By the time Aarav turned ten, Mohenjo-Daro had become his playground, his classroom, and his stage.
He was no longer just a quiet, thoughtful child. Now, he was curious, bold—and beginning to test the edges of his world with the sly grin of someone who knew more than he let on.
The story began with a broken reed.
One evening, while wandering near the riverbank, he stumbled upon an abandoned shepherd's staff. It had a hollow, cracked shaft. Out of instinct, Aarav picked it up and blew through it—and the sound it made was shrill, awkward… but alive.
"Hmm..." he muttered, blowing again, adjusting his fingers.
It was crude. But in that moment, something awakened in him. Not a memory—more like an echo from another life.
A longing.
A song waiting to be reborn.
"What are you doing with that stick?" his friend Varun laughed as they walked home from the bathhouse.
"It's not a stick," Aarav said proudly. "It's called a basuri. I'm going to make music like Lord Krishna."
"Krishna is a god," Varun smirked. "You're just Aarav."
"For now," Aarav winked.
Making the basuri was no easy task.
He tried different reeds—some cracked, some too thick. He spent weeks sneaking into the weaver's quarter, asking for scraps of thread to tie the holes. He even bribed a bronze-smith's son with clay toys in exchange for a thin blade to carve the finger slots.
And when he finally shaped one that sang, it was still wild and tuneless.
He practiced day and night. Behind water pots. On rooftops. Near grazing goats.
"That sound is killing my ears!" his mother yelled once, chasing him out of the house.
Even the temple cows seemed annoyed.
But Aarav didn't stop. He remembered something the System had whispered during his dream:
"Talents bloom under pressure. Like lotus in the mud."
And then, one evening—it happened.
Aarav stood near the banyan tree, eyes closed. Fingers danced across the reed. And the notes came—not shrill, not sharp, but sweet. Fluid. Like water winding through hills.
The neighborhood fell silent. Women paused their grinding stones. Even children stopped chasing marbles.
"Aree… that's beautiful," an older woman murmured from her courtyard.
"It's that Aarav boy," another whispered. "He plays like a priest of the skies."
Soon, the basuri wasn't the only thing Aarav played with.
He discovered something else… his looks and words had an effect—especially on the older girls and young women of the city.
"Namaste, Devi," he'd bow dramatically to Sita, a potter's daughter five years his elder, "Your eyes today outshine the river itself."
"Cheeky boy," she'd reply, half-laughing, half-blushing, "Shouldn't you be playing with marbles?"
"I'd rather play with fate."
He wasn't serious—yet—but it amused him how flustered the women got. The giggles, the playful slaps on his head, the stolen sweets.
He became both beloved and mildly scolded by the neighborhood.
But mischief had its cost.
One day, he sneaked into the priestess's herb garden trying to impress a girl. He got caught, mud-covered and grinning.
"Aarav!" his mother yelled. **"Do you want the Council Mothers to banish us?!"
"I was only gathering flowers for the goddess," he claimed with folded hands.
"You mean for Rukmini's sister."
"…That too."
She sighed, but behind her anger was a smile she couldn't suppress.
Aarav was no longer just surviving. He was living. Growing.
He had found rhythm in the flute, charm in his tongue, and mischief in his soul. And though he was still just a child in the eyes of the village, the System knew better.
This soul—reborn, ancient—was preparing for something far greater.
But before destiny could test him, the boy would have to pass the trials of youth, heart, and humility.