Chapter 3: Asha's World

In the sleepy town of Devnagri, where dawn broke with the sound of temple bells and evenings ended with chants echoing through banyan-lined streets, Asha came into the world during a monsoon. The rain that fell that night was not angry; it was gentle, like the sky blessing her arrival. Her mother, Mira, a village healer with hands worn from grinding herbs and stitching wounds, held her newborn close as thunder rolled softly outside.

From the beginning, Asha's life was marked not by riches but by rhythm. The rhythm of temple bells, the rhythm of her mother humming prayers, the rhythm of her father's wooden sandals on the mud path as he walked to the nearby Gaushala. He was a caretaker of cows, not because it paid much but because he believed in seva — selfless service. Asha grew up in a two-room home with cracked clay walls, but it breathed warmth. Her bed was made of old sarees stitched together, her toys were twigs, threads, and imagination.

At five, she began helping her mother make herbal pastes. At six, she could recite entire slokas from memory. By seven, she sat outside the small temple near the river, tying marigold garlands and singing to the deities in a voice so clear, even birds paused to listen.

Yet, her world was not without shadows. Devnagri was beautiful, but it was also poor. Hunger visited most homes. Fevers came with the rains. Once, she watched a friend cough for days until he stopped breathing. That night, she asked her mother, "Why doesn't God help when we pray?"

Her mother only smiled sadly and said, "God listens, beti. But sometimes, He has bigger plans. We just can't see them yet."

That answer stayed with Asha. Not as a cure, but a question.

Years passed. Asha turned ten. She grew tall, with sharp eyes and hair the color of night. Her smile was rare but genuine. She ran like the wind, climbed mango trees, and bandaged wounded birds. People in the village began calling her "chhoti vaidya" — the little healer.

Her bond with nature was uncanny. Animals trusted her. Trees seemed to sway when she passed. Her father used to joke, "Even the wind slows down to listen when our Asha speaks."

One afternoon, as she walked back from the forest carrying neem leaves, she saw a boy teasing a puppy near the riverbank. Without hesitation, she stepped between them.

"Let it go," she said, her voice firm.

"It's just a stray," the boy sneered.

"And you're just a fool," she retorted.

The boy flushed and ran off. Asha scooped the puppy into her arms. It was trembling, dirty, and scared. She dipped her dupatta in the river and cleaned its paws. Then, out of nowhere — the ground beneath her shifted.

Asha hadn't noticed how close she'd gotten to the edge. The earth crumbled, and she fell. The puppy yelped and jumped from her hands, landing safely. Asha did not.

She hit the water with a cry.

The river wasn't deep, but the current was strong. She struggled, her small limbs flailing. The world spun — water, sky, trees — until hands grabbed her, lifting her up.

Coughing, sputtering, she blinked at the man who'd pulled her out. He wore saffron, had a long beard, and a rudraksha mala. But his eyes sparkled with mischief.

"You again," he said, though she didn't know him. "Always so dramatic."

"Who are you?" she coughed.

He chuckled, unbothered by the fact she'd nearly drowned. "Just a traveler. But here — take this."

He tied a thin red thread around her wrist.

"What is it?"

"A thread of memory," he said, cryptically. "Someday, someone will tug at the other end."

"Why me?"

"Because even the stars whisper your name."

She blinked. When she looked again, he was gone.

She returned home, dripping wet, the thread still on her wrist. Her mother scolded her, then wrapped her in warm blankets.

That night, as she drifted to sleep, the wind outside whispered through the leaves. The thread glowed faintly in the moonlight.

Far above, the gods watched.