Restless and unable to sleep, I found myself wrestling with my thoughts after Nandhini and Varun had left. The village, once brimming with life and excitement, now felt strangely quiet and uneventful. After yesterday's weird dream, I needed to distract myself. My brain was definitely acting weird. I decided it was high time to acquire a new skill—something different, something I hadn't had the chance to learn. I wondered; I researched, but nothing really hit me.

But, then I remembered mom telling me that our ancestors were originally potters. When it came to my grandfather, his father taught him pottery, but didn't want him to do it as a profession. Since, they were landowners, busy with farming activities and taking care of village duties, pottery had become a lost cause.

If I was going to connect with my roots, what better way?

I knew my grandpa was a skilled potter, but I had never seen him in action. With curiosity tugging at me, I approached him with the idea of learning pottery. His eyes sparkled with enthusiasm as he agreed. He led me to a small, rustic shed adjacent to our house, a treasure trove of his crafted pots, each bearing a unique tale.

Inside the shed, the air was thick with the earthy scent of clay. My grandpa began showing me his creations, explaining their purposes and the intricacies of their design as I admired their artistry. My interest soared with each passing moment, and I was eager to dive into the world of pottery.

Excitedly, I inquired when we could begin crafting pots on the wheel. My grandpa smiled warmly but gently shook his head. "Not yet," he said, "First, you need to understand the clay, the very essence of pottery." Disappointment washed over me, but I trusted his wisdom.

In the days following, he let me play with the clay, teaching me how to wedge the clay properly. It was tiresome, but instead of sulking over it, I took a different approach. Besides learning, I also focused on painting the finished pots and capturing their essence through photographs. To share our newfound passion with the world, I even created an Instagram profile, 'Thatha's Pottery', dedicated to my grandpa's work. Although my initial frustration simmered, bonding with my grandpa became a beautiful experience.

Weeks passed, and my curiosity resurfaced. I couldn't help but wonder why he hadn't allowed me near the wheel. One day, unable to contain my curiosity, I asked him outright. He smiled and gestured for me to sit beside the wheel.

With a patient and steady hand, he taught me to wedge the clay to perfection. The process was both soothing and challenging, and it was only the beginning. Afterward, he turned on the wheel, and my heart raced with excitement as the clay came to life beneath my touch. Slowly, with his guidance, I began to shape my first piece—a delicate flower vase.

As the wheel spun, the vase emerged, slender and graceful. My grandpa's voice was a gentle presence, guiding my every movement. "Feel the clay," he'd say, "Let it speak to you." With his guidance, I shaped the vase's body and delicately fashioned its neck. Eventually, we knew it was time. With a wire, I cut the vase free from the wheel. A sense of pride welled up within me as I beheld my very first creation.

Two days later, when it was all dried up and ready, I couldn't wait to share it with everyone. Eager to display my achievement, I gathered the vase and hurried toward the house, blissfully unaware of my surroundings. My elation was short-lived, for I failed to notice a vehicle approaching on the road.

Suddenly, strong hands grabbed me and pushed me out of harm's way. My heart raced, and I was filled with anger as I turned to see Krish standing beside me, wearing a stern expression. My vase had been shattered. Frustration bubbled up inside me, and I couldn't hold it back.

I glared at Krish and exclaimed, "Why on earth did you push me?"

He shot back, "You would've been seriously hurt if I hadn't!"

"But you ruined my vase!"

Krish sighed, his patience wearing thin. "Sometimes, I wonder about you," he muttered.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. Let's go inside."

"I'm not going."

"Why are you acting like a child? You want another vase? I will bring one."

Fuming, I retorted, "I don't want another vase. I want the one I made with my own hands!"

Krish looked exasperated. "You're impossible."

"Look who's advising.", I mumbled with a lopsided grin.

"What?"

"As if you don't know what I'm talking about, Krish. You're always so moody and sulky. What's your problem?"

"Why do you care?"

"Meh, I don't care. I just feel sorry for your future wife. If you're going to be like this forever, no one will ever like you. You'll be a loner forever!"

His furious outburst stung more than I could have imagined. In the heat of the moment, he slapped me hard, his eyes ablaze with anger. Without a shred of remorse, he uttered, "Don't you ever talk to me like that," before storming away. I stood there, stunned and motionless, my cheeks burning from the unexpected strike.

Thankfully, nobody had witnessed our heated exchange, and I was left standing there, alone and trembling. I couldn't believe what had just transpired. I made my way back to our house, tears streaming down my face. As I hugged my Grandma and sobbed into her shoulder, I couldn't bring myself to tell her the truth. Instead, I muttered something about accidentally breaking a pot, my feeble attempt at concealing the pain.

