Days of monsoon rain turned the fields green. I helped my father shape clay pots in the cool morning, centering the wheel with practiced hands. Between spins, I traced patterns — sometimes simple lines, sometimes shapes that resembled the letters I had begun to understand. My fingers remembered them, even as our lives below had no place for written truth.
One dusk, I surprised even myself. Kittu and I sat playing in the courtyard with a shard of pottery and a smoothing tool. On a whim, I scratched three curved lines in the wet clay. When they dried, something stirred — I felt a quiet command. That night, I touched the carvings and silently willed, "This mark is my name." At dawn, the clay had set. I held it up to the light. There, in the earthen surface, was clearly etched: b-h-a-d-r-a-k — the sounds I knew as my name. A thrill rose in me.
I had done nothing except think it — and still my wish had become real. That morning, instead of washing it away as usual, I showed the pot to my father. He whistled in surprise. "When did you learn to do this?" he asked, tracing the letters with his finger. I only shrugged, avoiding his eyes. My parents believed it was luck or a blessing from Ganesha. I let them wonder.
Now I had proof — even if only to myself — of how I could change truth. If a simple shape could turn into my name by dawn, perhaps bigger truths were mine to weave. I carried that thought with me secretly, both hopeful and cautious.
School in the Brahmin's hall was unchanged — I still sat at the last row, copying oral verses in the dirt, knowing I understood them better than any child. One day, while the priest emphasized that only Brahmins could become scholars, a bright boy named Madhav jokingly shouted, "This Shudra's thoughts are still muddled by clay!" The class burst into laughter. I glanced at Madhav. In his shout, he had spoken an old prejudice as if it were truth.
That night, as rain pattered on the roof and lanterns glowed, I lay awake thinking of letters and names and destiny. Ash became ink in my dreams. I whispered to myself, "There are stories here that I will tell." Whether through clay or word, I sensed my truths were slowly taking shape under the watchful stars.