The Boy With A Purple Heart

Raja, barely twelve summers old, felt the midday sun beat down on his back as he toiled alongside his father in their sun-baked field. Dust clung to his skin, and sweat trickled down his forehead, unlike the children of wealthy families who lounged in cool courtyards.

Raja's education bloomed under the shade of a majestic banyan tree. His Guru, with a voice seasoned by experience, imparted them knowledge orally. Every harvest season, the pathshalas closed, and students, like Raja, returned to the fields, their young hands joining the calloused ones of their fathers. In the vast expanse of the paddy field, he learned a different kind of education – the importance of hard work and the rhythm of the seasons.

That year, however, a restlessness stirred within Raja. The familiar routine of planting, tending, and harvesting felt monotonous compared to the dreams that flickered in his head. He yearned for something more, something grander. The image of King Rudra Pratap, adorned in luxurious purple robes and wielding immense power, flickered in his mind. "How can a boy with dirt under his nails ever become a king?" he whispered to himself one starlit night, his voice thick with longing.

He thought, for being a king he would need money. He thought about what he could do several nights. Raja's eyes sparked with a newfound determination. He spent his free time after harvest, not in idle games, but in a flurry of activity. He gathered rare mushrooms from the forest depths, their earthy fragrance filling his nostrils. He wove intricate baskets from reeds that grew by the river, their smooth texture a delight to his touch. He even learned the art of mending clay pots, his fingers surprisingly skilled at shaping the delicate curves.

He bartered his wares in the village market, his initial shyness melting away with every successful trade. The coppers and silver coins that clinked in his pouch were a testament to his hard work. Slowly, a sense of accomplishment bloomed within him, a feeling far richer than the dust that caked his clothes. He was earning more than any farmhand, the color of prosperity replacing the dusty browns of his past.

Three years passed, and Raja, now fifteen, was no longer the small boy who dreamt of castles. He stood tall, his frame lean and strong from years of work. Though still a child in some eyes, he carried himself with a maturity born of responsibility. The coins he had gathered would have been a respectable sum for any villager, yet Raja felt a hollowness settle in his stomach. He had dreamt of purple, of a life far beyond the fields, and his efforts, though significant, hadn't brought him closer to that dream.

One evening, as Raja sat by the well, counting his coins under the soft glow of the setting sun, his father approached. He saw the disappointment etched on Raja's face and sat beside him, a silent understanding passing between them.

"You've gathered a good amount, son," his father said, his voice gentle.

Raja looked up, a flicker of doubt clouding his eyes. "But… is it enough?"

His father placed a comforting hand on Raja's shoulder. "Raja," he said, his voice thick with wisdom, "a king isn't just about fancy clothes and grand palaces. It's about the strength to lead, the wisdom to rule, and the compassion to protect your people."

Raja frowned, staring at the endless stretch of fields. "But how can I achieve that here? I tried. I tried several ways other than farming, but I failed."

A flicker of pride danced in his father's eyes. "Look around, Raja. This land, these people, they are your kingdom. A king doesn't have to live in a grand castle to rule. You are a king, just not in the way you envisioned. You have wealth, not of gold, but of respect and trust. Your purple lies not in robes, but in the courage you showed to dream beyond your fields. You are a king child. Help those needy you see, fight for the weak who seek justice, lead them, be their king."

Raja's heart skipped a beat. Kingship wasn't about distance from the fields, but about the impact on those within them. The purple he craved wasn't a colour, but his actions. He wiped a tear from his eye, a tear not of disappointment, but of realization. He wasn't King Rudra Pratap, but he was Raja, the leader his village needed, the king of his own life.

From that day on, Raja's focus shifted. While he continued to work alongside his father, his ambition took a different form. He used his earnings to help those in need within the village. He bought tools for struggling farmers, settled minor disputes with his newfound wisdom, and even organized games and storytelling sessions for the children, sharing the knowledge he gleaned from the Guru.

Years later, under the same banyan tree where he once received his lessons, a young boy approached Raja, eyes filled with admiration. "Brother Raja," he stammered, "will you teach me how to weave baskets?" Raja smiled, a warmth spreading through him. He wasn't a king with a crown, but he was a leader who had built his own kingdom, a kingdom not of land or riches, but of respect, trust, and the purple thread of compassion that bound his village together.