Two Little Souls
In the kingdom of Sugandhavan, there stood a modest orphanage watched over by the kind but firm Gauri Amma. Among the many children under her care, two were inseparable — Vaidhehi and Rudran. From shared meals to whispered dreams under the starlit sky, their bond grew stronger with each passing day.
One quiet afternoon, Vaidhehi and Rudran sat beneath the neem tree in the courtyard. Rudran had stolen two extra rotis from the kitchen, hiding them under his shirt.
“You’ll get caught again,” Vaidhehi whispered, giggling.
“Not if you eat fast,” Rudran grinned. He tore one roti in half and handed it to her.
She shook her head but took it anyway. “Gauri Amma will scold you.”
“Let her,” he shrugged. “If you’re not hungry, I’ll take the blame. Always.”
Just then, Gauri Amma’s voice rang out as she stepped into the courtyard. “And what blame is that, Rudran?”
Both children froze, wide-eyed, with crumbs still on their lips.
But instead of anger, Gauri Amma only sighed, her stern eyes softening. “You two… always together, always in mischief. Remember, hunger is not just of the stomach — it is also of the heart. Share both wisely.”
The children glanced at each other and smiled. For a fleeting moment, it felt like a real family.
That night, after the other children had fallen asleep, Vaidhehi and Rudran lay awake on their mats, whispering about adventures they dreamed of — traveling to distant lands, seeing palaces that only existed in stories.
Suddenly, the wooden door creaked open. Gauri Amma entered with a small oil lamp. Her shadow stretched across the room.
“Still awake, my little owls?” she asked, her tone half-chiding, half-affectionate.
Rudran quickly pretended to close his eyes, but Vaidhehi laughed. “Amma, tell us a story. Just one before sleep.”
Gauri Amma sighed, though the corners of her lips lifted. She sat beside them, placing the lamp on the floor.
“Very well. Listen carefully. Life will scatter you like seeds in the wind, but true roots always find their way back to the soil.”
She touched both their heads gently. “Whatever happens, don’t forget each other. A bond of the heart is stronger than blood.”
Vaidhehi snuggled closer to Rudran. “We’ll never forget.”
Rudran nodded solemnly, whispering, “Never.”
Gauri Amma smiled, her eyes glistening in the lamplight. “Good. Then sleep now. Tomorrow brings its own stories.”
She blew out the flame, leaving the children wrapped in darkness, comforted by her words.
The sun had barely risen when word spread through the orphanage: a royal chariot stood waiting at the gates. Children pressed against the wooden fence, whispering in awe as soldiers in polished armor lined the courtyard.
Samrat Harshvardhan of Durgapur himself had come, his presence commanding silence. Gauri Amma stepped forward, bowing respectfully.
“We seek a girl,” the king’s attendant announced, “one who may serve and grow under the guardianship of our kingdom.”
The children huddled nervously. Vaidhehi felt Rudran’s hand clutch hers, his grip tight, as if he already knew. And when Harshvardhan’s eyes swept across the group, they stopped on her.
“This one,” he said firmly, pointing to Vaidhehi.
Rudran’s heart dropped. Vaidhehi’s lips trembled, but she said nothing. Gauri Amma placed a steady hand on her shoulder, though her own eyes were moist. Harshvardhan lingered for a breath, noting how fiercely the boy clung to the girl’s hand, but his expression revealed nothing.
Later, as the soldiers prepared to take her, Vaidhehi’s eyes brimmed with panic. She turned quickly to Gauri Amma.
“Amma… can I have just a few minutes? Please… before they take me.”
The king’s men looked impatient, but Gauri Amma nodded. “Okay, child. But don’t keep them waiting long.”
Vaidhehi stepped aside with Amma, her voice trembling. “I want to give Rudran something… so he won’t forget me.”
Gauri Amma studied her for a moment, then slowly opened a small wooden box she kept hidden away. Inside lay a bundle of pendants, each carved with a sacred symbol.
“Choose with your heart,” Amma whispered.
Vaidhehi’s fingers hovered before settling on a silver Trishul (trident): sharp, simple, unyielding. She clutched it and walked back to Rudran.
She pressed it into his palm. “Wear this always. So even if I am far, a part of me stays with you.”
Rudran’s throat tightened. He closed his fist around it, then looked up — a sudden thought striking him — and rushed to Gauri Amma.
“Amma… do you have one more? The same pendant?”
Gauri Amma blinked, surprised, but without a word reached back into the box. She placed a second trident in his hand, her eyes glistening as if she already knew what he would do.
Rudran returned and tied the pendant to Vaidhehi’s wrist with a piece of red thread he had tugged loose from his own shirt.
“Now you carry mine too,” he whispered. “No matter where they take you, Vaidhehi, you’ll never be alone.”
Her tears spilled as she hugged him fiercely, their pendants gleaming faintly in the fading light. Soldiers moved forward, prying them apart.
“Rudran!” she cried.
“Vaidhehi!” he shouted back, his voice breaking.
The wheels of the royal chariot groaned as it rolled forward, each turn dragging her farther from the only family she had ever known. Rudran’s figure blurred in her tear-filled eyes until he was no longer visible.
At the gates, fists clenched around his pendant, Rudran stood frozen as Gauri Amma placed a trembling hand on his shoulder.
“The roots will always find their way back,” she whispered, though her own heart felt unbearably heavy.
