The sun had just begun to creep over the hills, casting its golden light upon the vast rice fields that stretched along the village outskirts. Dew still clung to the tips of the rice stalks, reflecting the morning light like scattered jewels. From afar, the crowing of a rooster echoed, signaling the start of a new day.
This village, nestled within a fertile valley, was a place where time flowed gently, guided by the rhythms of nature passed down through generations.
Houses with thatched ijuk roofs stood sturdy, their walls woven from bamboo in intricate patterns, while their floors were packed earth, firm and well-trodden. Some homes were larger than others, their doors adorned with fine carvings, marking their owners as figures of importance within the village.
By now, the villagers were already busy with their morning routines.
The men, shouldering hoes and sickles, set out toward the sprawling fields by the forest's edge. Some carried woven fish traps and nets, making their way toward the clear, flowing river, where they would catch fish for the day's meals.
Meanwhile, the women prepared breakfast. Steam rose from freshly cooked rice, blending with the aroma of salted fish sizzling over clay stoves.
In the courtyards, a group of women sat cross-legged on woven mats, their hands deftly spinning cotton into threads, weaving them into simple yet meaningful patterns of lurik cloth. Their fingers worked with practiced ease, stretching and twisting the strands into shape.
Children darted about, their laughter ringing through the air as they played chase, occasionally pausing to peer into woven baskets filled with corn and sweet potatoes.
At the village hall, several elders sat in a circle, discussing the coming harvest and preparations for the rainy season.
Among them, Banujati sat in quiet contemplation, listening intently to each perspective shared. Though he did not always speak, his presence alone commanded respect, ensuring the discussion remained measured and thoughtful.
No important decision was made without his counsel—or at the very least, his approval.
Far at the edge of the village, in a modest house set apart from the main settlement, a foreign woman was still adjusting to her new life.
The handmaiden, now a resident of Banujati's home, was trying to grasp the rhythm of life in this village—so different from the world she once knew. Each day was a challenge, yet also an opportunity to endure.
Nagantara, still swaddled in his blue shawl, slept soundly in her arms. He did not yet understand the world he had entered, but the world was already beginning to adjust to his presence.
Outside, a gentle breeze carried the scent of damp earth and leaves kissed by morning dew. This village was alive, breathing, welcoming the days ahead—unaware that destiny itself lay hidden among them.
From a distance, the voices of the villagers drifted through the air—lighthearted chatter mixed with the laughter of children.
Something made the handmaiden turn toward the window—not because she understood their words, but because she knew that, sooner or later, she would have to become a part of this world.
She could not remain forever in the shadows of Banujati's protection. Somehow, she had to learn to walk among them, unnoticed.
At the village hall, the men's discussions had grown livelier.
Some spoke of the coming rainy season, while others worried over the uncertain harvest.
"Last year, the rains arrived sooner than expected," said a man with a worn cloth wrapped around his head. "If it happens again, we must be ready to divert the water to the fields earlier."
"That's true, Ki Wira," another agreed. "But this year, we have more young men ready to work. If the rains come suddenly, we can manage the irrigation immediately."
Banujati listened in silence, his keen eyes observing the conversation unfold.
He spoke little, yet his presence alone ensured that every word carried weight. He was not merely an elder of the village—he was the balance that held them together.
"Water is not the only thing you should be concerned about," he finally said, his voice calm yet firm. "The shifting winds, the birds abandoning their nests early—these are all signs. The land and sky will always warn us before disaster strikes, if only we are willing to listen."
The men nodded, understanding that Banujati's words were more than mere caution.
For a moment, silence settled over them—until the sound of small footsteps shifted their attention toward the women weaving in the courtyard.
Beneath the shade of a mango tree, a group of women sat cross-legged on woven mats, their hands skillfully drawing cotton threads into lurik fabric.
An elderly woman, Bu Rami, watched over a young girl beside her.
"Your weaving is improving, Laksmi," she said, her voice warm with pride.
Laksmi smiled, her hands still working the threads. "Thank you, Bu Rami. I only followed what you taught me."
"That is how it should be. Lurik is not just cloth—it is a prayer for those who wear it," Bu Rami said wisely. "May our hands remain blessed, just as the earth continues to give us life."
Their conversation continued, weaving itself into the gentle rhythm of the village.
But in the house standing apart from the main settlement, there was one who had yet to take part in such exchanges.
