The storm has slowed. The rain still falls—but now like whispers instead of war drums.
Laksh steps through the shallow water toward the bathing cows. His hat dips low, the brim catching droplets that race along its curve and fall silently.
As he approaches—
A cowherd, no older than seventeen, rests against one of the beasts. A single peacock feather is tucked into his damp curls.
The boy speaks without looking up:
COWHERD
(softly, without malice)
"What do you want, babu?"
Laksh stops. His gaze drifts to the feather.
A smirk tugs at his lips.
LAKSH
"I just need your help...
...to take back a few boxes."
The cowherd rises slowly, adjusting a soaked gamcha around his head. His eyes are sharp, ancient—strangely ageless beneath the rain.
COWHERD
(quietly)
"We are Yaduvanshis...
We don't help thieves."
Lightning forks across the sky.
For a moment, time fractures.
Behind the cowherd—dozens of boys emerge from the shadows. Barefoot. Eyes glowing with mischief and calm. Hair clinging to skin. And at the center of them—
A taller boy.
Head high, unblinking.
A peacock feather sways defiantly on his forehead.
Laksh exhales, amused.
The wind lifts the edges of his coat. His hat flickers, half-shadowing his face.
His gaze turns feral. Haunting.
He murmurs, just loud enough:
LAKSH
"Even their entrance...
...is more cinematic than mine."
From the folds of his coat, he pulls loose a bundle of damp papers—old Company files. Pages tear away in the wind, spinning like dying moths.
He slides a hand into his pocket.
Click.
He pulls out a silver stopwatch.
Presses the stop button.
The hands freeze.
His eyes narrow.
He turns—not to the river, but inland—toward the flickering torchlights of a distant village.
LAKSH
(softly)
"The village is close.
Just need a few greedy villagers."
He tucks the watch back into his coat.
As he walks away, lightning strikes again, casting his silhouette in stark black and white. His keychain spins in the air, jangling faintly like a ticking clock.
The boys and cows watch him disappear into the mist—
And somewhere, the river itself holds its breath.
Rain still falls, but softer now—like a lullaby after a long scream.
From behind a cart stacked with brass tiffins, Kelvin chews idly on a dripping chapati, watching Laksh disappear into the mist.
Beside him, Foid, soaked and grumbling, wipes his face and mutters:
FOID
(half to himself)
"That monkey's… strange. Too quiet to be harmless."
---
EXT. VILLAGE PATH – NIGHT
Laksh walks alone now. The path turns to mud beneath his boots.
Just as he crosses a narrow threshold marked by cow dung and turmeric—
A cow blocks his path.
It moos, low and sudden. A sound that seems... aware.
Laksh pauses. Then steps sideways.
And that's when he sees her.
A young village girl, no older than thirteen, carrying a soaked handi on her head, walks past the cow. Rain beads down her face, washing the dust and leaving only curious eyes.
She tilts her head, staring at him.
GIRL
(quietly)
"Bhaiya… what kind of clothes are these?"
Laksh stops.
For a moment, his eyes soften.
He tilts his head in return.
LAKSH
(dryly)
"Behan… forget the clothes. Do you know any majdoor nearby?"
A beat.
Then, more gently:
LAKSH (CONT'D)
"You should take shelter. These rains… they don't forgive."
The girl nods slowly, still watching him like he's a ghost in a suit.
---
EXT. RICH VILLAGER'S HOUSE – MOMENTS LATER
A brick house—larger than the rest. A tiled roof, now leaking from the corners. Whitewashed walls stained by water streaks.
Laksh approaches.
He lifts a fist to knock. A drop of rain slides off the wooden door and hits the brass bell just as his knuckle touches it.
CLINK.
The door creaks open.
A fat man with a damp vest and confusion on his face blinks at him, half-asleep.
FAT MAN
(gruffly)
"What do you want, sahib?"
Laksh steps under the awning.
His cruel smile emerges—quiet, surgical.
LAKSH
"Your workers."
The man blinks again.
Laksh leans in slightly—voice low, precise.
LAKSH (CONT'D)
"Especially the ones who can't speak."
The man tenses.
LAKSH (CONT'D)
"Or should I open... the file?"
From under his coat, he pulls a waterproof folder—wrapped in oilskin, old but lethal.
He flips it open.
Inside—ledgers, complaints, witness notes. A hand-sketched map of the house.
A page slides forward:
> "...Handler routinely hires mute labor to silence wage theft and reroute tax filings.
Workers subjected to violence if caught signing."
[1 Hours Later]
A thin path vanishes into the jungle mist.
Tan-skinned men—laborers, mute and barefoot—heave smuggled crates onto their backs. One by one, they disappear between the trees like shadows slipping into another world.
The last crate vanishes.
Only wet footprints remain.
In the distance, lightning grumbles.
FOID
(low, to Kelvin)
"What do we do with all that money now?"
KELVIN
(chewing, as usual)
"Ask the brown clerk. He's the one with a ghost's plan."
They both look at Laksh.
Standing at the river's bend, rain sliding down his coat, Laksh lights a bidi with a match shielded by his palm. The flame flickers gold for just a second.
He exhales.
LAKSH
(deadpan)
"We'll talk tomorrow."
(pauses, looks at the crates)
"My job time is over."
He turns, tipping his hat.
LAKSH (CONT'D)
"Say Gorakh escaped into Maratha territory.
With gold. No witnesses. No proof."
He walks off.
The match dies behind him.
FOID
(baffled)
"That's it?"
KELVIN
(chuckles)
"Taxman's union hours, mate."
As the three men vanish into the rain...
A leaf floats on the breeze.
The camera lingers on the riverbank—
Where the muddy footprints begin to vanish in the rain.
Then—
Rain erased the trail with the patience of clock hands.