Golden Mornings
Mornings in the Malnad region are always extraordinary. As the first rays of light pierced through the curtain of mist, the world transformed into a magical dream. But for Arjuna, it was a gateway to another dimension entirely.
As the clock struck six, his eyes snapped open. Still groggy, he stretched and walked to the window, drawing back the curtains. Outside, a thick blanket of fog still lingered for the rest of the world. But to his eyes, a different universe floated within that ordinary mist. It was golden. It was alive. Surrounding the plants was a shimmering halo of multi-colored light, pulsating with energy.
"Arjuna! Wake up! How long are you going to sleep? You'll be late for school!" His mother’s voice broke his trance.
"Coming, Amma!"
He glanced around his small room. The walls were adorned with his achievements—school competition trophies, certificates from district-level art exhibitions. He had pasted some of his paintings there too: a cascading waterfall in one, the lush green rainforests of the monsoon in another. Yet, no one in the house ever spoke of them. Everyone shared a single, looming worry: "How will he pass Mathematics?"
He finished his bath, put on his school uniform, and shouldered his bag. But tucked inside, alongside his textbooks, was his most prized possession—a small sketchbook and a box of colored pencils.
The moment he stepped out of the house, the world metamorphosed.
Around the Tulasi plant in the courtyard, a golden aura swirled gently like threads of light. The cotton plant near the door, the Indian kino tree by the well, and the massive Banyan tree by the fence—each was immersed in its own golden halo. It was a spectacular vision visible only to Arjuna.
Arjuna! Are you dreaming again? Come on, or Sharma Sir will skin us alive!"
His childhood friend Kiran shouted from the neighbor's house. Kiran—always practical, always sharp on time, always grounded in reality. They were like opposite poles, yet inseparable friends since childhood.
"Coming, coming!" Arjuna pulled out his sketchbook and made a quick, fluid sketch of the Tulasi planter—captured as if submerged in a swirl of golden light and colors. In just a few strokes, the scene came alive on paper.
The path to school was a living exhibition of Malnad’s breathtaking beauty. Dense greenery flanked both sides, dotted with wildflowers. In the distance, the constant roar of a waterfall mingled with the chirping of birds and the rustle of dry leaves. For other children, this was just a daily commute. But for Arjuna, it was a floating tapestry of changing colors.
"Oh, look Kiran! Look how these dew drops on the leaf look like pearls..." Arjuna stopped, lost in the details. To him alone, a colored aura radiated from the tiny droplets.
"Yeah, yeah, it's nice. But have you forgotten we have Math class today? If we're late, Sharma Sir will make us stand outside," Kiran said, dragging him by the hand.
As they walked, Arjuna pulled out his book again, sketching while moving. He stumbled over a stone and nearly fell. Kiran caught him just in time. "How many times do I have to tell you? Don't draw while walking! You’ll break your bones one day!" His voice held more concern than anger.
As they passed a bend, they saw a massive rock by the roadside—their childhood playground. Its surface was so smooth it looked like a perfect slide.
"Remember?" Kiran laughed. "How much we used to slide on this rock? You always picked a fight to go first."
"Yeah, and remember the day you slid too fast and almost flew into the ditch below? If I hadn't caught you..." Arjuna chuckled.
"What! You were the one who pushed me!" Kiran patted his shoulder.
For a brief moment, the warmth of that laughter, that memory, and their friendship made everything feel light.
But at school, reality hit hard. Mathematics class—Arjuna’s recurring nightmare, five days a week.
"To solve this equation, we must first factor out the common term on both sides..." Sharma Sir explained, writing on the blackboard with white chalk. His voice was monotone, almost hypnotic in its dullness.
Arjuna looked down at his notebook. The pages, meant for numbers and equations, were overrun with drawings—leaves, flowers, butterflies, and intricate doodles in the margins. In one corner, there was a sketch of the sliding rock; in another, the wildflowers by the road.
"Arjun!"
Sharma Sir’s voice cracked through the classroom like a whip. Everyone turned to look at him. Some with curiosity, others with pity.
"This is a Mathematics class, not an Art class! Look at this... the whole page is filled with drawings. Will these sketches help you pass the Board exams? Do you have no worry about your future?"
A ripple of giggles ran through the class. Arjuna lowered his head, his face flushing red, his ears burning with shame.
From the next desk, Kiran looked at him sympathetically. As Sharma Sir turned back to the board, he whispered, "Ignore it. It happens."
During the lunch interval, they sat under the school's old mango tree. Arjuna showed Kiran his latest sketch—the morning path, but with a special touch: a subtle hint of golden light around the plants, like sunbeams, yet distinct.
"Wow, this is really good," Kiran praised genuinely. "But... try to give some time for studying too, Arjuna. I know you have talent. But exams are important, right? If you fail, how will I feel?"
Just then, the art teacher, Vaidehi Madam, walked by. She was Arjuna’s only true supporter in the school.
"What is it? Another painting?" She peered through her glasses, inspecting the sketch closely. "Arjun, this is beautiful. This use of light... You have a rare talent. You’ve made the glow feel real without using any colors, just lines. Extraordinary."
Arjuna smiled, confused. There was praise, yes, but it felt meaningless to the world around him. The silent question hung in the air: "What is the use of this for the Board exams?"
The Burden of Reality
When he reached home that evening, his mother was cooking. The aroma of Sambar and tangy tamarind gojju wafted from the kitchen.
"How was school? Did you understand Math any better today?" was her first question. "Hmm, yes Amma," Arjuna answered vaguely, retreating to his room to drop his bag.
