Satoshi lived alone. A 17-year-old boy, with nothing but the clothes on his back and an old, battered guitar in his hands. His life, ever since he could remember, had been a series of fleeting moments in the cracks of a bustling, indifferent city. Orphaned as a child, Satoshi had learned early that survival was more important than anything else—emotions, friends, or family. They were luxuries he could not afford.
The guitar, an old "jugaad" (makeshift) piece of wood and wire, had been his escape. He had never known how to properly play it at first—just randomly plucking strings when he felt angry or sad—but over the years, the guitar had become part of him. It was the only thing that made him feel like he wasn't invisible. It was given to him by his uncle, who had found it in a junkyard and nearly tossed it into the trash, thinking it was useless.
But Satoshi had stopped him just in time.
"Please, Uncle, can I have it?" he had begged, his voice desperate. He had no other possessions, and the idea of losing even this fragment of hope felt unbearable. His uncle had grumbled but handed it over, dismissing it with a few harsh words about its worthlessness. "It's just some junk," his uncle had said.
To Satoshi, though, it was everything. He didn't care if it was broken. It was his guitar, and it held something more precious than any object: his dreams.
For hours each day, Satoshi would find a quiet place by the temple to practice, no matter the weather. He liked the peacefulness of the temple grounds, where the old monks' chants and the soft breeze blended with the music he created. But mostly, it was the silence that he sought—the stillness that came from the time spent alone, just him and the guitar.
He had become familiar with the temple's rhythm. Every morning, the monks would pray, and every evening, the streets would clear as the sun dipped below the horizon. That's when he would come out, hoping for a few coins to make it through the night. He sang songs of longing and loss, strumming his guitar with a passion that was unmatched. His fingers bled sometimes, but it didn't matter. Music was his way of coping with his loneliness, the only thing that truly felt real in a world that had turned its back on him.
One evening, after a long day of singing for spare change, Satoshi had settled down against the stone steps of the temple, his guitar resting on his lap. He closed his eyes, letting the last notes of his song fade into the evening air.
It was during these moments of quiet reflection that he often noticed something strange. There was a man—a regular at the temple—who would appear like clockwork each day. The man, Nariyoshi (Naresh), was in his mid-50s, grizzled and rough-looking, but there was something mysterious about him. The man always entered the temple grounds during the evening prayers and would linger for hours, his eyes always closed in quiet meditation.
One evening, as Satoshi strummed his guitar softly, he saw Nariyoshi doing something strange. The man was sitting near a beggar by the temple gate, playing the harmonium. It was a beautiful tune, but Satoshi couldn't help but notice the precision in his movements. Nariyoshi knew instruments—he had an air of knowledge and control that intrigued Satoshi.
Curious, Satoshi approached him the next day after his performance, his guitar in hand.
"Excuse me, sir," Satoshi called softly, not sure how to approach. Nariyoshi looked up from his prayer, meeting Satoshi's gaze with an unreadable expression.
"What is it, boy?" Nariyoshi asked, his voice deep but calm.
Satoshi hesitated, but then, as if driven by a force greater than himself, he spoke. "You played the harmonium well. You know music."
Nariyoshi raised an eyebrow but said nothing. After a long moment, he grunted, "I do."
Satoshi, unsure of what to say next, ventured a question that had been gnawing at him for days. "Could you… Could you teach me how to play? On this guitar?"
Nariyoshi eyed him for a long time, as though judging whether the request was genuine. Finally, he nodded. "You want to learn? Fine, but you'll play with that guitar." He gestured toward the "jugaad" guitar, a dismissive look in his eyes. "That thing's old. But it has its uses."
"I don't care what people think," Satoshi said, his voice quiet but firm. "It's the only one I have."
Nariyoshi considered this for a moment before standing up. "Meet me here tomorrow, then. I'll show you something."