Chapter 1: Underneath The Banyan Tree
In the farmlands that stretch across the horizon, embraced by the early morning sun, there is a moment of pure, untroubled joy. Children's laughter mingles with the chirping of birds as Arjun races through the golden wheat fields. His life among the villagers is simple, marked by the rhythms of rural existence rather than the pomp of courtly life. The laughter of the children playing around him, including Arjun, fills the air with a nostalgic warmth. They chase each other through the fields, their spirits as light as the breeze that rustles the wheat. But as the game reaches its peak, the scene begins to distort, darkening with Arjun's deepening breaths. The sky darkens ominously, and a chilling wind replaces the gentle breezes. The wheat, once golden, turns ashen, crumpling under an unseen weight. Silence falls, heavy and suffocating. Arjun slows to a stop, his heart pounding with a dreadful realization. The earth beneath him is soaked, not with water, but with blood. Bodies—those of his playmates, familiar villagers, and faceless strangers—dot the landscape like gruesome markers of some forgotten battle.
Gasping, Arjun awakens from the nightmare. He finds comfort in the familiarity of his small home and the lap of his wife, Sita, a kind-hearted villager who knows little of his noble heritage. Her touch, warm and reassuring, grounds him. With a playful flick, she smears flour across his cheek, pulling him back to a reality filled with love and simple daily chores. Their small kitchen beckons, and as Sita darts away with a teasing smile, Arjun momentarily forgets the horrors that haunt his sleep. He chases after her, laughter replacing the fear, the dread of his dreams dissolving in the morning light. Yet, the dark premonitions linger in the back of his mind, a shadow over the life he has built far from the intrigues of his father's court.
"You're up early," Sita observes, handing Arjun a steaming cup. Her voice is soft, barely rising above the quiet hum of the morning.
Arjun takes the cup with a smile. "The village won't patrol itself," he replies, his tone light but carrying an underlying note of responsibility.
Sita leans against the wooden counter, studying him. "You wear your duty like a second skin, Arjun. Do you ever wish…," she pauses, searching for the right words, "that things were different? That you weren't tied to this?"
Arjun's gaze meets hers, his expression thoughtful. "Sometimes," he admits, "but then I wouldn't have met you, would I?" His hand finds hers, a silent testament to the depth of their bond.
Sita's response is a soft chuckle. "Always the right answers, my love." She squeezes his hand. "Just promise me you'll be careful today. The winds are changing; I can feel it."
"I always am," Arjun reassures her, standing to place a quick, tender kiss on her forehead. "And I'll always come back to you."
With a final shared glance, full of unspoken words and mutual understanding, Arjun picks up his hat and steps out into the burgeoning day, the warmth of Sita's love a shield against the world outside. Arjun, lively and light-footed at 23, weaves through the village market, his presence a familiar comfort rather than an assertion of authority. His first visit is to Kavi's pottery stall, where the elderly potter greets him with a mischievous grin.
"Ah, Arjun, come to keep an old man company?" Kavi teases, his hands busy shaping a lump of clay.
"Just making sure you're not causing any trouble," Arjun replies, a playful spark in his eyes.
"Young man, trouble is for the young. Speaking of which, when will you bring some little troublemakers of your own into the world, eh? Sita must be waiting," Kavi nudges, always eager to discuss Arjun's future family.
Arjun laughs, brushing off the comment. "For now, let's focus on keeping your pots from cracking, not my quiet life."
Their conversation is full of warmth, highlighting a bond that transcends age and status.
Next, Arjun stops by a bustling textile stall, managed by a young woman with a sharp business sense. She hands him a small, intricately woven band for Sita with a knowing smile.
"Keeping peace at home?" she jokes, her tone light and teasing.
"Peace is easier to keep than you might think," Arjun responds, his grin wide.
Their easy banter masks a deep mutual respect, forged from years of shared experiences in the village.
As he continues his rounds, Arjun is playfully ambushed by a group of village children. They declare him the monster of their game, and he obliges with a roar, chasing them around the square. Their laughter fills the air, a reminder of the village's vibrant spirit.
"You'll make me wish I really was a monster, so I could scare you off to bed earlier!" Arjun declares, catching his breath after the spirited chase.
Lastly, Arjun stops at the forge, where Anand, the village blacksmith, is at work. The blacksmith wipes his brow and grins at Arjun's approach.
"Looks like you survived the monster hunt," Anand comments, nodding towards the playful chaos left behind in the square.
"Just barely. These patrols might end up being the death of me, not the work itself," Arjun chuckles.
They talk about strengthening the village bridge, their conversation interspersed with good-natured ribbing about each other's craftsmanship. As Arjun ends his patrol, the light of the setting sun paints the village in hues of gold and amber, casting long shadows that whisper of days ending. Yet, for now, the warmth of the village and its people fills his heart, a steady flame against the coming dusk.
