The morning dew clung to the grass like pearls as Aarav stepped into the backyard with a small hoe slung over his shoulder. A woven basket rested in one hand, filled with dried cow dung cakes, crushed banana peels, and shredded mango leaves.
Today was planting day.
For the past week, he had quietly prepared a small patch of land beside the house. It was shaded on one side by the mango tree and bordered by the bamboo fence he had built with his father. The soil was soft now, tilled gently with hand tools and enriched with his makeshift compost.
"Good soil smells sweet," he muttered to himself, recalling something he'd read in a gardening forum long ago. He bent down, scooped up a handful, and smiled. It crumbled just right.
He began forming neat rows with the hoe. His hands, once soft from years of computer work, were already growing calloused. He welcomed it. It was proof of progress.
As he worked, his little cousin Gopal waddled up to him, barefoot and curious. The boy, no more than four, watched intently as Aarav placed seeds into shallow holes.
"What you doing?" Gopal asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.
"Planting vegetables," Aarav replied. "Want to help?"
Gopal nodded, eyes wide with excitement.
Aarav handed him a tiny handful of seeds. "These are tomato seeds. One in each hole. Gently, like putting a baby to sleep."
Gopal didn't fully understand, but he tried his best. Most of the seeds missed the holes, and a few ended up in his mouth before Aarav could stop him. But they laughed together, the way only children can laugh—freely and without worry.
By midday, the patch was planted. Brinjals, tomatoes, okra, green chilies, coriander, and a few pumpkin vines. It was modest, but full of promise.
That evening, after a rinse at the village well, Aarav sat under the neem tree with Kavita. She had brought scraps of cloth and some needlework.
"Your garden looks neat," she said, eyes scanning his dirty hands. "But it'll need protection. Chickens and goats love tender sprouts."
"I was thinking about a scarecrow," Aarav replied. "One made with bamboo, straw, and an old dhoti."
She grinned. "If you can build it, I'll sew the face. But only if it looks like Babulal kaka."
They laughed. Babulal, the grumpy shopkeeper, was notorious for scaring kids away from his store.
As they sat, old Meena kaki hobbled by, coughing into her handkerchief. Kavita leaned close. "She's been coughing since last harvest. Says it's karma."
Aarav frowned. "It's probably her firewood smoke. Her hut has no chimney."
He looked at the thin trail of gray smoke curling from the thatch roofs in the distance. Most homes had indoor stoves without any proper ventilation. The smoke collected inside, making eyes burn and lungs wheeze.
Another idea began to take shape in his mind.
That night, Aarav drew a simple sketch in the dust outside his house using a stick. It was a vertical tunnel made of bricks—a smokeless chulha design he had once seen in a rural development documentary.
If he could build one and show how much less smoke it produced, maybe the villagers would adopt it. It would mean less coughing, fewer lung issues, and less wasted firewood.
But bricks weren't easy to come by. Most homes here were made of mud and bamboo. He'd need to improvise.
The next day, he visited the potter, Bhola's father, and explained his idea.
"A curved clay stove with two compartments—one for firewood, one for the pot. And a pipe that takes the smoke outside," Aarav said, gesturing with his hands.
The potter squinted at him. "Like a tunnel?"
"Yes. A clay tunnel that pulls the smoke away."
Bhola's father stroked his stubbled chin. "Never seen such a thing. But I can shape the clay if you show me how."
For the next three days, Aarav worked with him, shaping clay stoves under the potter's neem tree. They built a prototype and installed it in his own home first. His mother was skeptical—until she cooked on it.
"Less smoke?" Aarav asked.
"Much less. My eyes aren't burning," she admitted.
His father tested it too. "Heats quickly. Wood lasts longer."
Word spread.
Soon, neighbors came to watch. Then, requests began pouring in. Aarav didn't charge anything—only asked for help gathering clay, straw, and sand. Within a week, four homes had the new stoves.
Each night, the air in the village seemed a little clearer.
And Aarav slept a little deeper.
But not all was peaceful.
One afternoon, as he checked on his vegetable patch, he found three okra seedlings flattened. Goat prints dotted the muddy edge. He sighed.
Time for that scarecrow.
He built it that evening using two bamboo poles, an old turban, and a cracked clay pot for the head. Kavita stitched on two large black eyes and an exaggerated mustache. They planted it proudly in the center of the garden.
Gopal clapped. "Scary kaka!"
Even the goats avoided the patch the next morning.
As the week passed, his vegetables began sprouting. Little green heads poked through the soil like curious children. Aarav watered them carefully, using leftover water from the kitchen. He even placed neem leaves around the edges to repel insects.
His heart swelled every time he saw new growth.
One morning, he brought a handful of baby spinach to his mother.
"We grew this," he said proudly.
She cooked it with garlic and mustard seeds. It tasted richer than anything he remembered.
"You're turning into a farmer," his father remarked over dinner.
Aarav smiled. "A happy one."
But it wasn't just crops that were growing.
Respect was, too.
People now came to him with questions. Could neem paste help with lice? Could ash water treat pests on mango trees? Could he help fix the old well pump?
He never acted like a know-it-all. He listened, thought, and gently suggested ideas. He always framed them as something "a sadhu once taught" or "something his grandfather used to say." It helped people accept his strange wisdom.
One day, a traveling merchant stopped by the village. He brought salt, iron tools, and news from nearby towns.
Aarav approached him quietly.
"Do you know where I can get books?" he asked. "Old ones. About herbs. Plants. Stars."
The merchant raised an eyebrow. "Books, boy? What will you do with books?"
"Learn," Aarav said simply.
The man chuckled. "Try the monastery near the river. The monks keep records."
Aarav nodded.
Another adventure stirred in his heart.
But for now, he was content.
The vegetable patch was growing. The compost was thriving. The smoke in homes was less harsh. Children giggled under the shade of the mango tree, and the village elders chuckled at the scarecrow with the Babulal face.
This wasn't the life he'd planned.
But it was the life he needed.
And he was just getting started.