The summer sun had softened into gentle heat by the time the monsoon finally settled over our village. I remember walking barefoot through the fields one evening, watching the heavy grey clouds swallow the horizon. The smell of wet earth rose underfoot as the first thunder rumbled. I carried with me a lantern soaked in oil, the wick flickering against the coming darkness. A distant song floated from the temple – a simple prayer in a low male voice – carried by the new breeze that drifted through the open fields.
Rain began to patter on the leaves and my skin, each drop clear and warm. I closed my eyes to feel it fully, listening to its rhythm as if it played on drums of mud. The mosquitoes buzzed around, but I let them bite for a moment, thinking of how life in this village was renewed when the sky opened. I felt grateful for this gentle cleansing. Still, a quiet sadness lingered in me: the pang of understanding that some people here do not wash in rain as freely as I, judged by the caste of my birth. I recall, in that soft dusk, the ache of wanting things to be different for all children.
That night, as I sat by the fire near our huts, I watched my mother's silhouette in the lamplight, her hands steady at the loom, weaving cotton into cloth. I too wove words, though silently. Each day I felt the stir of my gift, the gift of Vaakyasatya, stirring within my chest as strongly as the monsoon had stirred the land. I was ten years old and I had already learned that my words had weight. At dusk I tried a small test: I whispered to myself about a firefly perched on the neem branch. The insect quivered under the warm air, then glowed a moment brighter. Perhaps, I thought, "perhaps I can really do this." But I cautioned myself – such power must be used gently.
No grand miracle announced itself that night. Only the tremor of truth in my bones as the rain washed the air. In my bed, with a thin mosquito net above me, I considered a conversation I would have had with a friend the next day. I phrased the words in my mind carefully: "Menaka, say truth like river water. Let it flow freely." And then I slept, letting the raindreams carry me away.