On a rock, a boy sat silently. His left hand rested on the stone, and his right hand held a branch-staff. He looked across the plain, his brown eyes scanning the grazing sheep. The wind lifted his hair, brushing his face, revealing his dried lips and calm features.
He stomped his staff on the rock and stood. Stretching his hand, he raised his fingers to his mouth and whistled. Immediately, all the sheep turned and ran toward him. Smiling, he picked up his staff and began walking, the sheep following obediently. They eventually reached a small river. Mohan bent down, splashed water on his face, drank from the river, and waited as the sheep quenched their thirst. Once they were done, he continued walking with them.
After some time, Mohan reached his village. His home, fenced with wooden stakes, came into view. He opened the gate and entered. The house was surrounded by a field of crops and a farm for sheep, chickens, and buffaloes.
He opened the farm gate, letting all the sheep enter the small hut, raised slightly off the ground. He removed his jacket and sat on his chair, looking at his mud-and-stone house decorated with flowers around the gate. He glanced over his farm and let out a sigh.
"Mohan!"
A voice shouted, and he turned, recognizing it immediately. Slowly, a figure appeared—a middle-aged man with a beard, smiling and carrying a bag.
"Mohan, my grandson, have some meat today—it's your aunt's birthday!" the man said, handing him the bag.
Mohan smiled. "Thanks." He set the bag aside and looked at his grandfather. "This isn't the only reason, right?"
The middle-aged man's smile faded. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a gold chain. "This was your mother's last gift, left for you," he said, placing it in Mohan's palm.
Mohan took the chain calmly. "So you finally decided to leave me?"
The man hesitated, unable to speak, staring at his grandson. He stepped closer. "This is not your fault," he whispered, then turned and left.
Mohan watched him go, tears welling in his eyes. Slowly, he wiped them away and stared at the gold chain, his mother's last gift.
As the day faded into night, Mohan sat inside his house, holding the chain. In front of him was a broken mirror. He placed the chain around his neck, looked at his reflection, cursed quietly, and pressed the chain to his heart, spending the night in silent thought.
The next morning, he put the chain in a box, made tea, and grabbed his sickle, heading toward the forest to cut grass. People in the village whispered and gossiped about him and his mother, but Mohan remained unbothered, walking with a calm, unreadable expression.
In the forest, he cut branches and grass, tying them to a rope and carrying the bundle on his head. Climbing the rocky path, he heard footsteps and a familiar voice. A girl his age appeared with a bundle of grass on her head, smiling at him. Behind her, her brother followed, also carrying grass.
"Samrat!" Mohan called with excitement, his usual poker face gone.
"Hey, Mohan!" Samrat replied, smiling. They chatted as they walked, and Mohan kept stealing glances at the girl.
Eventually, they reached the point where their paths separated. Mohan waved goodbye. "Bye, Samrat! Bye…" he added, watching the girl go.
He continued home, picking up a smooth white rock along the way and putting it in his pocket. At home, he tended to his buffalo and stacked the grass he collected. Sitting on his chair, he looked up at the blue sky, filled with the wind's aroma and the birds' calls, feeling relaxed.
He pulled his long hair down, laughing. "I'll grow it until it reaches my shoulders," he said, then went inside. In the kitchen, he added firewood to the chulo, lit it with a match, and used some plastic to get the fire going. He stoked it with more wood, put a pan on it, and added oil.
Mohan collected two eggs from the chickens and thanked them silently. He broke the eggs into a bowl, mixed them with salt, and poured the mixture into the pan. Once cooked, he served himself, sitting outside to eat.
Beside him was the bag his grandfather had given him. He tossed it into the pig pen, and the pig stormed toward the meat. Mohan chuckled. "That's a big one," he said, then remembered the family debts.
He put the chain away in his box and touched his palm, thinking, "Mother said we could read fate by the palm… but how?"
Bored, he spoke to himself quietly. As night fell, Mohan slept on the chair, surrounded by the soft sounds of wind and his farm animals.