The early monsoon clouds had started gathering over the hills when Aarav noticed the change in the air. A strange hush fell across the landscape, broken only by the rhythmic hum of insects. The trees stood still, their leaves whispering secrets in the breeze. The air smelt of wet earth even before a single drop had fallen.
And with the rains came the preparation for Kartik Deepam, the festival of lights.
It wasn't as grand here as Diwali in the bigger cities he remembered, but in its simplicity, it was beautiful. Every house cleaned their thresholds. Small earthen diyas were ordered from Bhola's father, who worked through the night shaping and firing the lamps in his clay oven. The temple priest announced that the entire village would gather for an evening of prayers, songs, and shared sweets.
Aarav had never been religious in his past life—not outwardly, at least—but something about the sincerity of this place moved him. Religion here wasn't about fear or grand statements. It was woven into life like the colors of a rangoli.
He spent the morning helping his mother draw delicate floral patterns with crushed rice paste at their doorstep. Kavita joined, adding marigold petals and turmeric dots.
"You're not bad at this for a city soul," she teased.
"Must be divine intervention," Aarav replied, smiling.
He had a plan that day—not for the celebration, but for what came after.
Because the monsoon was arriving, and the villagers still depended entirely on two open wells that frequently dried out in summer. There were no ponds, no rainwater harvesting systems, and no concept of storing runoff water.
But Aarav had a vision—of a village that didn't run dry each April.
That morning, while the sun rose pale and shy behind the clouds, he and his father visited the back slope of their field. It was an unused patch, overgrown with grass and scattered stones.
"We can dig a small trench here," Aarav explained. "When it rains, water flows down this way. We can slow it, collect it."
His father looked skeptical. "You want to trap rain?"
"Yes. It's called a recharge pit. We dig a trench here, layer it with stones and charcoal, and cover it with straw. Water flows in, sinks deep into the earth, and refills the wells below."
His father frowned thoughtfully. "You're sure it works?"
"I've seen it work—in my dreams," Aarav said, choosing his words carefully. "And in some holy books."
That was enough.
They began digging that afternoon.
By evening, when the first diya was lit in the temple courtyard, Aarav's arms ached, and his kurta was smeared with mud. But the trench was half done. It curved gently like a smile, lined with broken bricks, dry grass, and river stones they'd gathered from the nearby streambed.
He washed up quickly, changed into a clean white dhoti, and joined his family for the festival.
The village square glowed with hundreds of tiny flames. Diyas flickered in niches, along walls, on tree branches—even on the scarecrow in Aarav's garden, whose clay pot head now bore a bright red tilak.
Children ran barefoot with sparklers. Women sang bhajans, their voices rising in rhythmic waves. The priest recited verses beneath the neem tree, his fingers tracing ancient syllables with care.
And Aarav watched it all with quiet joy.
As sweets were passed around—jaggery laddoos, coconut barfis, sesame balls—he found himself standing beside Bhola and his mother.
The boy looked better now. Less pale. More alert. His cough was gone.
"Your kadha helped," the mother said, touching Aarav's arm gratefully. "And the new chulha. My hut no longer feels like a chimney."
Aarav nodded. "Good. He'll grow stronger now."
He didn't mention that he'd also been boiling neem bark and tulsi in secret, checking their water supply, and watching for signs of worm infestation in the food grains. Not yet.
This wasn't his village, not really. But it was slowly becoming his home.
That night, it rained.
Not a storm—just a soft, steady drizzle. The kind that makes you stop whatever you're doing and just… listen.
Aarav stood at the edge of the new trench, watching the rainwater trickle in from the higher field. It pooled gently, filtered through the pebbles, and slowly disappeared into the earth.
It was working.
The next day, he asked Kavita and Gopal to help him plant lemongrass and bamboo along the trench edges. Lemongrass would deter mosquitoes and stabilize the soil. Bamboo would help mark the boundary—and one day provide building material.
"Won't goats eat it all?" Kavita asked.
"We'll fence it. Later, we'll teach the goats manners."
They laughed.
That week, Aarav began building a second pit, smaller and closer to the well. He called it a "pani kund"—a rain storage tank for overflow. He modeled it after an ancient design he'd seen in Rajasthan documentaries: layered with charcoal, sand, and gravel.
Villagers began taking notice.
Some asked questions. Others watched from a distance, arms crossed, unconvinced.
"You dig like you know something," one elder said. "But the gods give water as they wish."
"True," Aarav said. "But we can build the cups to catch it when they do."
The elder nodded slowly. "Wise words for a child."
Bit by bit, he was earning trust.
But challenges lay ahead. One morning, Aarav woke to find half his vegetable patch chewed up. The scarecrow had fallen in the rain. A goat had slipped through a gap in the fence.
He didn't scold anyone. Instead, he gathered the broken fence pieces, reinforced them with mud and woven reeds, and even added hanging pots with ashes around the border—something he remembered reading deters livestock.
He replanted. He watered. He waited.
By mid-month, the first tomatoes ripened. Tiny, bright red pearls on the vine.
He carried them to his mother like they were treasure.
She cooked them into a tangy chutney with mustard oil and garlic.
That night, as they ate under the stars, his father said, "You were born again in this village, Aarav. You're not just living here. You're changing it."
Aarav didn't respond.
But his heart whispered: This is just the beginning.