The desert stretched endlessly, golden dunes dancing under the fierce Rajasthani sun. And yet, within this harsh land, life bloomed in the small village of Aarambh. Mud huts with thatched roofs stood close together, women balanced brass pots of water on their heads, and children laughed barefoot in the sands.
The village was poor in wealth, but rich in tradition. Every evening, the villagers gathered at the temple of Hanumanji, where the sound of aarti bells filled the air, mingling with the fragrance of burning camphor. Life was hard, but there was faith – and that faith held them together.
Among these people lived a boy named Yash. His father, Bhavsingh, was a farmer who worked tirelessly in the harsh desert soil, hoping for rains that came rarely. His mother, Meera, was gentle and wise, her voice like a soothing song that could calm Yash even on his most restless days.
But it was his grandmother, Daadi Saraswati, who left the deepest imprint on him. She was the keeper of stories – not just bedtime tales, but epics filled with wisdom. Each night, as the oil lamp flickered against the mud walls, she would recite verses from the Mahabharata or the Ramayana.
"Dharma protects those who protect it, Yash," she would remind him, her frail voice steady with conviction.
"धर्मो रक्षति रक्षितः।"
Yash listened carefully, his young heart soaking every word like dry soil drinking rain.
Yet, deep inside, Yash often felt something he couldn't explain. While other children of the village dreamed of bigger farms or better rains, Yash would stare at the endless horizon of dunes. It was as if the desert whispered to him – a silent call to something greater, beyond the boundaries of Aarambh.
One day, while helping his father plough the dry soil, Yash paused and looked up. High in the sky, a hawk circled gracefully, unbound by land, free to roam. Yash's hands tightened on the plough.
"Bapu," he asked suddenly, "why must we live only here? Beyond the dunes, isn't there a bigger world?"
His father gave him a stern look, sweat dripping down his forehead.
"Yash, the world outside is not as kind as you think. Our life is here, in Aarambh. This soil feeds us, these people are our family."
But his grandmother, listening from the veranda, smiled faintly. She saw the same fire in Yash's eyes that once burned in saints and warriors.
That night, Yash's restlessness turned into vision.
He stood before a towering golden temple that seemed to pierce the heavens. The sound of Sanskrit chants echoed in the air, filling him with both fear and awe. From within the temple, a divine light burst forth, and a voice spoke – deep, commanding, yet filled with compassion:
"Uttishtha Yash… Dharmapath tvaam apekshate…" ("Rise, Yash… The path of Dharma awaits you.")
Yash woke with a start, drenched in sweat. His heart thundered in his chest. It was no ordinary dream – it felt like a calling.
Days later, during the annual Makar Sankranti mela, Aarambh was buzzing with joy. Kites filled the sky, drums echoed, and villagers danced in colorful turbans and lehengas.
But suddenly, chaos struck. A bull, startled by firecrackers, broke free from its tether and charged into the crowd. Children screamed, women rushed aside, and panic spread.
Without thinking, Yash ran forward. His friends shouted for him to stop, but Yash grabbed a red cloth from a stall and waved it to distract the bull. The beast charged at him, dust flying under its hooves. At the very last second, Yash leapt aside, and the bull crashed into an empty cart, finally restrained by villagers.
The crowd gasped, then erupted in relief. His father scolded him, his mother wept, but his grandmother only looked at him silently – with pride, and with fear.
She knew this was not the act of a simple village boy. Destiny was beginning to show itself.