The heat of the Harappan sun bore down on the city of Mohenjo-Daro like a silent forge, baking clay and ripening grains. Life moved in rhythm—fields swayed with barley, carts creaked on stone paths, and the cries of traders echoed through alleys scented with turmeric and sandalwood.
Amidst it all, Aarav, now eleven, moved like a boy touched by something eternal.
---
His upper body was bare, skin tanned and firm from sun and play. A sacred janevu thread crossed his chest—sign of a learned path. His long, black hair flowed backwards, tied loosely with a copper pin gifted by a weaver's daughter. A simple white dhoti was wrapped around his waist, and tucked into its folds was his treasured flute, always ready.
He walked barefoot, dust kissing his soles, the flute swaying like a companion at his side.
---
One morning, his father, Devdas, brought him to the fields.
"If you love this land, you must feed it—and let it feed you."
Aarav knelt beside him, learning to test soil between his fingers. He watched how the elders moved their oxen, how they whispered to the earth before planting seeds.
"Why do they murmur like that?" he asked.
"Because the soil listens," his father replied. "Everything in Bharat listens—if you speak from your heart."
He learned to pluck weeds, to turn irrigation channels, to respect every inch of the land as sacred.
---
But farming wasn't all he craved.
By noon, he slipped away from the fields and made his way toward the city's southern gates—where the city guards trained.
There, amidst dust and sweat, he met Taksha, a broad-shouldered veteran with a scar across one eye.
"You again?" Taksha growled, noticing the boy watching.
"Teach me the bow," Aarav said, eyes shining.
"You're barely taller than the weapon."
"Then I'll grow with it."
---
Impressed by his boldness, Taksha began teaching him archery.
At first, Aarav's arms trembled. His arrows fell short or curved wild. But he trained every afternoon. By the third week, he could strike a wooden drum at twenty paces. By the sixth, he could hit a moving clay pot.
"You've got a steady heart," Taksha muttered one day. "That's rarer than a strong arm."
---
Aarav's charm, meanwhile, only grew sharper.
In the courtyards and near wells, women of all ages spoke to him with affection. Some touched his hair playfully, others offered him sweet milk or slices of mango.
"This boy smiles like he knows secrets," said one trader's wife.
"And talks like a grown man hiding in a child's body," added another.
When asked about his flute, he'd say with a grin, "It's not for music alone. It speaks to hearts too."
The priestess once warned, half in jest: "Aarav, careful with that flute of yours. It might lead more than just cows."
---
His days were filled with sweat, soil, song, and steel. His body grew lean and strong. His senses sharpened. His words, already clever, became deeper.
He laughed with shepherds, listened to storytellers, watched how people bartered, loved, prayed, and sometimes wept. And silently, he recorded it all.
---
The System remained quiet, observing.
But in the silence, something was building. Training had begun. Childhood was fading.
And soon, Aarav—the flute boy of Mohenjo-Daro—would step toward his first brush with leadership, destiny, and history.