The Path Seeker

An excerpt from the book I’m writing, The Path Seeker:

Each day, as the sun slid toward the horizon, a different kind of magic stirred. The sky unfurled in deep oranges and soft purples, and with it came the winged performers of the evening. Dragonflies zipped past like tiny helicopters, their iridescent wings catching the last light. Butterflies hovered delicately above our games. Birds wheeled overhead, circling, swooping, as though drawn into our play. And then, as dusk deepened, came the fireflies, hundreds of them, blinking in and out of the twilight like stars that had fallen from the sky.

We chased them, of course. We cupped them gently in our palms, marveling at the soft, otherworldly glow. For a moment, it felt as if we held starlight.

By nightfall, the world softened. The raucous joy of the day gave way to the quiet intimacy of sleep. I would lie there in the stillness and feel something I had never known in the city: a contentment that asked for nothing more.

The sadness I once carried—the ache of leaving behind our home in Ferozepur, my neighborhood friends, the familiar hum of the city—had melted away like sugar in warm milk. In its place came something gentler, fuller. The laughter of old and new friends. The scent of meals shared in the courtyard. The steady rhythm of village life repeated itself day after day.

Here, amid the dust and dragonflies, in a place without pavements or plumbing, I had found what I hadn’t even known I was searching for—belonging.

And each night, as Pothi Mala stood watch beneath a blanket of stars, I felt certain that something beautiful was unfolding. My old life wasn’t vanishing; it was expanding.