At Banujati's house, the handmaiden sat by the window, watching the world outside. Her eyes were clouded with uncertainty. She turned, realizing that the house was silent.
Banujati had not yet returned.
Time passed slowly until the sound of approaching footsteps met her ears. Moments later, the old man entered with his usual quiet grace, carrying a small bundle of herbs gathered from the village hall.
The handmaiden turned, her expression still shadowed by the doubt she carried. She did not truly know this old man.
Yet she knew one thing—he was the only person keeping her safe in this place.
Banujati set the bundle of herbs upon the wooden table, adjusting his grip on his staff before lowering himself near the hearth.
"I do not yet know your name," he remarked, his tone flat, as though he had only just realized something that should have come sooner.
The handmaiden hesitated before answering softly. "I… do not know if my name still matters in this place."
Banujati exhaled shortly. "A name is still a name. No matter what happens, it is part of who you are."
She lowered her gaze, fingers gripping the edge of her shawl.
"My name is Padmasari."
Banujati nodded slowly. "Padmasari. Now you understand—you cannot remain silent forever. In time, this village will come to know you."
Padmasari felt her chest lighten, if only slightly. Yet the fear remained.
"I feel like a stranger in this place," she murmured.
"You are," Banujati answered plainly.
Padmasari bit her lip. "How am I supposed to survive here without drawing suspicion? I do not know how to live as they do."
Banujati met her gaze.
"Learn. No one will question you if you become part of the village. People do not question what appears ordinary."
Padmasari sat in silence, turning his words over in her mind.
But before she could respond, Banujati slowly rose and walked toward the far corner of the house.
He knelt beside an old wooden chest, its surface aged by time. His fingers traced the lid with a touch of familiarity, as though recalling something from long ago.
Without another word, Banujati pulled out a piece of earth-toned lurik cloth and a simple ivory-colored kebaya that had been stored away for a long time.
"Wear this," he said, placing the garments near Padmasari. "It belonged to my wife."
Padmasari hesitated as she stared at the clothing. "I…"
"If you wish to live in this village without drawing attention, you must blend into it," Banujati continued. "Your garments stand out too much—too clean, too fine, too foreign."
Padmasari carefully took the cloth in her hands, feeling its texture—so unlike the delicate silks she had once worn in the celestial palace.
There was warmth in this fabric, as if it carried memories within its threads.
She nodded slowly. "Thank you…"
Banujati did not reply. He only regarded her for a brief moment before returning to his seat, letting the quiet of the night settle between them.
That night, for the first time, Padmasari changed into new clothes.
~~~
The next morning, Padmasari sat once more at the doorway of Banujati's home. But this time, she was not merely watching from a distance.
She observed more closely how life in the village flowed—when the men departed for the fields, when the women began weaving, when the children paused their play for meals. Yet still, she felt like an outsider.
A young woman, dressed in lurik cloth with a small headscarf, approached, carrying a clay water jug. Her face was warm, her smile gentle.
"Good morning. Do you need anything?" she asked, tilting the jug slightly.
Padmasari turned toward her and shook her head. "No. I was only watching."
The young woman sat beside her, setting the jug down carefully.
"I am Laksmi," she said. "I've seen you at Ki Banujati's house, but you rarely come outside."
Padmasari lowered her gaze, her voice quiet.
"I am still learning. This place… is different from what I've known."
Laksmi nodded with understanding.
"That is natural. We, too, need time to know you. But you are not alone. This village, though simple, is always open to those who wish to be part of it."
Something warm flickered in Padmasari's heart.
Perhaps, slowly, she could learn to walk among them—not as a shadow hiding in Banujati's home, but as someone who belonged.
Yet before she could respond, another voice called from the village path.
An older woman, wrapped in a deep red shawl and carrying a basket of freshly harvested crops, approached with a watchful gaze.
"Laksmi," she called, her eyes shifting toward Padmasari. "What is her name?"
Padmasari stiffened, unsure whether to answer or remain silent.
Laksmi smiled calmly before replying, "She… is still finding her place."
The older woman exhaled sharply but said nothing more.
She simply continued on her way, leaving behind a silence that felt a little heavier than before.
Laksmi turned back to Padmasari. "Do not dwell on it. Not everyone is quick to welcome the unfamiliar. But in time, they will accept you."
Padmasari nodded, though unease still lingered in her chest.
She knew she had taken the first step—but the road to true acceptance was still long ahead.