When his father returned from work, the conversation followed the same script. He was an accountant in a government office—a man of numbers, a man of facts.
"Son, the paintings are good. You have talent, we know that." He placed a hand gently on Arjuna’s shoulder. "But this world is tough. You need practical skills for the future. A good job, a steady income—that comes from studying. Art should remain a hobby, not a profession."
There was love in his voice, and concern too. But to Arjuna, those words felt heavy, settling in his chest like stones.
That night, in the solitude of his room, he stared at the awards on his wall. "First Prize - District Level Art Competition." "Best Artist - Taluk Youth Festival." So many accolades, yet they seemed to mean nothing to anyone else.
He walked to the window. Outside, bathed in moonlight, the plants in the courtyard stood in silent vigil. And to him alone—they floated in a multi-colored luminescence, even in the dark.
"Why do I see like this?" he wondered. "Is this just my imagination? Or is something truly there? Why can't others see it?"
He went to bed with unanswered questions swirling in his mind.
The Shadow and The Light
The next evening, on the walk back from school, they strolled leisurely. The day’s tension had melted away, replaced by the warmth of friendship.
"Arjun, sometimes I feel... I see the world differently," Arjuna said quietly, twirling a leaf in his hand.
Kiran laughed and patted his back. "That’s why you are a great artist. Your eyes see more than others do. But don’t let that make you helpless, that’s all. To survive in this world, you have to learn certain things."
They walked on, chatting and laughing. The sun was dipping slowly behind the western hills, spilling gold everywhere—the color of a real sunset. But for Arjuna, there was also that other, spectacular aura...
But today, something was special. Different.
Arjuna stopped for a moment. Around a specific plant by the roadside, the aura was denser than usual. It was almost electric, vibrating with life.
"What happened?" Kiran asked, turning back. "Nothing... just nothing," Arjuna shook his head, though his eyes lingered on the plant.
They moved on. As they reached the bend near their old sliding rock, Kiran suddenly stopped.
"Arjun..." His voice was weak, barely a whisper.
Arjuna turned around. Kiran was clutching his stomach with both hands, his face drained of color, lips pressed tight in agony.
"Kiran? What happened?" Arjuna rushed closer, dropping his bag.
"I don't know... suddenly... intense pain..." Kiran hunched over, his eyes squeezing shut. Sweat beads broke out on his forehead instantly.
"Sit down... right here..." Arjuna urged.
But Kiran couldn't stand. His legs gave way, and he collapsed—first to his knees, then fully onto the ground. His body began to convulse in pain.
"Kiran! Kiran!" Arjuna knelt beside him, hands trembling with panic. "What’s wrong? Tell me... What should I do? Is anyone there? Help!"
But the road was empty. It was busy during the morning rush and evening return, but at this precise moment, there was not a soul in sight.
Kiran tried to speak, but no words came out. His lips were turning blue, his breathing erratic and shallow.
Arjuna’s mind went blank with terror. He didn't know what to do. The hospital was miles away. By the time they arrived... The thought alone paralyzed him.
He stood there, helpless... His mind emptied... And then, a trance descended upon him.
The multi-colored aura around the surrounding plants—usually a soft, slow drift—suddenly intensified. It wasn't just color anymore; it became alive. It accelerated, expanded, and blazed brilliantly.
And with it came... The Call.
It wasn't words. It wasn't sound. It was something inside his mind, in his chest, in the depths of his being—a summon. Soundless, yet unbearably clear. Inevitable. Undeniable.
A cold shiver ran down Arjuna’s spine. Slowly, almost involuntarily, he turned his head.
The Awakening
By the side of the road, about ten feet away, stood a plant with distinct leaves. They were glowing. Not just from the external aura—they were emitting light from within, pulsing slowly, like a beating heart. With every beat, the light grew more intense.
The Call grew stronger. It resonated in his mind.
Arjuna stood up slowly. He was deep in the trance now.
His pupils dilated, his body went still. His breathing slowed. He walked—no, he seemed to float—towards the plant. Every step was a fluid, calculated motion.
On the ground, Kiran was losing consciousness. His breathing was fading, foam gathering at the corners of his mouth. But Arjuna heard nothing, saw nothing. In his world, there was only the plant, the light, and The Call.
He reached the plant. Slowly, he extended his right hand. His fingers brushed the first leaf.
The moment he touched it, a surge of energy shot through him. Neither hot nor cold—but alive. Pure, intense life force. It rushed from his fingertips, up his arm, into his chest, flooding his entire body.
The trance deepened. His hands—moving on their own accord—plucked the leaves. One, two, three, four, five. Exactly five leaves. He didn't know how he knew, but he was certain. Exactly five. Not one less, not one more.
He knelt on the ground, his movements graceful, almost ritualistic. Placing the five leaves between his palms, he crushed them.
Green sap oozed between his fingers. It looked like ordinary plant sap—thick and fragrant. But within it... there were tiny sparkles of golden light, shimmering, twinkling, alive.
He turned back to Kiran. His friend’s face was now ashen grey, the shadow of death creeping over him.
Still in the trance, Arjuna lifted Kiran’s head and gently tilted it back. Holding the head with one hand, he used the other to pry open his mouth slightly.
And then, from his green-stained palm, he let the glowing, multi-colored sap drip into Kiran’s mouth.
One drop. Two. Three.
The drops touched Kiran’s lips and slid in. Each drop was filled with specks of light, almost moving with a will of its own.
Four. Five. Six.
Arjuna’s eyes were glazed over... he was still far away in the daze...
And then, after the ninth drop, he stopped. It was enough. He didn't know how he knew, but he knew. It was enough
