The cluster of low huts was quieter than the main village, but not silent.
Near the edge of the clearing stood a laburnum tree, its branches heavy with cascading golden flowers. The blossoms hung like molten sunlight, swaying gently in the afternoon breeze. Petals fell occasionally, dotting the earth in yellow.
Underneath it, a group of children darted in and out of the shade, laughing.
Anand slowed his steps.
For a moment, he just watched.
A small boy nearly collided with him before freezing mid-step. The others stopped too, eyes wide, uncertain.
Anand crouched down slightly, softening his voice.
"Hey," he said. "What are your names?"
The boldest of the boys stepped forward. "Balu."
Another followed, thinner but grinning. "Gopi."
A quieter one half-hid behind them. "Soma."
The girls stood slightly apart but curious.
"I'm Lila," one said confidently.
"Mina," said the smaller one beside her.
The last girl crossed her arms, chin lifted defiantly. "Kali."
Anand smiled.
"Strong names," he said. "So… what were you playing?"
The children glanced at one another.
"Pakdam Pakdai!" Balu announced proudly.
Anand blinked. "Lukka chippi?"
"Hide and chase," Lila explained. "One counts. Others run."
Anand's lips curved slowly.
"You mean tag?"
The children tilted their heads.
He stood up fully. "Can I play?"
Silence.
Then Gopi burst out laughing. "You're too big!"
"Big people can't run fast," Soma added seriously.
Anand placed a dramatic hand over his heart. "That is a terrible accusation."
The children giggled.
"Fine," Kali declared. "You count first."
Anand turned to the tree trunk and covered his eyes.
"Alright. I'm counting to ten," he said. "And I will catch you."
He began loudly and deliberately.
"One… two… three…"
Behind him, chaos erupted — tiny feet pounding dirt, hushed squeals, frantic whispering.
He reached ten and spun around dramatically.
"I'm coming!"
He ran.
Not gracefully.
Not efficiently.
But with reckless enthusiasm.
He chased Balu around the trunk, nearly slipped on fallen petals, lunged toward Mina only for her to duck under his arm and dart away. Gopi tagged him from behind and shouted triumphantly before sprinting off.
Anand laughed.
A real laugh.
Full. Unrestrained.
For a brief flicker — just a second — something old tried to surface.
A memory.
A dim apartment room.
A slammed door.
Raised voices.
A small boy sitting alone in the dark, listening to arguments he didn't understand but felt in his bones.
Birthdays forgotten.
School events unattended.
Silence where warmth should have been.
The memory hovered —
—and then dissolved.
Because Balu had just tackled him from behind.
Anand stumbled dramatically and collapsed onto the grass.
"I've been defeated!" he groaned.
The children swarmed him, victorious shrieks filling the golden shade of the laburnum.
For the first time in what felt like an absurdly long stretch of existence — longer than war, longer than time loops, longer than loneliness — Anand wasn't thinking.
Not about past mistakes.
Not about the world he came from.
Not about caste.
Not about illness.
Not about death.
He wasn't calculating outcomes or analyzing consequences.
He was just running.
Just laughing.
Just breathing.
Golden petals rained down as they chased one another again. Anand sprinted after Kali this time, barely missing her by inches as she shrieked in delight.
"Too slow!" she teased.
"Strategically delayed," Anand corrected between breaths.
The sky shifted slowly toward evening, but none of them noticed.
Under the laburnum tree, time loosened its grip.
And for once — truly once — Anand felt like nothing more and nothing less than a boy playing a game.
No burden.
No philosophy.
No future.
Just the sound of laughter echoing beneath golden flowers.
And it was enough.
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