The temple bell rang late that morning.
Not the sharp call of prayer, but a dull, uneven sound—metal striking metal without conviction. Someone had pulled the rope halfway and let go. The bell swayed once, twice, then settled into silence, as if embarrassed by its own voice.
Raghuveer opened his eyes.
His breath came shallow, measured, each inhale negotiated like a fragile treaty. The stone beneath him still held the night's cold. He could feel it through the thin cotton of his kurta, creeping upward, settling in his joints. Pain did not stab anymore. It spread. Quietly. Persistently.
Nearby, the village had already begun to rearrange itself.
A pot clinked against a step. A goat bleated once, then went silent. Somewhere beyond the outer wall, wood struck wood—too early, too hard. A door being forced open, perhaps. Or repaired.
Raghuveer did not look toward the sound. He had learned long ago that some noises did not want witnesses.
Children gathered without being called.
They arrived one by one, careful not to run, careful not to speak too loudly. Their slates were tucked under arms, cloth bags pulled tight against chests. They sat beneath the peepal tree in uneven lines, leaving a respectful gap between themselves and the pillar where Raghuveer rested.
They whispered.
"From the eastern road," one boy murmured.
"No shouting," another replied. "They came before the sun."
"My uncle said the door broke like dry bread."
"What door?"
The whispers thinned when Raghuveer shifted slightly. Not because he had spoken—because his body reminded them he was there.
A thin red thread lay looped around his wrist. He did not remember tying it. Someone else must have, during the fever. It bit gently into his skin when his hand moved, grounding him.
Footsteps entered the courtyard.
These were not hesitant steps. Not the shuffling of villagers unsure of welcome. These were measured, practiced. Authority walked like it expected the ground to make space.
The sarpanch arrived with two elders in his wake. His turban was tied tightly, his beard oiled and combed. His eyes moved first—not to Raghuveer, but to the children, the books stacked near the pillar, the quiet that had settled unnaturally early.
"Sit," he said when the children stood. "I have not come to empty the place."
His gaze settled on Raghuveer.
"You are alive," the sarpanch said.
"So far," Raghuveer replied.
The sarpanch's lips twitched, almost a smile. Almost.
"When we found you," he said, "you were burning with fever. Speaking as if someone were pulling you backward through time."
Raghuveer said nothing.
"But what stayed with us," the sarpanch continued, "were the books."
He gestured with his chin. Cloth-bound, worn at the edges. Not many. Enough.
"Most men who collapse on temple steps carry drink," the sarpanch said. "Or debt. You carried writing."
"I travel light," Raghuveer said.
"And yet," the sarpanch replied, "you gather weight."
One of the elders cleared his throat.
"You can read," the sarpanch said. It was not a question.
"Yes."
"Write."
"Yes."
"Teach?"
Raghuveer lifted his gaze slowly.
"I learn," he said. "Sometimes others sit nearby."
The sarpanch studied him, measuring tone more than words.
"Where are you from?" he asked.
Raghuveer's fingers brushed the red thread unconsciously. For a moment, the courtyard blurred—not into a memory, but into a sensation. A narrow lane. A door marked with the same thread, snapped and hanging loose. Blood darkening it. Or vermilion. He could never tell the difference in his waking visions.
"I have lived in many places," he said finally. "I do not stay where questions are punished."
One elder shifted, uncomfortable.
"That explains the wandering," the sarpanch said. "And perhaps why people watch."
He turned slightly, his voice lowering.
"Taxes have risen again," he said. "The Amil's men came through yesterday. Grain counted. Names written. Silence demanded."
A child's hand tightened around a slate.
"And there are others," the sarpanch continued. "Men who arrive before dawn. Who do not shout."
Raghuveer inclined his head. "I have heard."
The sarpanch's eyes sharpened. "From where?"
"From breath," Raghuveer said. "That stops mid-sentence. From doors that close too carefully."
The sarpanch did not smile.
"People have begun to name you," he said instead.
Raghuveer waited.
"They call you guru."
The word settled like dust.
Raghuveer felt the red thread press tighter against his wrist. A reminder. Or a warning.
"If someone who points to a path is called a guru," he said, "I do not correct them."
"So you accept it," the sarpanch said.
"I accept responsibility," Raghuveer replied. "Names belong to those who speak them."
The sarpanch exhaled slowly.
"You should understand," he said, "men who break doors do not care for names. They care for control."
Raghuveer nodded. "Every region breeds such men."
"This one has a title," the sarpanch said. "Kotwal. Bhairav Malik."
The name did not strike. It clicked.
The whispers.
The early footsteps.
The broken wood.
Raghuveer felt it align quietly inside him.
"There are others above him," the sarpanch added. "A Faujdar who rules from stone. An Amil who counts suffering. And beyond them—foreign eyes that watch and smile."
Raghuveer pictured polished shoes on temple stone. A voice too soft for threats.
The sarpanch gestured toward the rear of the temple.
"There is space behind the courtyard," he said. "Unused. Children gather there anyway. If you truly know how to teach, you may sit there."
One elder turned sharply. "Sarpanch—"
"I am offering work," the sarpanch said. "Not protection."
Raghuveer understood. Visibility without safety.
"When?" he asked.
"Tomorrow," the sarpanch replied. "If your body allows."
Raghuveer looked at the children. One girl met his eyes, then looked away, afraid to be seen wanting something.
"I will sit," he said. "If they come."
The sarpanch nodded once. As he turned to leave, he paused.
"Be careful, Guruji."
The bell rope creaked as the wind moved it. The bell did not ring.
Later, as shadows lengthened, a man with clean hands and foreign manners stepped briefly into the outer courtyard. Edward Collins smiled politely, asked nothing directly, and left behind the sense of being measured.
That night, Raghuveer sat alone beneath the peepal tree. The red thread had loosened slightly, frayed at the edge.
Somewhere, wood struck wood again.
A door learned its weakness.
The temple bell swayed once in the dark—and stayed silent.