My Grandma comforted me as best she could, but the real turmoil raged within me. I had never been slapped before, not by my parents or anyone else. It was a shocking first, and I was consumed by a mixture of confusion, anger, and embarrassment. I wanted to understand why he had reacted so violently, but I couldn't bring myself to confront him. Not now.

I needed time to process everything, and in the midst of my swirling emotions, a plan began to form in my mind. If he thought he could get away with treating me this way, he was sorely mistaken. I would teach him a lesson he wouldn't soon forget, and it would be done in front of our entire family.

One evening, as we all gathered for dinner, I put my plan into motion. I had secretly enlisted the help of my mischievous cousin, Nandhini, who was more than willing to assist in my quest for revenge.

As the meal progressed, I engaged Krish in a seemingly casual conversation,pretending to befriend him and making him believe that I was holding no grudges, all the while setting the stage for my prank. I brought up the topic of his favorite food and claimed to have heard that he couldn't handle spicy dishes.

"Who told you I can't handle spice? I love spicy foods. I couldn't say the same for you Americans - always eating everything sweet."

"I agree. I can't eat spicy stuff. But you've got to agree too."

"No way"

"Dare to challenge?"

He laughed and said, "Deal." Krish, never one to back down from a challenge, insisted that he could handle any level of spiciness.

With a sly grin, I handed him a plate of what appeared to be delectable homemade samosas. Unbeknownst to him, I had secretly filled them with the spiciest chilies I could find, with the help of Nandhini's friends. Krish, eager to prove his mettle, took a generous bite. At first, he seemed unfazed, but as the seconds ticked by, his face turned a shade of red that matched the chilies.

The entire family watched in amusement as Krish's eyes watered, and he desperately reached for a glass of water. I grabbed the glass of water and forced him to accept his defeat, but he didn't. He kept going. I could see him suffering. At first, I wanted to laugh at this whole prank, but seeing him go through with it brought in a pang of guilt. I realized that my prank had gone too far. I had intended to embarrass him, but this was beyond what I had anticipated.

I handed him the water and as he gulped it down, his eyes met mine, and I saw a mixture of pain and humility in them. In that moment, I realized that beneath his stoic exterior, he was genuinely a nice person who didn't deserve the humiliation I had brought upon him.

The rest of the family joined in, offering him water and laughter-filled apologies. Krish, still recovering from the spice, managed a weak smile and forgave me.

Feeling remorseful, I rushed to his side after the family left, profusely apologizing for my ill-conceived prank.

"I'm sorry"

"It's okay", he said, getting out of his seat. "You owe me, though."

"Stop kidding. It was tit-for-tat. We're even now."

"Even for what?"

"For breaking my vase."

"I didn't do it intentionally."

"Oh, yeah, I did it intentionally, but you had a choice. I didn't"

"Eh, you're crazy.", he said, looking puzzled. "I need to get out of here. I'm going for a walk. You want to come?"

We go on a casual walk along the village roads, noticing everything along the way. We walked across our street and reached the big Banyan tree that was always brimming with people, mainly children, every day playing with their friends. That day too, a few boys were playing with marbles, a bunch of girls were playing Hopscotch, and a few older men were sitting on the cement slab placed around the tree. Every Indian village usually has a Banyan tree. It's more than just a majestic tree; it's the heart of a community. More than shelter, these ancient trees are known to offer spiritual sanctity and act as gathering spaces for important discussions like the Panchayat and other festivities too.

We walked past the Banyan tree into another narrow street that went towards the farmlands. Krish, with a softened expression, says, "I'm sorry about your vase. I know how special your first one must be."

I nodded in silence.

"Let's make another one. I'll help you."

I looked at him in surprise. "You know how to? But do you have a potter's wheel at home?"

He chuckles softly and leans in closer. "Well, I have a secret. I use Grandpa's wheel when he's not around. It's something we can share, our little secret."

As I walked alongside Krish, my mind was in turmoil. I had just seen a side of him that I never expected—a kind and friendly side. It was a stark contrast to the brooding and grumpy demeanor he had displayed earlier. I couldn't help but wonder why he had been acting that way.

The sun was beginning to set, casting long shadows across the village path, Krish and I shared a moment of silent connection. But just as we were getting comfortable with each other, a distant rumble of thunder echoed through the sky, foreshadowing an approaching storm. Krish looked up at the darkening clouds, his expression filled with concern.

"We should get back," he said, his voice tense. "There's a storm coming."

I nodded in agreement, and we quickened our pace toward the village. But the storm wasn't the only thing brewing in the distance. Unbeknownst to us, a series of events was set in motion that would challenge our newfound friendship and lead us down a path neither of us could have anticipated.

Any guesses on why Krish was acting like that?
Keep your guesses coming...

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🎙️Special shoutout to _sheisvintage for being the hype-person you are and for interacting on this story. Do check out her ongoing story  - https://www.wattpad.com/story/346471727-unfettered-red