuckles were raw. By afternoon, he struck tree trunks with both fists and legs, the bark scraping his skin. At night, Mala sparred with him, never holding back, and though he was thrown again and again, he rose each time, teeth clenched.
On the sixth day, as he rubbed the soreness from his arms, Mala appeared with her usual mischievous grin."Well done, little boy," she said, her hands on her hips. "No training today. The festivals are starting. We have work in the fields. It's the weekend—go play outside if you want."
He blinked at her. "Play? I need to train."
Before Mala could respond, Granny's voice floated in from inside. "Go with her. Help Mala. She has work to do."
The boy frowned, confused. "Are we going to play?"
Mala laughed. "Nope. We're going on a village tour. Before long, you won't be able to see it."
His small face tightened. "Why? Why does everyone say I can't stay here? What will happen? Aren't the festivals here for us to enjoy?"
Mala's laughter faded. She looked at him carefully, then turned her eyes away. Her voice softened. "See it once. That's all I can say. You may not have the chance again."
He stared at her, bewildered. The air around him seemed heavier suddenly, as if even the festival drums beginning in the distance carried a hidden warning.
But Granny only waved her hand from the doorway, her eyes already closing from weariness. "Go. Help her. And remember what you've learned. Some sights are seen only once in a lifetime."
The boy nodded reluctantly, stepping toward Mala. In his chest, his heart beat faster, though he didn't know why.
..........................
Mala stretched her arms wide and said, "Come on, let's go towards the field first."
The boy followed her down the narrow path, their feet crunching over dry leaves, the smell of wet soil clinging in the morning air. Soon the path opened into a vast field where stalks of paddy swayed like green waves. A group of children, boys and girls around their age, noticed Mala and immediately ran over. They crowded around her with laughter and chatter, their words tumbling over one another.
Almost none of them spoke to him.
He stood a little behind, smiling politely when their eyes flickered toward him, but saying nothing. When they teased Mala, he smiled too, quietly, though no one seemed to notice. He stayed like that the whole walk, as a silent observer, as the group strolled together toward the pond.
At the pond's edge, laughter filled the air. Dozens of children were splashing in the water or racing across the grass. The boy's eyes widened. He had never seen so many gathered in one place. For a moment, he wanted to cry out in astonishment, but his voice caught, and he only pressed his lips together and breathed.
Mala noticed his expression and asked softly, "Do you know what this is?"
He nodded slowly. After the other children had run off to play, he whispered, "That is wheat… and that is sugarcane. I… I love chewing on sugarcane. And those…" He hesitated, tapping his temple. "I forgot their name. But I know them. I remember."
Mala studied him for a moment. "So, your memory is coming back completely?"
He shook his head. "No. Not completely. But some things… when I see them, it feels like I've always known them."
"Good enough," she said with a shrug. "Come on. Over there—they're cutting the paddy today. Look."
He followed her gaze and saw men and women bent low, moving their sickles through the golden stalks. Among them was a girl about Mala's age.
"That's Jaban uncle's daughter, Shima," Mala said. "Today is the last day of cutting. Everyone's giving their hands to finish it quickly. You too. Take this sickle. I'll teach you how."
They walked closer. Mala waved. "Hello, Shima. How are you?"
Shima looked up, her hair sticking to her face with sweat, but she smiled warmly. "I'm fine. And you, Mala? Oh—and this must be that boy everyone talks about." Her eyes softened when they landed on him. "You're really cute. You should come play with us sometimes. Don't stay around this bad-tempered girl all the time."
Before he could react, smack! Mala's hand tapped the back of his head. "Say hello, you mama's boy."
He raised his small hand awkwardly and whispered, "Hello."
Another smack. "Louder, you little log. And now, go work. I'm going to play."
His eyes widened. "Wait, aren't you going to teach me?"
Mala gave a sly grin. "Shima will show you. Won't you, Shima?"
The boy clenched his jaw. "If you don't, I'll tell Granny."
That stopped her. Mala turned back with a frown, stomped her foot, then took the sickle and demonstrated. "Fine. Look closely. Hold it like this—curve down, then pull back. Keep your hand clear, or you'll slice your fingers. Now try."
He mimicked her carefully, his small hands trembling. She corrected his grip, then nodded. "Good enough. I'm off."
He called after her, "If you leave—"
She leaned close and whispered with a laugh, "If you stop me, heh heh… Granny will hear all about how you whined." Then she ran off, her laughter trailing behind her.
He muttered under his breath, "Bad elder sister. Always making me do her work…" Still, he bent to the field and began cutting.
By noon, sweat rolled down his face, and his arms ached from swinging the sickle. He looked around. The whole field had changed, the tall stalks had been reduced to neat bundles. He realized he had lost track of time, working quietly alongside Shima, Jaban uncle, and nearly two dozen villagers. He sat beside them, drinking water from near pond and again came at work.
Just as he straightened to wipe his brow, Shima walked over. "Hey, boy. Don't you want to go home now?"
He blinked, looking around at the cleared field. His chest filled with a strange pride, though he didn't say it aloud. Instead, he nodded. Then he raised his hands in sign and asked, Where is she?
Shima tilted her head. "She? Oh, Mala? You know you can just talk, right? Everyone here is from the village. No need to hide your voice."
Her words made the other villagers pause. One of the older men chuckled. "Oh, so he can talk after all? He's just shy. Shy boys don't last long. Don't be afraid of words, boy. If you fear to speak, you'll die of silence before a sword touches you."
He lowered his head, embarrassed. But finally, in a small voice, he asked, "Where is Mala sister?"
Some of the children nearby, still damp from their play at the pond, piped up. "She went home already. Didn't she call you?"
The boy tugged lightly at Shima's sleeve. His voice was quiet, almost trembling."No… Mala said she would show me the village today."
