RUSH

In the crimson-drenched land of Kaalmora, where the sun lazed like a golden yolk on the edge of the sky and time strolled instead of marched, there was a curious village called Vira. Nestled between the thick jungles of the Whistling Ghats and the silver-laced rivers that whispered riddles at night, Vira was a place of song, slow laughter, and patience. The people believed in letting mangoes ripen on their own and only picking flowers that had yawned fully to the morning light.

Except for one boy. His name was Rano.

Rano was seventeen, sharp as a knife’s first cut, and always in a hurry. He spoke in bursts, ran instead of walked, and hated waiting — for food, for stories to end, even for the rain to start. While the other children would sit by the pond, listening to the old healer Tula weave tales of the sky spirits, Rano would have already asked ten questions, grown bored of nine answers, and left before the last one. People said he had fire in his feet and thunder in his chest.

His mother, Mira, often sighed as she kneaded dough for rotis every evening. She’d press, roll, and wait patiently before placing them on the earthen pan. “Hasty rotis burn,” she’d hum, flipping them with a wooden spatula. But Rano never listened. When he helped, he’d roll them fast and throw them on the flame before they were ready. The result was always the same — burnt crusts, raw insides.

Yet Rano’s spirit wasn’t malicious, only restless.

One monsoon evening, an announcement echoed through the valleys of Kaalmora. The Royal Herald, riding a cloud-trotting bird called Varnak, descended upon Vira’s square. His cloak shimmered with stardust as he unrolled a scroll that smelled of lightning and ink.

“By decree of Queen Aranya the Wise, a quest is declared. The lost jewel of Shantrava, the Tear of Time, must be recovered from the Cave of Echoes. It is said whoever gets it shall be granted a wish. A single, unbroken wish.”

The village buzzed. Some murmured about the curse that slept beneath the jewel. Others recalled stories of travelers who’d entered the Cave of Echoes but had never returned. But Rano — his eyes lit like a firecracker. A wish! He could wish for everything. Speed. Glory. Maybe even immortality.

By dawn, without a goodbye, he was gone.

He ran through the Whispering Forest, ignoring the talking trees who tried to warn him of the shortcuts that looped into illusions. He skipped meals, drank from dew, and raced past hermits who offered him shade and stories. He avoided a path where butterflies danced in patterns that told directions and chose the steeper trail just to beat time. “I’ll get there first,” he muttered. “I’ll win before the world even wakes up.”

After days of sprinting through riddles and myths, he reached the Cave of Echoes — a gaping mouth in the mountains, dark as forgotten dreams. Inside, time didn’t flow. It pulsed.

The cave was a maze of whispers. Each echo was a piece of someone’s past — laughter, cries, regrets. They circled Rano, trying to anchor him in memory. But he sprinted through them, dodging sounds like arrows, avoiding the voices that tugged at his thoughts.

Finally, he reached the chamber. The Tear of Time floated above a pedestal made of woven twilight. It was small, blue, and shimmered like it had held the universe’s breath. Rano leapt, grabbed it mid-air, and shouted, “I wish for the power to be the fastest, forever!”

A silence fell. Then the cave rumbled.

The jewel dissolved in his hand like warm water.

A voice, older than the mountains, spoke from nowhere. “The wish you made was hasty. And so, shall its consequence be.”

Rano tried to ask what it meant, but the cave spat him out, hurtling him into the sky. He landed far from Vira, in a land where clocks had no hands, and no one spoke his name.

Time sped around him. People aged in minutes. Trees bloomed and withered before his eyes. Cities rose and crumbled within hours. He was the fastest — the only one untouched by this acceleration. Yet he couldn’t stop it. He couldn’t slow anything down. Conversations ended before they began. Meals vanished before his fingers touched them. He saw seasons blur past in blinks.

In his rush, he had broken time for himself.

Meanwhile, back in Vira, Mira still sang her lullabies to the stars. Every night, she rolled out dough slowly, carefully, humming to herself. “Hasty rotis burn.” The village never heard from Rano again, only stories — of a boy who had raced the wind and lost.

Years passed. Or maybe days. Time was strange after what happened.

But in a hidden glade near the edge of the Whistling Ghats, an old man sometimes appeared, moving so slowly even the moss welcomed him. His eyes, once wild with ambition, now blinked in rhythm with the breeze. And every now and then, when the moon was full, he'd whisper to the night: “There’s wisdom in waiting. Even stars take their time to burn bright.”

And from the forest, as if the trees themselves remembered, came a soft echo — giggling, dancing, lingering — not in haste, but in harmony.