Chapter 7 — The Measure of Hands
Three knocks came to the temple gate, measured and unhurried. Not the sound of a traveler asking shelter, nor of a villager in need—this was the knock of someone who expected the door to open.
The bell rope brushed the wooden post as the sound settled into the courtyard, but no bell rang. The air tightened around it, as if the place itself were listening.
Raghuveer felt the knock before he moved. He had been seated near the pillar, spine straight, breath counted low in his chest. The red thread around his wrist lay warm against his skin. He rested his fingers on the knot and rose slowly, mindful of the stiffness gathering in his leg. Pain was present, but it no longer commanded him. He walked to the gate with the same measured steps he had taught the children.
Outside stood authority arranged in human form.
Bhairav Malik was impossible to miss—not because of armor or ornament, but because space seemed to pull away from him. His shoulders were broad, his stance balanced and patient, like a man used to doors breaking after the third strike. He carried a staff more as habit than weapon.
Beside him stood Zafar Khan, the Amil. His clothes were cleaner, his beard neatly oiled, a folded ledger tucked beneath his arm. Where Bhairav carried silence, Zafar carried paper—and paper, in these times, cut deeper.
Behind them lingered guards and the sarpanch, whose posture had stiffened into something between duty and fear.
Bhairav's eyes swept the courtyard once. He took in the children sitting in straight lines, the swept stone, the stillness that did not scatter at his arrival.
"This place is quiet," he said.
"They have been taught discipline," the sarpanch replied quickly. "The man—he teaches them."
Zafar Khan stepped forward, his sandals barely making a sound. "Teaching requires acknowledgment," he said mildly. "Records. Permission."
Raghuveer bowed his head slightly. "I teach sitting. Walking. Breathing. Rising early. Cleaning shared spaces."
Zafar lifted an eyebrow. "And what do you take in return?"
"Nothing."
Zafar smiled thinly. "Nothing is rarely free."
Bhairav stepped closer, his presence pressing into the space like a held breath. "Children should be in fields," he said. "Not sitting idle."
"They are in the fields," Raghuveer answered. "Earlier than before."
A child moved then—small, barefoot, carrying a broom. He crossed the courtyard without haste, placed the broom against the wall, and returned to his place without looking at the men. He did not freeze. He did not flinch.
Bhairav's gaze followed him.
"What is your name?" Bhairav asked.
"Mohan," the boy said.
"You wake before sunrise?" Bhairav asked.
"Yes."
"Who tells you to clean?"
"No one."
A pause settled like dust.
Zafar Khan opened his ledger and made a small mark. The sound of pen on paper was soft, but everyone heard it.
"Village records show grain output was average this season," Zafar said. "Yet we hear talk of extra time, extra energy." He looked up. "Interesting."
The elder woman stepped forward, her hands folded. "They finish work faster," she said. "They help without being asked."
Zafar nodded as if this confirmed something unpleasant. "Efficiency often hides surplus," he said. "Surplus must be measured."
Bhairav turned his attention back to Raghuveer. "You tell them to act without instruction."
"I teach them to notice," Raghuveer replied.
Bhairav's eyes narrowed. "Noticing leads to questions."
"Yes."
The word landed cleanly between them.
Zafar cleared his throat. "The Faujdar expects land revenue—mal—to be delivered in full," he said. "In addition, certain abwāb must be accounted for. Transport. Protection. Record maintenance."
The sarpanch swallowed. "These charges were not mentioned before."
"They are mentioned now," Zafar said pleasantly. "Grain will be measured tomorrow. Any shortage will be noted."
"And if there is shortage?" the sarpanch asked.
Bhairav answered instead. "We will find where it went."
His gaze flicked, briefly, to the children.
Raghuveer felt the familiar tightening behind his eyes—the beginning of a vision. A storehouse door opening. Grain sacks counted twice. A hand pressing down on a scale. The sound of coins falling on wood, dull and final.
He steadied his breath. One. Two.
Zafar closed the ledger. "This gathering—these lessons—should be limited," he said. "Routine must not interfere with obligation."
"They do not," Raghuveer said. "They improve it."
"That remains to be seen."
Bhairav turned to leave, then stopped. He looked back once more at the quiet courtyard, at the children who did not scatter, at the teacher who did not bow deeper than required.
"I don't care what you call yourself," he said. "I care what happens when I am not here."
Then he stepped away.
As the men departed, the courtyard slowly breathed again. No one spoke at first. The children returned to their tasks with the same controlled movements, but the weight of being seen lingered like a bruise.
That evening, grain was counted twice in several homes. Lamps were lit earlier. A mother pulled her child close without knowing why.
Raghuveer sat alone beneath the peepal tree. He loosened the red thread at his wrist and retied it tighter, the knot biting slightly into skin.
From the lane came the faint clink of a scale being set down.
The lesson had been noticed.
And once noticed, it could not be unseen.