Chapter 3: The Child of Dawn
The sun rose gently over the city of Mohenjo-Daro, casting golden light upon the kiln-fired rooftops and wide, gridded streets. The scent of clay, river water, and burning incense mingled in the air. Merchants rolled their carts to the market square, children chased each other around carved stone drains, and prayers echoed from open courtyards.
In a modest yet clean home near the central bathhouse, a new life stirred.
Aarav.
The child born under the blessing of three stars and the unseen force of a divine system.
He was only four months old, yet already a mystery to his family.
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Aarav's mother, Priyamvati, sat on a woven mat, cradling him in her arms. She wore a red-dyed cotton sari and a beaded necklace of turquoise and shell. Her eyes sparkled with gentle affection, but also a trace of awe.
"He doesn't cry much," she whispered to her husband, Vedhraj, as she stroked Aarav's silky hair. "And when he looks at me… it's like he understands everything."
Vedhraj, a craftsman of pottery and seals, squatted nearby, smoothing clay on a wheel. His muscles were lean, his hands steady, and his eyes were filled with wonder. "He was born under the constellation of Agni," he said softly. "Fire rests in his soul."
The customs of Mohenjo-Daro were refined and orderly. There were no kings, but there was structure. Priests and sages advised the city. Traders and craftsmen worked in harmony. Rituals were quiet, respectful—drawn from the proto-Vedic customs that honored fire, water, and the eternal rhythm of life.
Each morning, Vedhraj offered a bowl of milk to the fire altar. Each evening, Priyamvati chanted to the river goddess, thanking her for the flowing lifeblood of the land.
And in their home… Aarav watched everything.
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Even as an infant, Aarav was different.
At five months, he was already sitting upright. By six, he could recognize family members and respond with sounds that felt oddly deliberate. When other babies cried for food, Aarav would gaze at his mother and gesture, as if politely requesting it. His eyes seemed to scan the room like a scholar observing patterns.
Villagers began to talk.
One afternoon, a neighbor, Sushila, visited to deliver herbs.
She peered down at Aarav as he sat in Priyamvati's lap, his tiny fingers tracing the edge of her necklace. "By the gods!" she gasped. "Just look at his eyes. He's watching me like a grown man!"
Vedhraj chuckled. "He doesn't blink much, either. It's as if he's memorizing the whole world."
"He's beautiful," Sushila added, leaning closer. "Look at his skin—like smooth copper. And his nose, so fine… he will be the handsomest boy in all Mohenjo-Daro."
Priyamvati beamed with pride. "People say he carries light in his face."
Later that evening, Vedhraj whispered over a small fire, "This child… he will not live an ordinary life."
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At night, when the house was silent and the moonlight spilled through the high windows, Aarav would lie still, listening to the thoughts drifting through his growing mind.
"This is only the beginning," he thought. "I must learn their customs, understand their ways. The past is the foundation. And I… I am its builder."
What no one knew—not even his loving parents—was that Aarav's soul was ancient, his consciousness sharpened by experiences from a future not yet written.
The Harappan Civilization flourished around him: vibrant, peaceful, advanced. Yet deep within the child's heart, the system stirred quietly, waiting for the first quest… the first decision… the first spark of change.