The forest swallowed Ganesh quickly.
Within a few dozen steps, the hermitage was no longer visible, hidden behind thick trunks and twisting vines. Only the faint echo of birds and the soft crunch of leaves beneath his feet marked his passage.
He did not look back.
If he did, he feared he would not keep walking.
The bundle on his shoulder was light—some food, a spare cloth, a flask of water. The weight he carried inside was far heavier.
This is it, he told himself. No fire to return to. No voice to guide me.
Only the road.
By midday, the familiar forest thinned into rougher land. The ground grew uneven, scattered with stones and thorny shrubs. The sky above was harsh and bright, offering no shade.
Ganesh walked until his legs burned.
He had trained for endurance, yet training had always ended with rest, with a place to return to.
Now there was only forward.
He stopped by a narrow stream, drank deeply, and washed dust from his face. As he straightened, he caught his reflection in the water.
Lean, scarred, eyes darker than before.
Is this who I am now? he wondered. A wanderer with no name but his own?
He pushed the thought aside and moved on.
As evening approached, Ganesh reached a small crossroads where three narrow paths met. None were marked. No shrine, no sign, no traveler to ask.
He stood there for a long time.
Back at the hermitage, every path had been known. Every trail had a purpose.
Here, the world offered no guidance.
At last, he chose the middle path—not for any reason he could name, but because his feet moved that way.
Soon after, clouds gathered overhead, and rain began to fall.
At first it was gentle.
Then it turned fierce.
Ganesh ran, seeking shelter, but found only low rocks and thorn bushes. He crouched beneath a jutting stone, wrapping his cloth tightly around himself as rain soaked through.
Cold crept into his bones.
Night fell quickly.
For the first time since leaving, fear truly touched him.
What if I made a mistake?
What if this road breaks me before it teaches me anything?
He hugged his knees to his chest, teeth chattering.
No voice answered.
No warmth came.
Only rain and darkness.
He stayed there through the long night, half-sleeping, half-waking, listening to thunder roll across the sky.
When dawn finally came, the rain had passed, leaving the land cold and slick.
Ganesh rose slowly, every muscle aching.
He felt small.
Not as a disciple.
Not as a protector.
Just as a boy alone on an endless road.
He took a deep breath and walked on.
By midday, hunger gnawed at his stomach. He ate sparingly, knowing he did not know when his next meal would come.
As he followed a rocky path downhill, he heard voices ahead.
Cautiously, he approached and saw a group of traders resting beside their carts—humans, mostly, with a single deva woman among them, her glow faint beneath a hood.
Relief washed over him.
People meant food, water, and news.
He stepped into view.
One of the men reached for his knife. "Who's there?"
"A traveler," Ganesh replied, raising his hands. "I mean no harm."
The deva woman studied him closely. "You carry no trade. No banner. Where do you come from?"
Ganesh hesitated. "From a forest hermitage. I am walking to learn the world."
A few laughed.
"One does not learn the world by walking alone," a trader said. "One survives it."
Ganesh smiled faintly. "Then I am here to learn that first."
They shared some bread and water with him. As they ate, Ganesh listened to their talk—of towns farther south, of increasing tensions between deva patrols and asura bands, of roads growing unsafe.
"You should not travel alone," one warned. "These are dangerous times."
Ganesh nodded. "So I am beginning to see."
When he rose to leave, the deva woman said, "Your eyes carry fire, boy. Be careful it does not consume you."
Ganesh bowed. "And may it light the path instead."
He continued on, their words echoing behind him.
That evening, Ganesh reached a small abandoned shrine near a dried riverbed. Its roof had collapsed, but part of the stone walls still stood.
He decided to rest there.
As he sat against the cold stone, exhaustion washed over him.
This is only the first day, he thought. And already it feels endless.
He closed his eyes.
For a moment, he felt as if someone were watching.
Not with judgment.
With quiet presence.
He opened his eyes.
Nothing.
Only the fading light and the wind whispering through broken stone.
That night, sleep brought him a dream.
He walked on a road of ash beneath a dark sky. Each step left glowing footprints that slowly faded behind him.
Ahead, the road split again and again, yet no matter which turn he took, the path always led deeper into darkness.
Then a voice, distant but calm, spoke:
"Walk until you no longer seek a path."
Ganesh woke with his heart pounding.
The dream left him uneasy.
Yet also strangely steady.
The next days blurred together.
He walked through dry plains where heat shimmered above cracked earth. He crossed narrow streams and low hills, sometimes finding shelter in caves, sometimes sleeping beneath open sky.
He begged food when he had to.
He traded help for meals when he could—lifting heavy loads, clearing brush, guarding animals at night.
Some welcomed him.
Others turned him away.
Each refusal cut.
Each kindness surprised.
Slowly, he learned what the world demanded.
Strength was not enough.
Skill was not enough.
Even compassion was not enough.
The world asked for endurance.
One evening, after a long day of walking, Ganesh collapsed beneath a lone tree on a barren rise. His body trembled with fatigue, and his throat burned with thirst.
I can't keep this up, he thought. Not like this.
For the first time since leaving, despair truly rose within him.
He pressed his forehead to the dry earth.
"Gurudev," he whispered. "I don't know if I can walk this road."
The name slipped out before he could stop it.
But Agnivrat was far away.
No answer came.
Only the wind.
He clenched his fists.
"I chose this," he said to himself. "So I will not turn back."
He forced himself to rise and walked on until he found a shallow stream where he drank and rested.
Far beyond mortal sight, Shiva watched the boy stumbling beneath the weight of the open world.
"Let him feel the hunger of the road," the Lord murmured.
"Only when all outer shelters fall will he seek the shelter that cannot be lost."
Ganesh lay beside the stream, staring up at the stars.
For the first time in his life, there was no roof above him.
No walls.
No sacred fire.
Only the vast sky and the endless road.
Tears slid quietly down his cheeks.
Not from pain.
But from the understanding that the life he had known was truly over.
And whatever lay ahead would have to be faced alone.