The Road Beyond the Storm

The sun hovered low on the horizon, casting a golden haze over the fields that stretched endlessly beyond the village of Baragaon. Wheat danced in the warm evening breeze, its golden heads swaying like waves on a sleepy ocean. Aarav stood quietly at the edge of the field, the sleeves of his faded kurta fluttering slightly, hands in his pockets, eyes locked on the clouds slowly thickening in the distance. It was the kind of evening that should’ve brought peace—a soft breeze, fading light, and the smell of earth soaked in past rain. But there was something wrong. Too wrong. The silence wasn’t soothing. It was loud in its own way. The birds had stopped singing. The cattle, usually restless before dusk, were quiet, huddled near the trees as if sensing a force they couldn’t understand. The air felt heavy on his skin, not warm or cold, but thick, unmoving. Aarav shifted his gaze to the path that led to his home. A small mud-brick house with a tin roof, shared with his mother and ten-year-old sister, Meera. He had grown up within those four walls. Played with sticks in the courtyard, learned how to milk cows, listened to the lullabies his mother used to sing when life was simpler. That house held his entire life, every memory—every scar. He picked up his sickle and slowly walked back, dust rising under his sandals. The silence followed him, clinging to his shadow like a ghost. As he neared home, Meera came running toward him barefoot, her dark braids bouncing behind her. “Bhaiya!” she cried. “Amma said come quickly. The wind is changing. Something bad is coming!” Aarav paused and looked over his shoulder. The sky had darkened in the span of minutes. What was once a gentle evening had turned grey and brooding. The breeze had grown stronger, more urgent. He reached down and took Meera’s hand, squeezing it gently. “It’s probably just rain,” he said, forcing a smile. “Nothing we haven’t seen before.” But as they reached the door, his mother stepped out, her brows knitted with concern. “The storm is early,” she murmured. “It wasn’t due for another month. Something’s not right.” They sat through dinner in near silence, the usual laughter and teasing absent. Even Meera, who always had something to talk about, kept her head down as she ate. Outside, the wind had grown louder, whistling past the window cracks, making the lantern flicker. Later that night, Aarav lay awake on his charpai, staring at the dark ceiling. His thoughts wandered—about the harvest, the unpaid loans, and the weight of being the man of the house since his father’s accident three years ago. Just as his eyes began to close, a strange sound jolted him upright. It wasn’t thunder, not yet. It was a low, groaning rumble, like the sky itself was waking up in pain. He went to the window. The trees swayed violently now. Dust was swirling in the courtyard. A few neighbors were shouting, securing cattle, locking doors. Aarav ran outside and tied the cow’s rope tighter to the post. Lightning flashed in the sky—not a single bolt, but a web of it, lighting up the whole village for a terrifying moment. Then came the sound. A deep, bone-shaking roar as if the clouds had split apart. He rushed back inside. His mother had already gathered Meera into her arms. "It's coming," she whispered. Aarav nodded, his heart pounding. Outside, the world began to fall apart.