There was once a small kingdom where the old queen had died, and the young prince, Aniruddha, was left alone. He had nurses and guards and teachers, but no mother, no father. He grew up feeling like a guest in his own palace — cared for, but not truly held.

One night, unable to sleep, he wandered out past the gardens to where an old sage named Atri kept a small fire under the open sky. The prince sat down without a word and stared into the flames.

"You carry a heavy face for one so young," the sage said.

"Everyone serves me," Aniruddha said quietly. "But no one belongs to me, and I belong to no one. My mother is gone. My father is gone. I am like a boat with no shore to return to."

The old sage was silent for a while. Then he pointed up at the vast field of stars wheeling slowly above them.

"Do you see all that?" he asked. "Every star, every dark space between them, this fire, that sleeping bird, you and I — all of it pours out of One. And that One is not a stranger to you, prince. Listen to what the wise have always said. To this whole world, He is the father. He is also the mother. He is the one who holds it up so it does not fall. He is the grandfather of all the grandfathers who ever lived."

Aniruddha looked up. "Father and mother both?"

"Both, and more. He is the thing most worth knowing. He is what washes a sad heart clean. He is the sound Om that hums beneath all sounds, and the songs the sages sing." The old man laid a gentle hand on the boy's shoulder. "You think you are an orphan, child. But the very source of the universe is your parent. You have never once been alone. You belong to the deepest thing there is — and it belongs to you."

The prince felt something loosen in his chest, like a knot untying. He looked at the stars, and for the first time they did not feel cold and far away. They felt like a face bending over a cradle.

He slept well that night. And ever after, when loneliness crept near, he would step outside, look up, and remember whose child he truly was.