Jaban uncle straightened, his broad shoulders catching the light. He looked at the boy with calm eyes. "Go home, little one. We'll take care of the rest. There's much work today." He raised his voice so that all could hear. "Come, everyone, we've got to finish before dusk."
But Shima frowned, her hands resting on her hips. "Hunh. Why send him home? He can come with me. Our house is busy with festival preparations. I'll teach you how to help, boy. Come."
Before the boy could reply, a firm voice cut through the noise.
"Did you see Mala?"
They all turned. Granny had appeared suddenly, walking with her stick planted hard into the dirt, her face stern. She scanned the group. "I can't find her. Where is Mala?"
The boy hesitated, then pointed toward the field's edge. "They said… she went home already. That's what they told me."
One of the children stepped forward nervously. "Granny, she said she had something to do at home. She told us to tell him to go home quietly."
Granny tapped her stick twice against the ground, her jaw tight. "I see. Boy, come with me. We'll find her in the village. The rest of you, back to your work!"
Some of the villagers started to rise, ready to join, but Granny raised her hand sharply. "No. It's alright. We'll manage."
The boy followed her, sweat dripping down his back. The sun blazed overhead with unusual force. The heat was unbearable, as though fire itself had spilled across the sky. His skin prickled, and the air wavered in waves of light.
He whispered, "Granny… why is it so hot today? It feels different."
Her brows furrowed. "You're right. This heat isn't normal. Come—we'll rest under that banyan tree. There are people there. Go ask them."
He blinked. "Aren't you coming with me?"
Granny shook her head, settling onto a stone in the shade. "No, boy. You go. I'll wait here."
So he walked toward the group beneath the banyan's heavy branches. There were four or five men there, lounging, drinking water, and watching others build pavilions for the festival.
One of them noticed him first. "Hunh! Little boy, I haven't seen you in this village before. Why wander at noon in this heat? Go home! Come back in the evening, there will be plenty of fun. See? They're raising the pandals already. Off you go, get some sleep."
The boy hesitated, then gathered his courage. His voice came out soft but clear. "Okay… but did you see my Mala sister?"
The men exchanged puzzled glances. One of them frowned. "Mala sister? There's no Mala in this village, boy."
The boy's brows knitted. "No, you're wrong. Granny, the woman who gives medicine to everyone—her granddaughter. That Mala."
At those words, something shifted. One man's face drained of color. He stammered, "Wait… are you talking about the woman who lives near that old house by the river?"
The boy nodded earnestly. "Yes. That's my home now."
The man's hands trembled. "That house… that house is cursed."
The boy frowned deeply. "Cursed? No. I've been living there for thirteen days. It feels different, yes… but not cursed."
Another man leaned forward, his eyes wide. "Thirteen days? Impossible. Living there even one hour is enough to bring death upon anyone."
The boy's throat dried. His palms grew cold despite the burning air. He stood frozen, unable to speak.
The oldest among them leaned closer, his voice low and urgent. "Tell me, boy… did you go to the paddy field today?"
He swallowed and nodded. "Yes. I saw Shima, Jaban uncle, and at least twenty-four villagers. We cut the field together."
The men's faces twisted in horror. "What? No… that can't be." One of them grabbed his own hair and pulled. "Jaban Ranga? Shima Ranga? Those people, no one has seen them in years!"
Another voice, shrill with panic, cut through. "They've been dead many years! Boy, don't you know? Dead!"
The boy's knees weakened. His mind raced, replaying the laughter, the sweat, the bundles of grain. Dead? How could that be? He had worked with them, touched the stalks with them, spoken with Shima.
Suddenly, one man broke into a run, shouting, "The curse is coming back! Run! Go to the general's house, they're the only ones who can help. Run, boy!"
Chaos rippled. The others shouted, fear spreading like wildfire. Some fled into the village streets, others whispered prayers, faces pale.
The boy stood rooted to the ground, his small chest heaving. He wanted to call out, to ask what they meant, but his voice faltered.
Behind him, someone muttered in a trembling voice, "Malambini… I've heard that name before." He scratched his head, panic etched into his face. "Where was it? I can't remember. I don't remember…"
Another man suddenly slapped his forehead. "Yes… now I remember. Isn't it that one which—" His voice cut off mid-sentence, his eyes widening in terror. His lips trembled, but no more sound came.
The others froze, and in that silence, realization struck them all at once. One of them whispered, almost choking on his own breath, "Today… today is that day."
A ripple of panic spread through the group. Without another word, they dropped everything—water pots, tools, even cloth—and scattered in all directions. Feet pounded against the dusty ground as they ran, some shouting prayers, others simply screaming.
The boy stood there, stunned, his hand lifting in a desperate gesture. "Wait! Don't go! Please, tell me!" His voice broke, his chest heaving, but no one turned back.
He started forward, ready to chase them, when suddenly a hand—ice cold, firm—rested on his shoulder. His breath hitched.
Turning slowly, he saw her.
A woman stood behind him, draped in a sari that fluttered lightly despite the still, heavy air. Her face was strikingly beautiful, her eyes dark and unreadable. She looked at him with a curious tilt of her head.
"Why are you in such a daze, little boy? Who were you calling to?"
His throat tightened. "I… I only wanted to ask where my Mala sister went. She disappeared…"
The woman's lips curved into a laugh, soft but unsettling. "Ah, is that all? Then make me a promise, and I'll tell you."
His brows knit. "What promise?"
She leaned closer, her whisper brushing against his ear. "See those soldiers, eating buns by the shade? You must steal their food for me."
The boy hesitated, fear gnawing at him. "If you tell me about Mala sister… then I'll go."
Her smile deepened. "By then, their food will already be gone."
To Be Continued....
#I am sorry, I wrote too much#