Chapter 4: The Growing Flame
Seasons turned gently in Mohenjo-Daro. Rains came and went like whispers, soaking the neatly bricked streets and feeding the mighty Sindhu River. And within one of those warm clay homes, the young boy Aarav was growing like a shoot blessed by divine rain.
By the age of five, he was already known among the neighbors as "the calm one." Not because he was silent—but because every word he spoke felt too thoughtful for his age.
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"Aarav beta," his mother called one morning, sweeping the veranda, "fetch water from the well, and be polite to the women there!"
Aarav nodded, slinging the small pot over his shoulder with practiced ease. At the well, older girls were drawing water with thick rope and laughter.
"Ah, Aarav!" one teased with a grin, "Don't forget to bow to the matriarch, little prince!"
Aarav bowed slightly and replied with a smirk, "Of course, madam. The strength of our city rests on the wisdom of its women."
The girls laughed, surprised—and secretly pleased.
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In Harappan society, women held undeniable authority. The matriarchal traditions were deeply rooted: inheritance passed through the mother's line; village councils were often led by elder women; and even temples were tended by priestesses of river and moon.
Men were respected, but decisions in the home—and often in the wider community—rested with the women.
"Why is it this way?" Aarav once asked his mother, watching her lead the evening prayer.
"Because," she said, placing a flower in his hair, "we are the ones who bleed life into the world. And only those who bleed life may be trusted to guide it."
Aarav accepted it without resistance. In truth, he admired his mother. She moved through life like a current—soft, steady, but strong enough to shift stone.
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His daily life was structured but never dull.
Mornings began with ritual bathing in the household cistern. Then a simple breakfast of barley cakes, milk, and honey. Afterward, he joined his father at the pottery yard, watching the wheel spin like time itself.
"This wheel," Vedhraj would say, hands molding clay, "is like our fate. If you press with care, it becomes a bowl. If not, it crumbles into nothing."
Afternoons were for learning—observing traders, sitting by elders, listening to tales from sailors who returned from distant coastal cities. Aarav soaked it all in like the dry earth drinking the monsoon.
By evening, he'd help his mother in the garden or listen as she discussed matters with the Council Mothers, who gathered in their home once a week.
And every night, before sleeping, he whispered softly to himself:
"This is only the beginning."
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One evening, while playing with other boys near the great bathhouse, a younger child asked him,
"Why do you talk like the old priests?"
Aarav grinned. "Maybe I've lived longer than I look."
The other boy blinked, confused. But Aarav simply smiled and skipped ahead, eyes already scanning the stars above.
The System had remained quiet, its presence faint—but Aarav knew it was watching, waiting.
This world was peaceful. Structured. Balanced.
But it was not eternal.
And when the time came to shift its course, he would be ready.
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End of Chapter 4