In the beginning, there was no beginning, as the Nasadiya Sukta sang: neither being nor non-being, only the unformed void. Was that void his own? Was he the Hiranyagarbha, the golden embryo, birthing himself into existence? Ananya’s hand warmed Arjun’s, her fingers steady against his faltering pulse in the hospital’s hush. Jasmine from a bedside garland exhaled sweetness, wrestling the antiseptic’s chill. His eyes, clouded by seventy years, traced ceiling cracks like veins of a life half-remembered. Breath dwindling, a thought flared: his life was a spiral, spun from clay, love, and loss. Who was he? The boy named by others, or the spark weaving worlds within? His mind swirled back, to a beginning before answers.

A vast void shimmered then, unformed, restless. Was he a golden seed, blooming from nothing? His mother’s hands, warm with love’s steady care, cradled him as an infant, her whisper of “Arjun” a ward against the world’s din. At five, her bhajan’s cadence, soft as moonlight, soothed his fevered dreams, her caring fingers cooling his brow. His father, stern yet kind, urged him to pedal a bicycle through Delhi’s dust, his voice a beacon: “Keep going!” In indoor cricket games, he taught Arjun leg spin, playing till late evening. At dusk, his Ramayana tales danced, eyes alight with Hanuman’s leaps. These hands and stories shaped the boy others saw, but a spark stirred: What lies beyond their names? Each bond was a creation, weaving him into a son, a brother, a companion. Yet within, a deeper spark stirred: I am more.

Vinayahar Chathurthi flooded their courtyard with wet clay and camphor at eight. Arjun knelt beside Vikram, whose cricket dreams flickered in his grin, shaping a Ganesha idol, fingers slick with mud. Arjun curved the trunk, Vikram the belly, his mother’s hands gilded with turmeric and love as she guided them. A modak set before their lopsided deity, Arjun crowed, “I made Ganesha, like I made myself!” Laughter erupted. His mother’s eyes sparkled with teasing delight from her bhajan voice. His father’s chuckle softened. Vikram grinned and said, “Did you sculpt that nose?” Priya, braiding her hair, giggled, “Those curls, Arjun-Ganesha?” Cheeks hot, Arjun swatted them, their jests stitching him into family. That tilted idol lit a truth: he could create.

Ananya slipped into the hospital room, her saree rustling like rain on banana leaves. She leaned toward Meera, whose face, etched by worry, held the fire of the girl who sketched gods in charcoal. Their hushed voices wove plans—doctor’s words, a future Arjun let slip past. Ananya’s hand grazed Meera’s, her artist’s fingers steady, a strength he’d nurtured. Pride pulsed, faint but fierce, for the daughter he’d named, drawing his thoughts to the boy who spun worlds.

At ten, a broken bulb in the courtyard caught Arjun’s eye, its filament a caged star. Trading 10 paise—skipping jalebis—he bought film scraps, flashes of a hero’s dance. He pinned his father’s dhoti to a wall, angling a torch through the bulb and a cracked mirror. Images bloomed, the hero twirling to a sitar’s wail. Neighborhood kids gasped, shadows swaying. His father snapped, “My dhoti’s not a toy!” but his mother, humming a bhajan, smiled. That theater, spun from scraps, sang of a spark dreaming beyond the named boy.

Conflict shadowed creation. Vikram’s trophies cast Arjun in shade. At sixteen, envy flared; he hid Vikram’s bat, his brother’s slumped shoulders a bitter win. Guilt gnawed, but over chai, steam curling, Arjun confessed. Vikram, admitting his own fears, laughed, their bond rewoven. With Sameer, cigarettes curled under a banyan tree until his rumor broke Arjun’s first love, her kohl-lined eyes fading. The sting sharpened him, but his spark bent, not broke, learning to forgive.

School demanded rigor. Mrs. Lakshmi’s voice, sharp as a cracked ruler, stung when he failed math. Candlelight flickered through power cuts as Arjun traced equations, ink staining his fingers, forging discipline. Yet a voice murmured, Numbers don’t hold you. Work brought coin and clash. As a software engineer, Arjun faced a boss’s sneer: “You’ll never deliver this project.” Jealousy drove him to craft a report with a difference, a sour triumph. Sleepless, he vowed to climb honestly, his spark weaving honor.

Love found him with Meera, met when he spilled tea on her saree, his apologies tripping over her temple-bell laugh. When the factory’s whistle fell, a tombstone’s thud, Meera’s job vanished. Arjun snapped, “I’m carrying us!” her silence heavy as wet earth. In their kitchen, her charcoal gods watching, he wove apologies, rebuilding love. They created Ananya, named under a monsoon sky: “The unique.” Her teenage cry—“You don’t understand!”—pierced, but her sketches, bold like Meera’s, showed her spark. Arjun wove patience, nights long.

His life spun creation and ruin. With Meera, he planted roses, their scent sweet, only to see them wilt. He spat curses over a neighbor’s fence, hatred flaring, and envied another’s gleaming house. These flaws, like the tilted Ganesha, wove his spiral, teaching his spark that love outlasted anger. Each choice—spite, forgiveness, creation—carved him, not fixed but flowing. Who began it? He did, from clay gods to a daughter’s name.

Now, as death loomed, Arjun saw it all through the lens of the Nasadiya Sukta: Whence this creation?, it formed itself. He knew he had defined himself through choices, each act a brushstroke on the canvas of his being. He saw his life as becoming, not being—a ceaseless creation. The named boy—the name, the body, the roles—was fading, but the creator within blazed, unbound. The Hiranyagarbha echoed in his soul: Who set me in motion? He did. He was the creator, always.

In the hospital, Ananya’s hand still warm, Arjun felt the named boy—body, roles—fade. The void offered no answers, only a golden spark. His life—idols, theaters, fights, love—was his making. The creator within flared, unbound. With a smile, he whispered to the cosmos, I am the creator, will continue in my next creation.