Ganesh began leaving the hermitage before dawn.
At first, it was only for short walks—just beyond the familiar trails, to places where the forest grew thicker and quieter. He told no one. He did not feel he was doing anything wrong.
He only felt that he could not breathe if he stayed.
The air outside the hermitage seemed different—wilder, less shaped by chanting and ritual. When he walked alone beneath the tall trees, listening to birds awaken and the river murmur in the distance, the restless weight in his chest eased, if only for a while.
Yet when he returned for morning practice, the weight always came back.
One morning, during weapon training, Ganesh sparred with a disciple named Varun, older and broader than him.
Varun had always been steady, rarely losing his temper. But today, when Ganesh disarmed him with a swift turn and sent his staff flying, something snapped.
"You fight as if you want to prove something," Varun said sharply, grabbing his weapon from the ground. "Is that what you seek now? To stand above us all?"
Ganesh froze, startled.
"That's not what I meant," he said. "I was only following the form."
Varun's eyes narrowed. "You've changed. You barely sit with us anymore. You wander off alone. Now you strike harder than needed. What are you trying to become?"
The words cut deep.
"I don't know," Ganesh admitted. "But I know I can't pretend everything is the same."
"Then perhaps you no longer belong here," Varun snapped.
The clearing fell silent.
Ganesh felt heat rise in his face. For a moment, he wanted to shout back, to defend himself.
Instead, he lowered his staff.
"Maybe I don't," he said quietly.
He turned and walked away, leaving the training ground in stunned silence.
That day, whispers followed him.
Some said he was becoming arrogant.
Others said he had lost focus.
A few wondered if Agnivrat's favored student had grown too big for the hermitage.
Ganesh heard them all.
Each word felt like another stone added to the weight in his chest.
By evening, he could no longer bear it.
He went to Agnivrat.
They sat by the sacred fire, its glow painting long shadows across the sage's calm face.
"I am causing unrest here," Ganesh said. "Wherever I go, something breaks. Even here."
Agnivrat studied him quietly. "Tell me what happened."
Ganesh told him of Varun's words, of his own restless walks, of the feeling that he no longer fit within the walls that had once been his home.
When he finished, he waited, bracing himself.
Agnivrat did not scold him.
Instead, he asked, "Do you respect this place less than before?"
Ganesh shook his head. "No. I respect it more. That is why it hurts to feel this distance."
"Then listen well," the sage said. "Distance does not always mean rejection. Sometimes it means your sight has widened."
Ganesh frowned. "But my widening seems to trouble everyone else."
"It will," Agnivrat replied. "When one grows, the old spaces feel smaller—not because they shrink, but because you do not."
The words settled into Ganesh's heart.
"But what should I do, Gurudev?" he asked. "Stay and pretend? Or walk and risk losing everything I know?"
Agnivrat looked into the fire.
"I cannot choose for you," he said softly. "But I can tell you this: do not let bitterness guide your steps. When you leave, let it be because you are called forward, not because you are pushed away."
"When?" Ganesh asked.
"When staying becomes a lie," the sage replied.
That night, Ganesh could not sleep.
He rose and walked beyond the huts, past the sacred fire, past the banyan tree, until he reached the edge of the hermitage grounds.
Beyond it lay only forest and darkness.
He stood there for a long time, heart pounding.
Is this where it begins? he wondered.
He took one step beyond the worn path.
The forest seemed to breathe around him.
Nothing happened.
No thunder.
No omen.
No voice.
Only the soft crunch of leaves beneath his feet.
He stood there, feeling both fear and freedom.
Then he stepped back.
Not yet, he told himself.
But the line had been crossed, even if only for a moment.
The next day, Agnivrat sent Ganesh to carry food to a group of wanderers camped farther than usual from the hermitage. It was a longer journey than any he had taken alone before.
Ganesh accepted without question.
As he walked, he felt a strange mix of excitement and unease. The forest grew unfamiliar, the paths less clear. For the first time, he realized how much he relied on known trails.
When he reached the camp, he found a mix of humans, devas, and one quiet asura sitting together, sharing a simple meal.
They welcomed him warmly.
As they ate, they spoke of lands beyond the forest—of rivers that split mountains, of cities built from white stone, of places where devas ruled openly and asuras gathered in strength.
Ganesh listened, his heart stirring.
The world was larger than he had ever imagined.
When he finally rose to leave, an old wanderer said, "You walk like one who will not stay long in any one place."
Ganesh smiled faintly. "I am not sure yet."
The wanderer nodded. "None of us are, until we are."
On the way back, Ganesh took a path he had never walked before.
It wound deeper into the forest, past twisted roots and dark pools. He lost sight of the familiar markers, and for a moment, fear flickered in his chest.
But he did not turn back.
He followed the sound of running water until he found his way again.
When he finally reached the hermitage, dusk had fallen.
No one scolded him.
But he noticed the looks—concern, curiosity, distance.
That night, as he lay in his hut, he realized something that frightened him:
He had not hurried to return.
The hermitage was no longer the center of his world.
It was becoming one place among many.
Far beyond mortal sight, Shiva watched the boy take his first true steps beyond shelter.
"He has crossed the threshold in his heart," the Lord murmured.
"Soon, his feet will follow."
Ganesh closed his eyes, listening to the forest beyond the walls.
He did not yet know where the path would lead.
But he knew, now, that he would not remain where he was.