The Scroll, the Dream, and the Vow That Waited
The Living Room
Evening settled softly over the house, bathing the living room in golden light. Shadows stretched and danced along the walls, and the unopened neem ash pouch sat on the table—a quiet reminder of recent, mysterious promises. The aroma of turmeric milk and melting jaggery drifted from the kitchen, where Rudra's grandfather was humming an old film song, occasionally mixing up the lyrics.
Niya paced by the window, sketchbook clutched to her chest. "We buried a scroll together," she said, frowning in concentration. "That feels important, Rudra. Not just a ritual—something almost legendary."
Rudra nodded, but a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "If it's legendary, I hope my part doesn't involve running from angry geese again. But you're right. It felt like a vow—something personal, not just tradition." His fingers drummed an uneven rhythm on the table, betraying nerves.
Just then, Rudra's grandfather entered, whistling the last line of his song off-key. "Before you two turn into ancient sages, have some milk," he said, setting down the steaming cups. "And if you're making secret vows, speak them aloud. Otherwise, how will the universe know what to do with you?"
The Reckoning
Niya grinned and flipped through her sketchbook, skipping over doodles of forts, spirals, and a suspiciously round cow, before pausing at a page marked by a swirling spiral. The verse beneath it seemed to glow, though she couldn't remember ever writing it.
"I saw myself in a dream," she said, a hint of wonder in her voice. "But older, and… different. The spiral was there, and this verse—like it's always been waiting for us."
Rudra leaned closer, eyes sparkling with curiosity. "When Meghraj took me to the valley, the scroll spoke of rebirth. It felt big. But sometimes I wonder if I'm supposed to lead, or just follow everyone else and hope I don't trip over my own feet."
Rudra's grandfather listened, his face softening with pride and mischief. "You're part of something bigger—like a cycle, yes. But don't let it turn you into a philosopher before dinner. Trust me, the world has enough of those."
The Question
Niya's seriousness faded just a little as she looked at Rudra's grandfather. "What are we supposed to do with all of this? Sometimes it feels… huge. Like the universe gave us a job application and forgot to send instructions."
He chuckled, shaking his head. "You don't have to explain it, Niya. You just have to live it. Besides, instructions are always in the fine print—no one ever reads those anyway."
"But it's overwhelming," Niya admitted, her voice small.
Rudra's grandfather opened the neem ash pouch with a flourish, sprinkling a pinch into each cup. "If you weren't overwhelmed, I'd worry you weren't paying attention." He handed them their drinks. "This ash doesn't heal. It reminds. And if you remember to laugh, even the universe listens better."
They sipped their milk, warmth spreading through them. For a moment, the silence was filled with the comfort of small things: the clink of cups, the taste of jaggery, and the knowledge that whatever waited beyond, they would face it together.
The Spiral Within
Later, Rudra climbed to the rooftop, the night sky scattered with stars. He held the stone leaf in his palm and, with a small smile, texted Niya: "I think we're not just remembering Veeraj; we're here to finish what he couldn't. No pressure, right?"
Her reply arrived instantly: "No pressure at all. Just cosmic destiny and maybe a few more angry geese."
He grinned up at the sky as his grandfather joined him, both sitting in companionable silence. Above, the spiral of their story seemed to turn with them—this time, with a glimmer of laughter woven into the mystery.
Soul Verse
Ek gungun rahili.
Ek olakh jhali.
Ek paan lihile.
Ek yatra tayar zhali.
(One hum remained. One recognition happened. One leaf was written. One journey was prepared.)