Chapter 112: chapter 112

S A N M A Y I ---As we moved deeper into Kosala’s heartland, the land began to feel alive with memory. Each bend of the road, every whisper of the wind through the groves, brought forth a story I thought I had long forgotten. Though my home had been reduced to ruins, the spirit of Kosala still thrived in its fields, its villages, and most of all, in its people. The air here was different—not just fragrant with the blossoms of mango and neem trees but rich with the scent of my childhood.“Tell me more of the place you grew up,” Ranajay said as he rode beside me, his horse matching the pace of our modest caravan. His voice was soft, filled with curiosity that warmed me. “What did the younger Sanmayi love most about her home?”I smiled, though the weight of the years made it a bittersweet gesture. “I loved the garden most of all,” I said. “My mother cultivated the most vibrant flowers there—jasmine, marigolds, and roses that seemed to blush in the sunlight. She would often sit with me beneath the guava tree, teaching me verses from the ancient texts while we shared fruit. It was her refuge, and mine as well.”Ranajay glanced at me, his dark eyes glimmering in the afternoon light. “Did you climb the guava tree, then? I can’t imagine you as the sort to sit still for long.”A soft laugh escaped my lips. “Oh, I climbed it often, to my mother’s endless exasperation. She would scold me for tearing my saree, yet I always saw her hiding a smile behind her hands. And my father…” My voice faltered for a moment, but I pushed on. “He would pluck the ripest fruit for me, saying I deserved only the best.”Ranajay’s expression softened as he reached for my hand. “They must have adored you.”“They did,” I said quietly. “And I adored them.”We rode in silence for a while, the rhythm of the horses’ hooves blending with the sounds of the countryside. Villages dotted the horizon, their mud walls and thatched roofs basking in the golden light of the sun. As we approached one such settlement, a crowd began to gather. Men, women, and children emerged from their homes, their faces lighting up with recognition.“Sanmayi Devi!” an elderly man exclaimed, his voice trembling with emotion. “It is truly you!”The villagers surrounded us, their excitement palpable. They bowed low, their hands folded in reverence. I dismounted, my feet touching the earth of Kosala for the first time in years, and felt an overwhelming wave of emotion. These were my people, the ones who had once looked to my family for guidance and protection. Their warmth, undiminished by the passage of time, enveloped me like a familiar embrace.“Devi, we thought we had lost you forever,” a woman said, tears streaming down her face. “Your mother was a beacon of kindness to us. And your father…oh, how he cared for us all.”I took her hands in mine, unable to find words for the gratitude swelling in my heart. “You honor their memory with your kindness,” I said at last. “It is I who am fortunate to be among you once more.”Ranajay stood nearby, observing the scene with quiet respect. The villagers began to share stories of my parents, tales of their generosity and wisdom that I had not heard before. As they spoke, I felt their love for my family, undiminished by the years, and a sense of belonging that I had not realized I still craved.“Devi, do you remember the spring festival when you were a child?” another villager asked. “You danced with such joy that the whole village celebrated as if the gods themselves were among us.”I laughed, though the memory was faint. “I remember twirling so much that I fell into the mango cart. My mother was horrified, but my father laughed and said it was a sign of my boundless spirit.”The villagers joined in my laughter, their joy infectious. Ranajay, too, smiled, his gaze warm as it rested on me. “It seems Kosala has always been a part of your soul,” he said. “I can see now why it feels so deeply woven into your heart.”As we continued through the village, I noticed a group of children playing near the well, their laughter echoing through the air. One little girl, no more than six, approached me timidly, holding a garland of fresh jasmine. I knelt before her, accepting the flowers with a smile.“What is your name, little one?” I asked.“Padma, Devi,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.“Well, Padma,” I said, placing the garland around my neck, “this is the most beautiful gift I have received in years. Thank you.”Her face lit up with pride as she ran back to her friends, who giggled and whispered excitedly. Watching them, I felt a pang of longing. These children reminded me of the innocence and simplicity of my own youth—a time before politics and betrayal, before grief and loss.As evening fell, the villagers insisted on hosting a feast in our honor. Mats were spread under the banyan tree, and the air filled with the aroma of spiced lentils, roasted vegetables, and sweet rice pudding. Ranajay and I sat among the people, sharing their food and listening to their stories. The bond between us felt unbreakable, forged anew by the warmth of their hospitality.“Sanmayi,” Ranajay said quietly as the stars began to appear above us, “this place, these people—they are a testament to your family’s legacy. And now, they are part of our legacy as well.”I nodded, my heart full. “Kosala is more than a memory,” I said. “It is a foundation, a reminder of where I come from and what I must strive to protect. These people trusted my family to guide them, and now they look to us. We cannot fail them.”“We won’t,” he promised, his hand finding mine. “Together, we will honor this legacy and build a future worthy of it.”As the night deepened, I felt a sense of peace I had not known in years. Kosala was not just a place of the past; it was a bridge to the future. And as I sat beneath the banyan tree, surrounded by the love and warmth of its people, I knew that I had finally found my way home.Reminiscence.