Morning did not arrive with silence.
It arrived with music.
A soft, flowing melody drifted through the air, weaving gently between the huts of the village, slipping through open windows, brushing past swaying leaves, and settling into the hearts of those who listened.
Anand stirred.
At first, he thought it was part of a dream—the kind that fades the moment you wake.
But the sound remained.
Clear.
Beautiful.
Alive.
"…Veena…" he murmured, eyes still half-closed.
The notes rose and fell like a calm river, each vibration carrying a depth that was difficult to explain. It wasn't just music—it was emotion given form, devotion made audible.
Anand let out a long yawn, stretching his arms lazily before finally sitting up.
The memory returned.
Yesterday.
They had arrived at the village just before sunset.
A small place.
Quiet.
Welcoming.
The villagers had greeted them with warmth, offering shelter without hesitation. Food had been simple but filling, and the night had passed without worry.
Madhugram, Anand recalled.
The final stop before Ayodhya.
"…Last stop, huh…" he muttered.
The thought lingered.
Ayodhya.
So close now.
But before that—
This morning.
This music.
Anand rubbed his eyes and stood up, following the sound almost instinctively.
The village was already awake.
People had gathered near the center, drawn together like moths to a flame—not by sight, but by sound.
The veena sang.
And beneath a large tree, bathed in the soft light of early morning, stood Narada.
His posture was relaxed, yet composed.
The veena rested effortlessly against his shoulder, his fingers moving across the strings with precision that seemed almost unreal.
Each pluck of the string carried weight.
Each note lingered in the air.
And then—
He began to sing.
His voice blended seamlessly with the melody, rising above it, yet never overpowering it.
The words spoke of greatness.
Of a being beyond comprehension.
Of one who existed in all things, who sustained the world, who guided its flow without ever being seen.
Narada didn't name him.
He didn't need to.
The devotion was evident in every syllable.
The villagers sat around him, unmoving.
Silent.
Completely immersed.
Some had their eyes closed.
Others watched him intently, as though afraid that even blinking might break the moment.
Anand stood at the edge of the gathering.
Quiet.
Observing.
"…Yeah," he whispered under his breath.
"This guy's on another level."
The performance continued for what felt like both a moment and an eternity.
Time lost its meaning.
The world narrowed to sound.
And then—
It ended.
The final note faded slowly, dissolving into the morning air.
Silence followed.
For a brief moment—
No one moved.
Then—
Applause.
Not loud.
Not chaotic.
But sincere.
Grateful.
The villagers spoke among themselves, voices filled with admiration.
"Such divine music…"
"I have never heard anything like it…"
"His voice… it feels as though it reaches the soul…"
Narada lowered his veena slightly, offering a gentle smile.
"Thank you," he said. "For listening so intently."
There was no pride in his voice.
Only warmth.
As the crowd began to stir, Narada's gaze shifted.
He had noticed.
At the edge.
Standing quietly.
Anand.
A small smile formed on Narada's face.
"Anand," he called out.
The name carried clearly.
And just like that—
The attention shifted.
Every head turned.
Every eye focused.
On him.
"…Oh no," Anand muttered.
Too late.
The villagers looked at him with curiosity.
Then confusion.
Then—
Interest.
Whispers began.
"…Who is he?"
"Those clothes…"
"Strange…"
"Is he a traveler?"
"Why does he dress like that?"
Anand's eye twitched slightly.
I can hear you, you know.
He forced a small smile.
Seriously, not even trying to whisper properly…
Narada, completely unbothered by the shift in attention, walked toward him.
The villagers parted slightly, making way.
Their eyes never left Anand.
It was like being put under a spotlight he didn't ask for.
"…Great," he muttered under his breath.
Narada stopped in front of him.
Then—
Without hesitation—
He spoke.
"Your clothing."
Anand blinked.
"…My clothing?"
Narada nodded.
"I did not ask before," he said calmly. "I believed it to be your choice. And it is not proper to question such choices when they do not affect others."
Anand opened his mouth.
Closed it.
…That's actually fair.
"But," Narada continued, tilting his head slightly, "after traveling with you for weeks… I find myself curious."
Anand froze.
"…Of course you are."
Straightforward.
Direct.
No hesitation.
No filter.
"…You really don't hold back, do you?" Anand muttered.
Narada smiled faintly.
"Truth requires no hesitation."
"…Right."
Anand scratched the back of his head.
The villagers leaned in slightly.
Listening.
Waiting.
No pressure.
"…It's just…" Anand began, his voice faltering slightly.
He hesitated.
For a moment—
He didn't know what to say.
How do you explain this?
How do you explain a world that no longer exists here?
His grip tightened slightly on the strap of his bag.
"…These clothes," he said slowly, "they're… from where I came from."
Narada listened quietly.
"They're… important to me," Anand continued. "Kind of like… a memory. Of my home."
His voice softened.
"…Of who I was."
A brief silence followed.
Anand looked down slightly.
"…They remind me… that I'm not originally from here."
The words lingered.
Carrying more weight than he intended.
There was something beneath them.
Something quiet.
Something heavy.
Narada noticed.
He didn't say anything immediately.
But his gaze softened, just slightly.
The villagers, though they didn't fully understand, seemed to grasp enough to quiet their whispers.
The curiosity remained.
But now—
It was mixed with something else.
Respect.
Narada shifted the conversation.
Smoothly.
Effortlessly.
"As memories should," he said gently.
Then, with a faint smile—
"Will you play the music now?"
Anand's head snapped up.
"…Are you serious?"
Narada blinked.
"Yes."
Anand stared at him.
Then—
He laughed.
A short, dry laugh.
"You really don't give up, do you?"
Narada smiled.
"I do not."
Anand sighed.
Deeply.
Then—
With the straightest face he could manage—
"No."
Narada paused.
"…No?"
"No," Anand repeated.
Flat.
Final.
Narada tilted his head.
"…Not even one?"
"Nope."
"…A short one?"
"No."
"…Later?"
Anand's eye twitched again.
"…We'll see."
Narada considered that.
Then nodded.
"…Acceptable."
Anand shook his head, muttering under his breath.
"Unbelievable…"
The crowd slowly dispersed.
The moment passed.
But the air still carried the echo of music.
Anand stretched slightly, glancing around the village.
"…So," he said, "this is the last stop before Ayodhya, huh?"
Narada nodded.
"Yes."
Anand looked ahead.
Beyond the village.
Beyond the horizon.
"…Almost there," he whispered.
A strange feeling settled in his chest.
Excitement.
Nervousness.
Anticipation.
Everything mixed together.
He adjusted his bag.
"…Let's see what all the hype is about."
Narada smiled.
"The journey shapes the destination," he said.
Anand snorted lightly.
"Yeah, yeah. Wise words."
But he didn't disagree.
Not anymore.
The morning moved forward.
The road awaited.
And somewhere ahead—
Ayodhya stood.
Closer than ever.