In the late afternoon, Arjun finds himself wandering to the outskirts of the village where the air is filled with the sounds of laughter and the clash of wooden sticks. Under the broad canopy of an ancient banyan tree, a group of village boys have gathered for their usual games of mock combat. They are young, the oldest among them barely eighteen, their play fueled by tales of ancient warriors and battles glorified by time.
Arjun watches with a lazy smile as Kartik and Mohan, two of the more enthusiastic participants, orchestrate a clumsy duel. Their sticks strike with more noise than skill, and their strategies consist of nothing more sophisticated than loud yells and daring charges that would make a real soldier cringe. Yet, there's an infectious joy in their movements, a purity in their untempered zeal. Rohit, the youngest at just eleven, runs around them, too small to participate directly but fervent in his role as the messenger, announcing imagined victories and defeats with a seriousness that belies his age. Leaning against the trunk of the banyan, Arjun chuckles to himself, thoroughly entertained. He's aware, in a distant part of his mind, that these games could one day be a harsher reality for these boys, but such thoughts are easy to dismiss on a day as peaceful as this. The village has remained untouched by conflict for years, and the worries of other, less fortunate places seem like distant shadows, unlikely to disturb their tranquil life.
Anand, joining Arjun under the shade, watches the boys for a moment before turning to him with a questioning look. "They get better at this every day," he comments, half-joking, half-serious. "Makes you wonder if we should be teaching them something more… useful."
Arjun shrugs, his gaze still fixed on the children. "They're just kids, Anand. Let them have their fun. The world's troubles are no burden for them to bear, not yet."
As the sun begins to set, casting golden light through the leaves, the play-fighting winds down. The boys, flushed and exhilarated, gradually disperse to their homes, their laughter echoing behind them. Arjun and Anand remain, the former still smiling, the latter thoughtful, perhaps even concerned. But any heavy conversation is postponed, left unspoken as they part ways, Arjun to return to his content, simple life, and Anand to whatever preparations he deems necessary, just in case.
The tavern's glow offers a comforting warmth as Arjun settles into a quiet corner, the familiar hum of village chatter enveloping him like a worn cloak. He cradles a cup of the local brew, its sharp tang blending with the smoky air, grounding him in the here and now. His gaze flits across the room, observing the easy camaraderie among the villagers. As laughter bubbles up from a nearby table, Arjun's thoughts drift, almost imperceptibly, to his own training days. Those sessions, marked not by camaraderie but by the stern commands of his instructor, had honed his instincts and skills in a far less forgiving environment. "Quicker, sharper!" the voice in his memory echoes faintly, not as a shout but as a whisper woven through the current mirth. He remembers the weight of a wooden sword, the feel of it in his hands, mirroring the heft of his current drink. The lessons were tough and the expectations high. Taking a sip, Arjun lets the slightly bitter liquid linger on his tongue, its taste a bridge between past and present. His reflections are gentle ripples on the surface of his mind, not delving too deep tonight. There's a comfort in recognizing how far he's come, from disciplined training grounds to this simple village life.
Night deepens outside, pulling Arjun back from his reverie. He pays for his drink with a nod to the tavern keeper, his movements unhurried as he steps out into the cool evening. The walk home is tranquil, each step a note in the quiet symphony of his routine.
At the door of his home, the soft light spilling from within promises the warmth of Sita's presence. He enters quietly, greeted by her smile, which seems to strip away any remnants of his solitary musings.
"Quiet night?" Sita inquires, her voice a soft anchor.
As Arjun steps into the warmth of their small home, the aroma of simmering spices and Sita's gentle presence immediately wash him with comfort. Sita looks up from where she's stirring a pot on the hearth, her smile turning playful as she teases, "You've brought the tavern's scent home with you tonight."
Arjun laughs, a soft, contented sound. He approaches her, wrapping his arms around her waist from behind and resting his chin on her shoulder. "Is that so? And here I thought I was bringing home the sweet fragrance of jasmine and moonlight," he murmurs, his breath warm against her ear.
Sita leans back into him, her hands coming to rest over his. "Jasmine and moonlight, huh? That brew must be more poetic than I remember." Her voice is light, but it thrums with affection. He tightens his embrace, turning her gently so they face each other. "Maybe it's not the brew but the company that inspires poetry," Arjun replies, his eyes gleaming with a mix of mirth and deeper emotions. Her laughter fills the room, echoing around the humble walls that have borne witness to many such tender moments. "Well, Mr. Poet, your verses are as smooth as your return from the tavern." She reaches up to brush a loose strand of hair from his forehead, her touch lingering.
"The only verse I need is the curve of your smile," he says, leaning in to kiss her softly. The kiss is a seal over words too vast for speech, a gentle claiming of shared moments and mutual understanding.
As they part, Sita's eyes hold a sparkle that matches the stars peeking through their window. "Come, let's have dinner before your poetic lines turn my head too much and I burn the stew."
Arjun laughs, releasing her but taking her hand to lead her to their small table. They settle down across from each other, the simple meal laid out between them glowing under the candlelight. The room is filled with their quiet talk and laughter, the night drawing a veil around their little world, where the complexities of past and future are held at bay by the simplicity of love and connection.