And inside the house, from the shadowed hallway leading to the inner rooms, Banujati watched.
He knew that time would answer everything.
~~~
Days passed, and Padmasari slowly began to learn how to live in the village.
Dressed in the lurik and simple kebaya that Banujati had given her, she felt a little more like one of the villagers. Though the change was not enough to make her fully accepted, at least the curious stares that once followed her had softened.
Still, no matter how much she tried to adapt, not everyone in the village welcomed her with open arms.
One morning, as Padmasari prepared to go to the river with Laksmi, she turned back toward the house.
Nagantara was still asleep, swaddled in cloth atop a woven mat.
Banujati sat in the corner, his hand resting idly on his wooden staff, watching with his usual calm gaze.
Padmasari hesitated, but in the end, she nodded.
She knew that even though Banujati spoke little, her child was safe under his protection.
As Padmasari walked to the riverbank to wash her clothes, a group of village women who were scrubbing laundry in the clear water turned their heads and began whispering among themselves.
"Where did she come from, really?" one of them murmured.
"They say Ki Banujati brought her here. But as far as I know, he has never taken in an outsider before."
"She dresses like us now, but… something about her still feels different."
"Perhaps she's a long-lost relative?"
"Or someone in hiding?" another voice suggested, lowering to a hush as if wary of being overheard.
Padmasari heard them. But she pretended not to. She only submerged her cloth into the cool water, focusing on the ripples instead of the words that stung more than she cared to admit.
Yet the whispers clung to her thoughts.
Would she ever truly belong here?
Still, there were those who tried to know her.
Laksmi was one of them.
Since their first meeting, Laksmi had often approached her. Sometimes just to talk, sometimes to invite her to join in the village's daily work.
"My mother and I are weaving bamboo mats for the kitchen. Would you like to help?"
Padmasari hesitated. "I… have never done that before."
Laksmi smiled. "That's alright. I'm not very good at it either, but my mother says anyone can learn."
Padmasari glanced back at Banujati's house, uncertainty still heavy in her heart.
Nagantara was still asleep… but what if he woke up?
"I can't stay for long," she said softly.
Laksmi studied her for a moment. "Are you worried about something?"
"There is a baby I am looking after…"
Laksmi nodded in understanding. "You can return whenever you need to."
At last, Padmasari agreed.
She sat in Laksmi's home, upon the cool bamboo floor, awkwardly trying to follow the movements of their practiced hands.
Several times, she made mistakes, her weaving uneven and clumsy. But Laksmi's mother only smiled gently.
"It's alright. You are only just beginning."
For the first time, Padmasari felt a little lighter.
But even as she sat in Laksmi's home, learning something new, her mind remained elsewhere.
She could not stop thinking about Nagantara—
Had he woken up?
Would Banujati know how to calm him if he cried?
~~~
But not every experience went smoothly.
One evening, as Padmasari walked across the fields on her way back to Banujati's home, an old man gathering firewood halted her steps.
He studied her intently, his narrowed eyes filled with quiet deliberation.
"Once… I saw someone with eyes like yours," he murmured. "But not in this village."
Padmasari's heart pounded faster. "What do you mean?"
The old man shook his head. "Perhaps it's just my imagination. But you, young one… You are not ordinary, are you?"
Padmasari lowered her gaze. "I am just an ordinary woman."
The old man clicked his tongue but did not press further. He only watched her for a moment longer before returning to his firewood.
Padmasari felt a shift in the air.
As if someone had begun to notice that she did not truly belong here.
Fear crept into her chest, mingling with an unease she could not shake.
She needed to return home.
Her pace quickened, and when she finally reached the house, she rushed inside, finding Nagantara still peacefully asleep.
Banujati glanced at her briefly, his fingers resting firmly upon his wooden staff. "You returned just in time."
Padmasari exhaled deeply, lifting Nagantara into her arms. "I'm sorry for making you wait," she whispered to the child.
The baby merely stirred slightly, still wrapped snugly in the soothing embrace of his shawl.
That night, sleep did not come easily to Padmasari.
Her mind swirled with thoughts—about the village, about herself, and about Nagantara's future.
~~~
That night, as Padmasari swept the floor of the house, Banujati spoke without turning to her.
"You cannot remain in hiding forever, Padmasari."
She froze for a moment, her grip tightening around the broom handle. "I don't know what I should do."
"If you wish to stay here, you must be more than just a shadow."
Padmasari lifted her gaze. "But how?"
