The morning air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of wet leaves and damp soil. Anand blinked against the early sun, groaning softly as he swung his legs over the mat.
"Walk?" he muttered. "Walk is… apparently compulsory."
Agastya and Sootikshna were already waiting outside, their sandals neatly aligned, staffs in hand. The river glinted faintly in the distance, hinting at the path they were about to take.
Anand's backpack, waterproof and loaded with his little modern conveniences, felt heavier with each step. The first few meters were comically awkward. His legs protested, calves cramped, and he swore he could hear every tendon groaning.
"You'll manage," Sootikshna said calmly, falling into step beside him. "Take the rhythm of the forest. Let your breath guide your pace."
"I am trying," Anand muttered. "And the forest apparently disagrees with me."
Agastya, walking ahead, said nothing, but his presence was steady, like a compass pointing forward. Anand found himself observing everything: the sway of trees, the occasional rustle in the bushes, the glint of water droplets on leaves. He tried to match the calm, measured steps of the sages, but every few minutes he lagged, wheezing softly.
A few hours in, the path narrowed along the riverbank. Mist rose from the water, wrapping around their legs like cool fingers. Anand's thoughts drifted — not to his life back home, not to regrets, just noting: Even breathing has rhythm. Even stillness is… something.
Then a voice called out.
"Bhagavan!"
Anand squinted through the mist. A villager, a wiry man carrying a basket of herbs, approached. The moment he saw Agastya, his eyes brightened with reverence.
"Rishi-ji, you are here?" the man said, bowing slightly. "We feared the sickness would grow worse before you arrived."
Agastya's calm gaze met the man's. "We come with guidance," he said quietly. "Lead the way."
The villager's gaze flicked to Anand. He raised an eyebrow at the odd, waterproof backpack, then glanced at the stranger himself — modern, slightly fidgety, clearly unused to such walks.
"Stranger with you?" he asked cautiously.
"Yes. He is learning," Agastya replied.
The man's expression shifted. Concern crept in. "Then you must see it for yourself. The village… it is not well. There is a sickness spreading. Children weak, water bitter, and even the livestock faltering."
Anand blinked. His usual detached curiosity gave way to mild concern. "Sickness?" he asked. "Like fever or… more serious?"
Sootikshna stepped closer to Anand and the villager. "We will see, but we must hurry. Every hour counts. The forest is long, the river twists. We will reach the village by midday if we move steadily."
Anand adjusted his backpack, muttering, "I am huffing already, and we haven't even reached the first bend." But he followed, watching the river glint in shifting sunlight, noting the bends and curves that would guide them.
As they moved, Agastya's calm steps never faltered. Sootikshna matched the rhythm. Anand struggled, but each breath, each step, gradually synced with the forest's quiet cadence.
The villager fell behind briefly, pointing to distant smoke rising from the village. "There," he said. "You will see. Prepare yourself."
Anand glanced at the smoke, curiosity mixed with unease. The walk, he realized, was no longer about observation. It was about something urgent, something unseen yet pressing — the life of a community, the unknown weight of disease, and perhaps, the first true test of his presence in this world.
The river widened, the forest thinned. The village awaited, its fate quietly revealed by distant smoke, and the group quickened their pace, the morning air now carrying more than the scent of wet leaves — it carried the tension of what lay ahead.
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