The village slept in golden light. Arjun stood in the clearing with his wooden bow, ready to try again.
Arjun pulled back the string. His arrow wobbled through the air and landed in the dirt. "Again," he whispered.
He tried a new stance. The arrow bumped a branch and fell. Arjun kicked a pebble and scowled at the target.
Temple bells tinkled somewhere far away. Arjun swallowed hard and tried one more time.
On the walk home, Arjun wandered off the path. His feet pushed through the banyan roots.
Something golden glinted between the roots. Arjun knelt and brushed away the dirt.
He tugged at the bowstring, but it would not move. Arjun sat back with a sigh.
Then he remembered his grandmother's voice: "Breathe before you pull." Arjun closed his eyes and inhaled slowly.
He drew the string. The bow hummed. His arrow flew straight and sank into the center with a soft thud.
A smile broke across Arjun's face. He pulled the string again, and again, each arrow finding its mark.
Days passed. Arjun practiced every morning. His arrows sang through the air now, true and steady.
That evening, Arjun leaned the golden bow against the wall and dreamed of tomorrow's practice.