The hall carried the smell of oil, paper, and old decisions. Rugs lay flat against stone worn smooth by years of waiting. Men sat without speaking, hands folded, eyes trained on nothing and everything. Raghuveer stepped in with his book held close under his arm and the pen tucked into the fold of his cloth. He bowed once, measured, and said, "Faujdar sahib."
No one corrected him. The title was correct. The tone was right.
Kalyan Singh Rathod rose slowly from his seat. He was not built like a soldier. His strength lay elsewhere—in stillness, in the way his eyes lingered on a man before his mouth did. Books lay stacked beside him, some marked, some untouched. He noticed Raghuveer notice them.
"You are Raghuveer," Kalyan said, not asking.
"Yes, Faujdar sahib."
Zafar sat to one side, already half-written into the moment. A clerk stood near the wall, fingers dark with ink, eyes sharp. Kalyan gestured lightly, and Raghuveer understood this was permission to speak.
"Zafar brings me reports," Kalyan said. "Villages that were thinning have steadied. Grain held back. Seed saved. You had a hand in this."
"I showed them small things," Raghuveer replied. "Spacing. Compost. Mixed planting. The rest was their work."
Kalyan's lips moved slightly, as if repeating the list. "Small things done properly last longer than big promises," he said. "Sit."
Raghuveer sat where indicated, back straight, hands resting open on his knees. He did not look at the guards. He did not look away from Kalyan.
The clerk murmured a figure. Zafar nodded once, pen scratching. Kalyan listened but kept his eyes on Raghuveer.
"You teach discipline," Kalyan said. "Not prayers. Not slogans. Discipline."
"Yes."
"And people listen."
"They try," Raghuveer said. "Hunger teaches faster than words."
That earned him a pause. Not approval. Interest.
After a moment, Kalyan stood. "Come," he said, already turning. "We'll speak properly."
They moved into the study, a smaller room where the air sat heavier. The fan above turned slow, then slower, as if deciding whether to continue. Zafar remained inside this time, closing the door behind them. The sound was soft, final.
Kalyan took the chair behind the desk. He did not offer Raghuveer water. He did not need to.
"Tell me something, Raghuveer," Kalyan said. "When you teach a child, what do you teach first?"
Raghuveer answered without thinking. "How to sit without fidgeting. How to walk without noise. How to breathe when the body wants to rush."
"Good habits," Kalyan said. "Useful habits."
Zafar shifted slightly. "Habits turn into systems," he said. "Systems can be counted."
Kalyan nodded but kept his attention fixed. "And when those habits settle," he asked, "what questions follow?"
Raghuveer knew the edge he was stepping toward. "Some ask about crops. Some ask about work. Some ask why things are done the way they are."
"And what do you say when they ask about authority?" Kalyan asked, voice level.
"I say nothing," Raghuveer replied. "I tell them to finish their work."
Silence followed. The fan slowed again, the faint click marking its stop echoing louder than it should have.
"You do not deny them thought," Kalyan said. "You delay it."
"Yes," Raghuveer said. "Delay keeps people alive."
Zafar's pen paused mid-line. He looked up. "Alive people also remember," he said. "Memory is dangerous if it's not guided."
Kalyan raised a finger, not in warning but in consideration. "Memory can be shaped," he said. "Through work. Through records."
He leaned back slightly. "I am not afraid of thinking," Kalyan continued. "I am afraid of thinking that runs faster than the city can hold."
Raghuveer felt the weight of the words. This man was not guarding a throne. He was laying bricks.
"You want Rohtak to grow," Raghuveer said carefully.
"I do," Kalyan replied. "A city needs food. It also needs hands that can write, count, record. Not priests. Not rebels. Clerks. Account-keepers. Men who know how to put order on paper."
Zafar's interest sharpened. "Local men," he said. "Trained early. Answerable."
Raghuveer saw the opening fully now. He stepped into it without raising his voice. "If village children learn to write cleanly," he said, "you won't need riders for every message. One boy with ink can send news faster than ten men with spears."
Kalyan's gaze did not waver. "You suggest teaching writing outside the Fort."
"I suggest teaching usefulness," Raghuveer said. "One boy learns numbers. One learns letters. They keep village records. When you ask for accounts, they're ready."
Zafar nodded slowly. "That reduces leakage," he said. "And trader interference."
"And Company influence," Kalyan added quietly.
The word Company did not need explanation. It sat in the room like a third listener.
"So," Kalyan said, "you offer me more than grain. You offer me future clerks."
"I offer steadiness," Raghuveer replied. "Steadiness travels well."
The fan started again, slow, deliberate. Kalyan folded his hands. "I will be clear," he said. "You will teach my son."
Raghuveer did not interrupt.
"You will teach him discipline," Kalyan continued. "Reading. Writing. Keeping order in his own room. Nothing more."
"Yes, Faujdar sahib."
"In return," Kalyan said, "you will be protected. As long as you remain useful. As long as results continue."
Zafar spoke, measured. "Your work will be recorded. Names. Yields. Progress."
"And loyalty?" Raghuveer asked. He did not soften the word.
Kalyan smiled faintly. "Loyalty shown through work," he said. "Not slogans."
There it was. Clean. Sharp.
Raghuveer thought of the village. Of children carrying water without being told. Of seed kept in clay pots. He thought of prison doors that did not knock.
"I accept," he said after a short pause. Thirty seconds, no more. "On one condition."
Kalyan lifted an eyebrow. "Speak."
"Do not seize seed from the village that began this," Raghuveer said. "Let them plant again. No sudden punishment."
Zafar started to object, then stopped when Kalyan raised his hand.
"As long as records remain clean and there is no disturbance," Kalyan said, "local holdings will not be interfered with."
Zafar wrote it down. Ink scratched. Wax was heated.
"This is an arrangement," Kalyan said. "Not mercy."
"I understand," Raghuveer replied.
Kalyan pressed the seal into wax. The mark held. The paper cooled.
"Raghuveer," Kalyan said, using only the name now, "you will begin tomorrow."
Raghuveer bowed. "As you command, Faujdar sahib."
As he turned to leave, Kalyan spoke once more, almost to himself. "Cities are built by men who think they are helping," he said. "Remember that."
Raghuveer paused at the door, then nodded once.
Outside, the Fort's shadow lay long and patient across the courtyard. He stepped into it, book under his arm, pen still untouched.