Raghuveer did not call the village together at once.
He spoke first to the sarpanch.
They sat beneath the neem tree behind the temple, where the ground stayed cool even when the sun pressed hard on roofs and backs. The sarpanch listened without interrupting, hands folded, eyes steady.
"For now," Raghuveer said, choosing his words with care, "the Fort will not ask for more. Taxes will remain as they are. Two years."
The sarpanch did not react immediately. He did not smile. He did not thank God. He simply exhaled—slowly, as if a tight band around his chest had finally loosened.
"And Bhairav?" he asked.
"Six months," Raghuveer replied. "No disturbance. No inspections. No sudden visits."
The sarpanch closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them, something old and tired looked back—relief, yes, but also understanding.
"This is goodwill," he said. "Not mercy."
"Yes," Raghuveer agreed. "It can be withdrawn."
The sarpanch studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Still," he said, "you've brought the village a season to breathe. That matters."
Raghuveer looked down at the dust near his feet. "I worry," he said quietly. "That they will expect more. That they will think I can stop every hand that reaches for them."
The sarpanch shook his head at once. "We are simple people," he said. "We know the difference between help and miracles. You gave us room. We will use it."
That reassurance settled something inside Raghuveer. Not pride. Responsibility—shared, not carried alone.
"Let me tell them," Raghuveer said. "All of them."
The children heard first.
They always did.
Raghuveer had barely stepped into the open yard near the temple when they noticed the baskets being brought out—grain, vegetables, oil, a little jaggery wrapped carefully in cloth.
"Food?" one boy asked, eyes wide.
"Yes," Raghuveer said. "Today."
That was enough.
The village gathered not by command, but by instinct. Men came from fields with dust still on their legs. Women wiped hands on their sarees and followed. Elders settled carefully in the shade. Someone rang the temple bell—not in prayer, just once, to mark the moment.
Raghuveer stood where everyone could see him, but not above them.
"I was called to the Fort," he said. No drama. No pause. "I was asked to teach."
A murmur passed through the crowd, already half-expected, now confirmed.
"For two years," he continued, "there will be no extra tax on this village. What you give will remain the same."
This time, the reaction came openly.
A woman laughed once, sharp and disbelieving. An old man sat down hard on the ground. Someone muttered a prayer. Children clapped—not because they understood taxes, but because the adults suddenly looked lighter.
"And for six months," Raghuveer added, "no one will disturb us."
The name Bhairav Malik was not spoken. It did not need to be.
Cheers broke out then—not wild, not reckless, but real. Relief spilled out of people like breath they had been holding too long.
One man raised his voice. "Is this written?" he asked. Suspicion still lived in the bones of the village.
"Yes," Raghuveer said. "It is recorded."
That answer silenced even the doubtful ones.
"Today," Raghuveer said, lifting a basket slightly, "we eat together."
The food was better than usual, but not extravagant.
Rice cooked properly. Lentils thick with spice. Vegetables cut generously. Sweets—just enough to taste celebration without drowning in it.
First, the offering.
A small plate was set before the deity. The priest murmured a short prayer, voice steady. No long rituals. No show. Gratitude, simply placed where gratitude belonged.
Then the people sat.
Raghuveer did not take a place apart. He sat where there was space, among farmers and children, accepting food when it was handed to him, passing bowls along when others reached.
He ate.
That mattered.
Laughter rose easily. Children ate more than usual, licking fingers without shame. Plans surfaced naturally—fields to expand, roofs to fix, a marriage postponed now possible again.
Still, not everyone spoke.
A few villagers sat quieter than the rest, eyes thoughtful. They ate, they smiled, but they watched the edges of the moment, as if waiting to see what would be taken later in payment.
Raghuveer noticed them. He did not reassure them with words. He let the food, the absence of fear, and the open sky speak instead.
At one point, the noise softened. Not silence—just a shared pause.
People chewed slowly. Looked around. Let the feeling settle.
Relief had learned to sit.
As the meal ended, the sarpanch stepped away briefly.
In a shaded corner near the temple wall, a clerk from the Fort waited. He had arrived quietly earlier, unnoticed by most. Ink-stained fingers. Neutral face.
The sarpanch watched as the man wrote.
Village name.
Tax status: unchanged for two years.
Note in the margin, careful and precise.
The pen scratched softly.
This, too, was the price.
The clerk folded the paper, sealed it, and left without a word.
The sarpanch returned to the gathering, his face calm.
No one needed to know yet.
By evening, the village looked the same.
Smoke rose from familiar hearths. Cows were tied. Children grew tired and wandered home.
Nothing had changed.
Everything had.
Raghuveer stood alone for a moment near the temple steps, watching the last of the people drift away. The sun dipped low, turning the dust gold.
He felt no triumph.
Only weight—and the strange, steady calm that came from knowing that weight was now shared.
Somewhere far away, a ledger lay open.
And a record waited patiently for its time to matter.