Word of my subtle fortunes began to circulate like a breeze in the grass. A Brahmin merchant who had cheated another for a handful of grain suddenly claimed the gods had warned him; a cruel tax collector found his accounts mysteriously balanced one night. Some villagers murmured about hidden justice, but no one suspected my quiet hand. Even I noticed how power must remain hidden: if the Brahmin knew, he would never show his face to me again.
One day at the market, a village woman accused a moneylender of unfairly raising prices. The dispute grew heated, and I fingered a cool stone in my pocket, thinking, "Let truth calm them." The woman's voice shook as if struck: she suddenly stammered that the lender had only asked a golden coin in error. The men turned skeptical eyes on me. I shrugged innocently. Was it luck, or the benefit of the doubt I willed upon her?
But not every thread stayed calm. A tree I wished would bear fruit cracked violently on a stormy night. The next day, thunder had split our granary door in two. Father said it was how the gods reminded us of humility. I laid the wood straight and left the rest; better to accept my mistakes silently.
Each episode taught me caution. Sometimes even nature resisted me — our buffalo calved too early, and for days the calf would not nurse despite my urges. I felt helpless. In frustration, I wished I could fix everything with a single thought, but that night I learned: power had its limits. Some truths could not be conjured, and for every blessing, the world demanded patience and gratitude.
I was learning balance. I realized that the rules of this age were like a great loom: a Shudra had a weave to follow. My dreams lay in another pattern entirely. But for now, I would continue weaving quietly at its edges, careful not to rip the cloth.