Banujati looked at her steadily, the glow of the oil lamp casting light upon his aged face, lined with wisdom.
"By allowing people to know you. Without pretense."
~~~
Under the gentle morning sun, the village was preparing for its annual ancestral ceremony—a tradition passed down through generations to honor those who came before and to seek blessings from nature.
The village was livelier than usual.
Houses were adorned with woven palm leaves, and at the village hall, the men were busy arranging offerings—fruits, rice, and incense—upon woven coconut leaves. The women prepared food for the feast that would follow the ceremony.
For Padmasari, this was the first time she had seen the village in such a state.
She stood in the courtyard of Banujati's house, watching as everyone busied themselves. Yet her thoughts were not entirely present—Nagantara still slept, wrapped snugly in his shawl, his breaths soft and steady.
Her fingers brushed gently against his forehead, pressing a small kiss before turning to Banujati.
"I will leave him here," she murmured, more to herself than to anyone else.
"This house is safe. No one will enter without my permission," Banujati said calmly, tapping the ground lightly with the tip of his wooden staff—a silent reminder that this place remained under his protection.
Padmasari exhaled slowly, trying to reassure herself.
The child was not going anywhere. No one knew about him.
Still, she looked down once more, adjusting the thin blanket wrapped around his small form.
From outside, footsteps approached. A young woman appeared at the doorway—Laksmi.
"You're coming to the ceremony, aren't you?" she asked warmly. "Everyone in the village takes part. Even the children."
Padmasari bit her lip. "But I…"
Laksmi extended a hand. "Come. No one will question anything if you walk with me."
Padmasari hesitated for a moment before glancing once more into the house.
Nagantara still slept soundly in his shawl, his tiny body barely moving except for the soft rise and fall of his breathing.
She took a deep breath, then nodded.
The child would be fine.
Slowly, she followed Laksmi out of the house, leaving Nagantara behind in the quiet stillness of the morning.
At the village hall, the ceremony had begun.
In the center of a gathered circle, the High Priest stood before a small altar adorned with offerings, incense, and a large clay bowl filled with sacred water.
He chanted ancient prayers in a language few of the younger generation could understand, yet the ritual remained steadfastly preserved.
Behind him sat the village elders, and among them was Banujati.
Unlike the other elders, Banujati's presence carried a deeper weight—his mere presence was enough to lend the ceremony an air of greater meaning.
His sharp eyes observed the ritual, though he remained silent at the start, allowing the High Priest to lead the prayers with solemn reverence.
Padmasari sat beside Laksmi, mimicking the posture of those around her.
Yet she could not shake the feeling that some eyes still watched her in quiet scrutiny.
When the prayers ended, the High Priest stepped forward, lifting a clay jug filled with sacred water.
He poured the water into the large bowl and spoke:
"This water is a blessing from the ancestors. All who seek their favor must cleanse their hands with it."
One by one, the villagers stepped forward, dipping their hands into the sacred water as a gesture of respect to their ancestors.
Padmasari watched them carefully. She had never taken part in a ritual like this before.
When it was Laksmi's turn, she turned to Padmasari with a small smile. "You must do it as well."
Padmasari stiffened. "Me?"
"All who live in this village must take part. If not, it would be seen as a sign of disrespect to the ancestors."
Her heartbeat quickened.
What should she do?
She knew that if she refused, it would only raise suspicion. But if she stepped forward—would the water have any power to reveal her true identity?
There was no time to hesitate. The villagers had already begun watching her, waiting to see whether she would approach or not.
Carefully, she rose to her feet and stepped forward.
As she dipped her hands into the water, something strange happened.
The water was colder than it should have been, as though something unseen had seeped beneath her skin.
Padmasari held her breath but remained calm. She closed her eyes briefly, steadying her thoughts.
After a few seconds, she withdrew her hands and returned to her seat.
Nothing happened. No change. No reaction from the villagers.
Padmasari exhaled quietly in relief.
But for a brief moment, her thoughts wandered back to Banujati's house.
Was Nagantara safe?
When the ceremony ended, Padmasari had no desire to linger in the village hall.
After offering her respects, she bid farewell to Laksmi and the other villagers before hastening her way home.
The moment she arrived, she rushed inside.
Nagantara was still there, swaddled in his shawl, his tiny face peaceful in sleep.
And in her heart, Padmasari knew—
No matter what happened beyond these walls, this child would always be the center of her world.