On a quiet, unremarkable morning, a boy named Om slung his bag over his shoulder and set off towards the east. His stride was steady, his eyes fixed ahead, but his mind was adrift, anchored to something darker. Just yesterday, his neighbor had ended his life, hanging himself in his own home. It had been unexpected, a sudden reminder of the unpredictability of life, a thought that now clung to Om like a shadow.
As he walked, his mind drifted back to his own family and the strange contradictions he'd observed as a child. He recalled the day his grandparents had passed away when he was only nine. The house had been filled with wailing relatives, neighbors offering condolences, and a flood of mournful complaints about how unfair life was to take them away so soon. Yet, amidst the sorrow, Om had heard whispers—low, bitter voices murmuring about how difficult, even stingy, his grandparents had been. Even at that age, Om had felt an unsettling realization creep into his heart: people, even family, could be strange in their emotions, torn between love and frustration, attachment and resentment.
"Humans are… complicated," he muttered to himself as he quickened his pace, eager to reach a quieter place before noon. Crowds, with their loud gossip and idle chatter, were the last thing he needed right now. Solitude was his comfort, a space where he could think without distraction.
Soon, though, a parched dryness settled in his throat. He began to search for any source of water, his eyes scanning the roadside for a tap or a hand pump. No luck. His journey continued, and the thirst persisted. Nearly an hour and a half later, he spotted an old tap beside a weathered stone wall, its handle rusted and crooked. He turned it with effort, and a thin trickle of water flowed. Om cupped his hands beneath it, letting the cool water pool before bringing it to his lips. It was refreshing, and for a brief moment, he closed his eyes, savoring the feeling of quenching his thirst.
Refreshed, he continued his walk as the sun climbed higher in the sky, bearing down with increasing warmth. Soon, he reached a small public square, where a few men lingered, some idly chatting, one man nursing a bottle of liquor even at this early hour. The sight made Om's lip curl slightly. There was always someone, it seemed, numbing themselves from the day's challenges instead of facing them.
He left the square behind and found a small path leading to a quiet, grassy field. The green spread out before him, dotted with wildflowers and framed by the gentle hum of cicadas. Here, Om let himself pause, taking in the peaceful view, a contrast to the noise and complication of human relationships. Memories flitted through his mind—images of his family, both the helpful and painful ones. He thought of his mother's gentle hand on his forehead when he'd been sick, and his father's stern, unwavering gaze, pushing him to be strong.
Sitting in the grass, Om took a deep breath and looked up at the sky, watching as clouds drifted slowly by, unconcerned with the worries of the world below. A sense of calm filled him as he began to realize that while life was full of complexity and contradictions, moments of clarity, of peace, were still there if he sought them out.
And so he sat, a boy with many questions, with a life that had only just begun unfolding. For now, he was content to simply be still, letting the world and its mysteries settle around him, like the gentle shade cast by the clouds above.