Peacock

Anjali stood knee-deep in the cool river, her hands moving with

practiced precision as she gently applied a poultice to the arm

of an elderly woman. The day had been long, but the villagers,

one by one, came to her for healing. Her grandmother, ever the

matriarch of their small village, watched from a wooden chair

near the riverbank, her silver hair glistening like moonlight.

Anjali's hands were steady, her heart focused, but her mind

lingered on the faint yearning that seemed to grow with every

passing year.

She was 29 now, and the weight of responsibility pressed

upon her like the thick fog that rolled in from the hills. Her

grandmother had taught her the ways of the healer, the sacred

herbs, the words of comfort, and the silent prayers that eased

pain. But Anjali could not shake the feeling that her purpose

was yet to be fully revealed. Was she destined for more than

this quiet life of tending wounds?