– The River Remembers
[First-person POV]
The Brahmaputra greets me with the smell of wet earth and silt — the kind of smell that clings to skin and memory for days.
It's the scent of home.
The boatman doesn't ask questions. No one with sense does, not when a man with my face walks out of the fog carrying a battered Enfield and smelling of smoke and blood. He just rows, eyes down, the oar slapping the water in a steady rhythm.
Behind me, Lahore is still burning in the minds of the British. Ahead of me, Assam waits — and Assam is not a city they can seal off. It's a living, breathing jungle with a thousand mouths, each ready to swallow an invader whole.
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[Third-person POV – British Assam Command]
The mess tent was silent except for the hiss of the hurricane lamp. Captain Ernest Caldwell spread the reports across the table, jaw clenched.
"Same man in both incidents?" asked the adjutant.
"Same description. Shorter than a Gurkha, stockier than a Highlander, skin like bronze and eyes like he's looking through you."
"And he—"
"Yes. Survived rifle fire. Walked into machine-gun lines. Threw a bloody lorry. Lahore's garrison calls him GOR( the Assam Rhino)."
The Captain didn't like the name. Names had a way of sticking, and in India, names became legends faster than bullets traveled.
"Raise the bounty," Caldwell said flatly. "And tell every tracker in the province: we want him alive."
The adjutant hesitated. "Alive, sir?"
"Dead martyrs are dangerous. Living ones? Easier to break."
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[First-person POV]
The first night back, I sleep under the great silk-cotton tree by the village. Its roots are thick as elephant legs, and its branches cradle the moonlight like a mother's arms.
I can feel my ribs knitting back where the .303 rounds bruised bone. Wolverine's healing gift means pain is just a temporary guest, but I've learned to listen to it — it's a reminder of what I've walked through.
I spend the next day walking the perimeter.
The British will come. They always come. And when they do, Assam won't be ready unless I make it ready.
So I set to work:
Digging firing pits at the choke points where the jungle trails narrow.
Teaching the young men how to keep a Vickers gun cool with wet gunny sacks.
Stockpiling sacks of sand and bamboo stakes along the river crossing.
Everywhere I go, people watch me the way they watch the monsoon clouds — with equal parts fear and hope.
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[Interlude – Villager's Perspective]
"We'd heard stories from the old men about spirits who walked the forests, half-man, half-beast. When he came back from Lahore, I thought he was one of those."
– Jiten Bora, fisherman, recorded in 1963 oral history
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[First-person POV]
I don't pretend to be a savior. I'm not here to give speeches about freedom or destiny.
I'm here to make sure that when the British step into Assam, they regret it before they see their first tea plant.
The training is brutal and short. I don't waste time on words. You either learn to reload under fire or you're not in the line.
And when someone complains about the hours, I point to the scar on my chest and tell them the truth: "This is how you survive men who think your life is theirs to take."
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[Third-person POV – British Recon Patrol]
A week later, the first British patrol tried to push upriver. They never made it past the second bend.
The lieutenant's last sight before blacking out was a blur of motion — a man leaping from the riverside, skin glistening, eyes locked on him with predatory focus.
The patrol's Maxim gun was in the river before anyone could fire twice. Their lead tracker swore later that the man moved like a charging rhino, only faster, only… human.
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[First-person POV]
By the time I'm done, the Brahmaputra feels like an armed serpent — every bend a set of fangs.
But I know this is just the beginning. Lahore was the opening note; Assam will be the drumbeat. And soon, very soon, the British will send something heavier than patrols.
That's when the real war will start.
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