They say the hands that heal are blessed, but in the quiet where their shrouded ties meet the same horizon, even blessings can leave wounds no water could heal.
~~~~~
One evening, KaanKuwar waited by the shore, but Mohan did not come at the hour he always did.
The sun slid low, staining the lake in molten gold. Still, he did not come.
KaanKuwar sank back into the lake's depths. Time drifted. Then—a stir, faint and trembling, broke the water's reflection.
From beneath the water, he saw him.
Mohan.
Hunched. Covered in wounds.
KaanKuwar's body shifted, the shimmer of scales vanishing as flesh returned. He stepped out of the lake and ran to him.
"You… okay?" he asked, his voice tight.
Mohan's lips curved into a weary smile. "I knew you would come… even if I didn't come at my usual time."
KaanKuwar's gaze moved over the raw cuts and bruises along Mohan's arms, his legs, his face. "Who did this to you?"
"This is nothing," Mohan murmured. "It is common.… for people like us. Nothing new."
KaanKuwar's brows drew together. "Still….how could they beat you so much?"
Mohan's eyes searched his. "Why aren't you surprised? That I say 'It is common for people like us'?"
KaanKuwar stilled. He blinked once, looked away.
"You already know," Mohan said quietly. "You've seen the wounds before."
Silence pressed between them.
"I belong to the untouchable community of this town."
In India, such people were once pushed to the farthest edges of villages. Caste once decided the worth of a person before their first breath. Those in the higher castes could walk into temples, draw water from any well, sit wherever they pleased. But the untouchables, were shunned as if their touch, even their shadow, could stain the world. People would not take water from their hands. If they sat somewhere, that place was deemed unclean. Their lives were ringed with rules meant to humiliate, and in many places, the upper castes would beat them, spit on them, vent their rage upon them — knowing the untouchables could do nothing but endure.
Mohan's voice cracked, the truth spilling like an old wound reopening. "People treat us like animals."
He swallowed, tears threatening. "When I first met you, the elderly couple you helped—they were from my community too. There were so many others there that day, but no one came forward. Only you."
KaanKuwar's chest tightened. He had not known that.
"I thought… maybe you were new here, maybe you didn't know what we were. That's why I spoke to you by the lake—you didn't look at me like they do. You talked to me." His breath hitched. "You are the first person in this village who sat and ate with me."
He looked down, the tears beginning to fall. "But then I began to think you already knew, and just… didn't care. Still, I was afraid to tell you. Afraid that if you didn't know, and I told you, I'd lose the only person who sits with me. The only one who eats with me."
KaanKuwar knelt, cupping his palms over each wound. The air warmed between them, a soft light spilling from his hands. Mohan's eyes widened, he was shocked, his breath silent—then softened, as pain bled away under that strange, gentle power.
When the last wound had closed, KaanKuwar brushed a tear from Mohan's cheek. "You're right," he said softly. "I already knew. And I don't care. I only care for your heart and it is pure."
KaanKuwar sat beside him, leaning back on his hands, looking out over the lake. "You know," he said, a faint smile tugging his lips, "the monster of this lake your villagers whisper about… or the god they claim lives here… or the ghost they fear… that's me. If you think of it that way, we're both untouchables in their eyes."
Mohan's tears stopped. He had always known KaanKuwar was different. Now he had confessed, and yet—Mohan did not ask what he truly was. Monster, ghost, god—it did not matter. He only wanted his company. His first friend who had never looked away.
From the first day, KaanKuwar had known which community Mohan belonged to. He had wondered why someone would risk coming to a forbidden lake, eating alone with his back to the world. Only a man who already knew that the worst monster could be human would ignore the rumors of another.
They were alike—misunderstood, avoided. For KaanKuwar, it was the fear and myths around him. For Mohan, it was the prejudice and labels people had given him. Both carried the truth they cannot show and both were drawn to the same lake.
For KaanKuwar, Mohan was not a friend. He was family.
But destiny does not cradle bonds simply because they are rare. It watches them bloom only to learn the weight of breaking them. The days by the lake would not stretch forever; their laughter would soon turn to silence.And when the blow came, it would not be from an enemy's hand, but from KaanKuwar's own—leaving a wound no waters could ever heal.