The world outside Dhruv's window was a watercolor of gray and green, blurred by the relentless downpour. Rain, thick and unyielding, hammered against the glass, each drop a tiny, insistent drumbeat that amplified his own restless energy. He was seven, and the confines of Dadi's small, cozy living room felt less like a sanctuary and more like a cage. His nose, flattened against the cold pane, left a small, steamy print as he watched rivulets chase each other down the glass, merging, dividing, racing to the sill.
"But why can't I go outside and play?" he whined, the words muffled by the glass, yet carrying enough petulance to reach the ears of his grandmother.
From the comforting depths of her rocking chair, Dadi offered a soft, knowing smile. The chair's rhythmic creak was a soothing counterpoint to the storm, a sound Dhruv had known his entire life. The air in the room was a warm, inviting blend of crackling firewood and the sweet, lingering scent of jasmine tea, a fragrance that always felt like a warm embrace. Dadi herself was a study in serene patience, her silver hair braided neatly, her hands, gnarled by age but still nimble, resting in her lap.
"Because it's not safe, my dear," she replied, her voice a gentle balm that somehow cut through the persistent whine of the wind. She didn't scold, didn't lecture, merely stated a simple truth as old as the mountains outside. "You know the stories of the four great God's. They created this world, this very Prithvi we stand upon. And sometimes, when they're upset, when the balance is disturbed, they show their displeasure through the skies."
Dhruv turned from the window, his earlier frustration already beginning to dissipate, replaced by a familiar spark of intense curiosity. This was how it always began. A simple question, an ordinary observation, and Dadi would weave a tale, pulling back the veil on a history far grander and more magical than any storybook. He shuffled closer to the rocking chair, his small frame drawn by the warmth radiating from the fireplace and the irresistible promise of lore. He plopped onto the woven rug at her feet, cross-legged, his gaze fixed on her face, eager as always.
"But which one is making it rain today?" he whispered, his eyes wide, already picturing colossal beings in the heavens, their moods dictating the weather. Was it the kind one? The stern one? Or the mischievous one, who sometimes caused playful, harmless mischief in Dadi's tales? The rain continued its steady beat against the window, a constant reminder of the unseen forces at play, forces Dhruv was only just beginning to comprehend, forces that Dadi knew intimately. He waited, his young mind primed for the unfolding of a myth.
D.nitin