The skies remained heavy with monsoon clouds, but no rain came for three days. Instead, the earth steamed gently under the midday sun, and the village paths turned sticky with half-dried mud. Aarav had just finished reinforcing the compost pit with a low bamboo wall when he heard the clinking of bells—not temple bells, but metal ones. Foreign. Rhythmic.
A cart.
By the time he reached the main path, a crowd had gathered. Children pointed, women covered their faces with the ends of their sarees, and a few elders stood with arms folded and eyes narrowed.
A bullock cart had arrived at the village entrance, drawn by two glossy, well-fed oxen. The cart itself was large and covered in fine cloth to shield its passenger from the sun.
Out stepped a man in fine cotton robes, embroidered at the edges, his sandals leather and clean. He carried a scroll in one hand, a satchel in the other. A small servant boy scurried behind him, barefoot and nervous.
"I am Vishwanath," the man said, addressing the crowd in clear Sanskrit-tinged Hindi. "A traveling scribe and chronicler, in the service of the local zamindar of Ambikapur."
At the name, a few villagers exchanged glances.
"I was told this village has changed," the scribe continued, looking around. "That something interesting is happening here. I've come to see."
Aarav's heart thudded.
This was not good.
He stepped forward quietly and bent to touch the ground in greeting. "Namaste, panditji. I am Aarav, son of Hariram. If you have come in peace, we welcome you."
The scribe studied him with amused interest. "So you are the boy they speak of? The one building 'water pits' and 'smokeless fires'? Curious indeed."
"I only do what I can," Aarav replied evenly. "To make life easier."
Vishwanath smiled thinly. "Often, it is the ones who 'only do what they can' who change the most."
He requested water and a place to sit. The village head offered his courtyard, and soon, Vishwanath reclined under the banyan tree, sipping tamarind water and fanning himself while the servant unpacked scrolls.
Aarav observed him from a distance. The man was literate. Connected. And dangerous.
That evening, Vishwanath toured the village. He walked past the gardens, the scarecrow, the compost pit, and the trench. He examined the clay chulhas in three homes and asked the women what they thought.
"Less smoke," one said.
"Faster cooking," another added.
"Hmm," was all he said in response.
He came to Aarav's garden and inspected the tomato vines. He pinched a ripe fruit, sniffed it, and returned it.
Then he turned to Aarav. "Where did you learn these things, boy? You are no sadhu."
Aarav kept his gaze steady. "From stories. From observation. From watching ants and how they dig in the rain."
Vishwanath chuckled. "Clever. You'd make a fine courtier—if you wore shoes."
That night, a meeting was called at the village temple. Vishwanath stood before the villagers, scroll in hand.
"You have something special here," he declared. "Your homes burn cleaner. Your children cough less. Your gardens grow vegetables where before there were weeds."
He let that sink in.
"The zamindar should know of this," he continued. "He may offer support… or ask questions."
A murmur spread through the crowd.
Aarav stepped forward. "Why must the zamindar be involved? We live peacefully."
"Progress invites attention," Vishwanath said. "And taxes."
That hit like a stone.
Aarav felt a ripple of fear spread around him. The villagers had always flown under the radar—small, self-sufficient, unimportant. They didn't want recognition. They wanted peace.
Vishwanath smirked. "I will not report you. Not yet. But I will write of this village in my journal. For posterity."
He tapped the scroll.
"Be careful, little farmer. Growth is a beacon. It draws the moths… and the flames."
With that, he left.
---
For days after, the village buzzed with unease.
Some elders whispered that Aarav had brought too much change, too fast. Others defended him fiercely.
Bhola's mother said, "He saved my boy's life."
The blacksmith's wife said, "And gave me a stove I can breathe near."
Still, the tension grew.
Aarav felt it.
He continued working anyway. The second trench now filled faster during rain. He added a small reed filter at the entrance to trap debris. Kavita helped him draw plans for a raised grain storage hut, after the last harvest saw mold due to flooding.
One afternoon, Aarav sat with his father, whittling bamboo.
"Did I do wrong?" he asked suddenly.
Hariram paused, then said, "You woke people up. That's always risky. But if your heart is clean, don't stop."
Aarav nodded.
The next morning, he woke early and went alone into the forest. He carried a knife, a pouch of jaggery, and a small notebook. He was looking for a specific tree—the neem-leaf tamarind, known for its powerful medicinal bark.
He wanted to prepare for the next rainy month. Sickness would come. He would be ready.
As he walked beneath the dripping leaves, something shifted inside him.
He wasn't just living slowly anymore.
He was preparing.