Rudra, Niya, Manu — The Grove, the Leaf, and the First Echo
The Mango Grove
The path to Manu's house wound through an old mango grove, the trees so thick with fruit and leaves that the sunlight broke into patches on the ground. The air was humid—earthy, with a hint of neem—and every now and then, a mango would drop somewhere out of sight, thudding softly into the undergrowth. It was the kind of place that felt unchanged by years, as if the trees themselves remembered everyone who had ever passed beneath their branches.
Manu walked ahead, sure-footed and silent, toes pressing into the cool mud. He didn't look back often, but when he did, there was a quiet pride in his eyes, as if he was sharing a secret.
"She doesn't talk much, Ajji," he said, voice low, "but when she does, it's like the trees are listening. Everything slows down, even the wind."
Rudra felt a strange ache at those words—a nostalgia that didn't quite belong to him. He glanced at Niya, grateful for her steady presence. The three of them moved deeper into the grove, the rustle of leaves and distant sound of birds their only company.
🛖 The Hut
Manu's home was a modest hut, its walls patched with stone and mud, the roof low and thatched. A tulsi plant stood guard by the entrance, and someone had drawn a rangoli in which was faded now—a swirl of curves and dots, half-washed away by last night's rain. The smell inside was comforting: old wood, dried neem, and something sweet beneath it all, like roasted grain.
Inside, the atmosphere was intimate and warm, filled with the scents of nostalgia.Ajji sat on a worn cot by the window, sunlight catching in her hair. She was threading neem leaves onto a string, her hands moving with the practiced rhythm of someone who had done it a thousand times. Her eyes were sharp, even though the skin around them crinkled with age.
Ajji wasn't tall, but she carried herself with a quiet dignity that made her seem larger than life. Her skin was the color of sun-warmed earth, mapped with fine wrinkles that deepened when she smiled—though she didn't do that often. Her hair, still thick beneath its streaks of silver, was always pulled back in a loose braid that smelled faintly of coconut oil and jasmine.
Her eyes, dark and sharp, missed nothing. They had a way of settling on you, gentle but unblinking, as if she could see right through whatever story you were telling and into the one you were afraid to share. Even on the hottest days, Ajji wore her faded cotton sari pulled close, the border stained with turmeric and years of kitchen work.
Her hands were small, strong, and restless—always weaving something, stringing leaves or folding cloth, as if she was stitching the household together with every movement. When she spoke, her voice was low and steady, with the slightest tremble that only showed when she was tired. And though her words were few, you always remembered them—because when Ajji said something, it felt like she was passing along a secret meant only for you.
As Manu led them in, the atmosphere became very sensitive, filled with their anxiety & expectations. When they came in, Ajji looked up and smiled a little. "The leaf has turned," she said, as if she'd been expecting them. "What brings you here?"
🌀 Recognition
Ajji looked at each of them in turn—Rudra, then Niya, then Manu. "Three echoes," she said, her voice just above a whisper. "One who remembers, one who records, and one who returns." She let the silence hang for a moment, as if her words needed room to settle.
She turned to Rudra. "The first echo is memory. The stories that live inside you, even when you try to forget. The second is recording—putting pain and hope into words, so someone else might find them. The third is return. Some souls come back, unfinished, searching for what they left behind." Her voice was gentle, but her eyes held something fierce.
Rudra found himself asking, "You know about the spiral?" The question tumbled out, urgent and uncertain.
Ajji's smile deepened. "I don't know it. I carry it." She leaned forward, pulled a faded cloth from under the cot, and set it in her lap. Her hands shook just a little as she unwrapped it.
Inside was a leaf carved from stone—grey, flecked with silver, and unexpectedly heavy-looking. Its edges were smooth, worn down by years of holding, and at the center was a spiral so fine it almost seemed to move in the shifting light. Ajji turned it in her hands, her thumb tracing the groove.
"This belonged to my mother," she said quietly, "and to her mother before her. We don't guard it. We wait. For people who need to remember."
As Ajji spoke, Rudra felt a memory stirring—his memory, but not his own. He saw a hand, familiar yet strange, tracing that same spiral by firelight. He felt the cool stone, the warmth of longing, and a sharp ache for something unfinished. He shivered. The weight of another life pressed down on him, bringing the spiral's meaning closer, though still just out of reach.
🎶 The Song
Without warning, Ajji began to hum a haunting melody—a song Manu had sung earlier, but here it sounded older, heavier, as if the words and tune had soaked into the walls of the hut. Her voice was soft and cracked, but the melody wrapped around them like a blanket.
"Kaala megh ek gungun hoti,
Chandrachi chhap kapalat hoti,
Ek paan hote, ek athavan hoti…"
Niya blinked quickly, her eyes shining. Every word seemed to tug loose a memory she'd tried to bury. Rudra felt his heart thudding in his chest, the sound of Ajji's voice pulling him closer to something he couldn't name.
He sat down, legs giving way, and asked quietly, "Who was he?"
Ajji looked out the window at the old neem tree. "He was silence. He was fire. He was betrayed, but never forgotten. Because Bhanu remembered."
The name rang in Rudra's head—Bhanu, some memories surfaced, not clear. "Who's Bhanu?"
Ajji smiled. "The close friend who wrote verses on mango leaves. Who turned pain into rhythm. He didn't fight. He recorded. He didn't lead. He echoed."
For a moment, the room was full of Bhanu's story—heavy, unfinished, but alive in the hush between them. Rudra felt something deep inside loosen, as if part of him had been waiting to hear these words. Niya squeezed his hand, and he squeezed back, grateful for her warmth.
They sat together, the afternoon sun slanting through the doorway, the spiral stone leaf still warm from Ajji's touch. Outside, a mango fell, and the trees whispered, as if the past was not so very far away after all.
In the quiet that enveloped them, Rudra felt a stirring within him—a profound sense of purpose as the echoes of Veeraj surged back, mingling with the essence of Rudra. Niya, standing beside him, reached for his hand, her warmth grounding him, reminding him that although their paths were tangled with past lives, they were still on a journey meant to unfold in this lifetime. Together, they would unravel the stories hidden in the folds of history and embrace the legacy of love woven through centuries.