The knowledge of my power was both exhilarating and terrifying. Every morning I awoke half expecting miracles, half fearing disasters. If a Brahmin scolded me for my caste, I found myself either mute or mysteriously absent from earshot — I could not remember. If a stable lantern broke, I mumbled "It is fixed," and it was. With each happening I felt a guilty wonder. In the quiet dark, I worried I was cheating some cosmic balance.
My world began to split in two. During the day, I was the obedient peasant's son — playing with other children, mimicking their chores, learning stories of kings and demons. But by night, I lay awake replaying the subtle marvels I had sparked. Had that been real or just wishful thinking? If I could make things true, why did I not simply wish my status higher, or demand to join any school? Perhaps it was still too dangerous to try something that obvious.
I sought answers in books and men, but none would come. On my own, I tested moral lines: once I saw a boy fall from a cart and fracture his leg. I held his hand and thought, "May he stand up." He did — but limped in pain again. I learned then that I could not break destiny recklessly, that the threads I wove were fragile.
Yet I could not ignore the potential. I began to save small seeds of strength for myself. Each time I softened a hunger, eased a quarrel, or freed a trapped cat, I told myself it benefited me too — a kinder life, less sorrow around me. In those acts I tasted both relief and responsibility. I realized I could be a weaver of truth, but at a cost. That knowledge weighed on me as I vowed to use my gift only when no other choice remained.