One crisp morning, I was driving up the winding roads to Mussoorie. The mist hung low, and the pine trees whispered secrets to the wind. Somewhere along a bend, I noticed a boy sitting by the roadside. He couldn’t have been more than 11 years old, clad in maroon robes that fluttered in the cold breeze. His eyes caught my attention—deep, calm, and ancient, like they’d seen more than they should have.

Atul Tyagi (Soulful and Sociopolitical Writer).

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Dec 5, 2024

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I pulled over, more out of curiosity than anything else.

“Going to Mussoorie?” he asked, as if he already knew the answer.

I nodded and offered him a ride. He climbed in, sitting silently for a while, gazing out at the hills as the car climbed higher.

Then, breaking the silence, he spoke. “You trust people too easily. That’s your strength, but also your biggest flaw.”

The statement startled me. “What do you mean?” I asked.

He turned to face me, his eyes piercing through my thoughts. “Your heart is pure, fearless, and transparent. It’s a rare combination, but it unsettles people. Even your family, friends, and relatives—those closest to you—might not truly understand or appreciate it. Some might even try to hurt you, whether intentionally or not. You see, people don’t like what they can’t control or comprehend.”

I didn’t know what to say. His words hit a nerve.

“You have to be careful,” he continued. “Not everyone deserves your trust. You’re too open, and it makes you vulnerable. The less you talk, the less you reveal, the better. I can see that when you pull back and don’t give people the attention they crave, it makes them insecure. That insecurity can turn into jealousy, and jealousy leads to deception. You need to be aware of this, always.”

“What should I do, then?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

“Balance,” he said, his tone firm yet calm. “Your energy is a gift, but it’s also a double-edged sword. You carry the energy of both Rama and Krishna within you—divine, wise, and compassionate. But I also see traces of Ravana. When people deceive or provoke you, the Ravana in you rises, and you become ruthless, destructive, and deceptive yourself. You are far smarter than people think. Many believe they know you, but they don’t. You’re a master of this game, a trait you’ve carried from past lives.”

His words sent a shiver down my spine. He was describing parts of me I rarely acknowledged, even to myself.

“But,” he continued, “this is your test. The same way Arjuna faced his during the Mahabharata. Arjuna was pure-hearted and a skilled warrior, but he was constantly surrounded by deceit, betrayal, and provocation—from his brothers being sent to exile, to Draupadi being humiliated. Krishna guided him to balance his emotions and use his abilities wisely. When faced with Duryodhana’s provocations, Arjuna didn’t let anger consume him. Instead, he channeled his strength for the greater good.

“Arjuna faced an even greater dilemma when he had to fight his own relatives in the Kurukshetra war. He stood frozen, unwilling to take up arms against those he loved. But Krishna reminded him of his duty—his dharma. Krishna told him that dharma must always prevail, even if it means going against your own blood. Sometimes, the people closest to us become the obstacles to justice, truth, and our purpose. In those moments, you must not let emotions cloud your judgment. Stand for what is right, even if it means standing alone.”

The boy paused, letting his words sink in. “You might face a similar test,” he said quietly. “There will come times when you’ll have to stand against those you care about, not out of hatred, but because it’s the right thing to do. Do not let guilt stop you. Dharma is above personal ties.”

I was silent, absorbing every word. His voice carried the weight of truth, as if he had seen not just my life but my very soul.

“What happens if I don’t?” I asked.

“Then you’ll become your own enemy,” he said simply. “You have the potential to destroy those who hurt you, but at what cost? The energy of Ravana is deceptive—it tempts you to act out of ego and revenge. But remember, revenge burns brighter than the truth, and it consumes everything in its path. Your path is to heal, not harm.”

The boy smiled faintly, a wisdom far beyond his years shining in his eyes. “If you can balance yourself, no one can stop you. But this requires discipline. Speak less. Trust only the worthy. Stay calm, even when triggered. That’s your real test in this life.”

Just as suddenly as he had entered my car, he asked me to stop. We had reached a small clearing with a tea stall. As he stepped out, he turned back one last time.

“Remember,” he said, “you have the power of both light and shadow. Which one wins depends on how you balance them. The world doesn’t need another Ravana. It needs more healers, warriors of light. Be one.”

He walked away, disappearing into the mist.

For a long time, I sat there, replaying his words in my mind. They weren’t easy to digest, but they were exactly what I needed to hear. Since that day, I’ve tried to live with more awareness—careful of my reactions, mindful of my energies, and determined to let the better parts of me lead the way.

The boy may have been a stranger, but his message stayed with me:
Balance the Rama, Krishna, and Ravana within you. Fight for dharma, even when it’s against those you love. Only then can you fulfill your true purpose.