The beggar entered the faujdar's court alone.
No companions trailed him, no cluster of ragged figures waited outside to lend weight to his plea. He came on his own two feet—bare, cracked, and caked with the dust of Panipat's lanes. His clothes were traditional rags: a faded dhoti torn at the hem, a thin kurta patched so many times the original color was lost, sleeves frayed to threads. His hair hung in greasy mats, beard streaked with gray, and in his hands he carried a small brass begging bowl, dented from years of use. The bowl rattled faintly with a few copper paisa from earlier charity. His face was gaunt, eyes sunken from hunger—pure, unfeigned poverty.
Kalyan, seated on the raised platform in the open-sided durbar hall, watched him approach without interruption. No guard stepped forward to silence him. No clerk barked an order to wait his turn. Since the new teaching sessions had begun drawing the city's attention, Kalyan had made it policy: the poor spoke first when they came for justice. Truth, he believed, often wore the humblest disguise.
The beggar stopped a respectful ten paces from the dais, bowed low until his forehead nearly touched the stone floor, then straightened. His voice rose in a loud, lamenting wail that carried to every corner of the hall.
"Faujdar Sahib! Kalyan ji! In the name of Allah, hear this wretched soul! Maula ke naam pe, show mercy to one who has been wronged by the rich!"
Courtiers and petitioners—merchants in fine muslin, revenue clerks with ledgers under their arms, minor landholders, iron guild representatives—shifted on their mats. A hush fell.
Kalyan leaned forward slightly. "Speak plainly, old man. What wrong has been done?"
The beggar lifted his bowl as though offering evidence to God Himself. "For four days I have gone to the gate of Seth Ji, the great grain merchant of the Sadar Bazaar. Each day he gave me alms—one gold coin, he said, for my prayers. I blessed him with all my heart—real duas, real gratitude. But yesterday, when I tried to buy a handful of rice, the shopkeeper spat and threw the coin back. Fake, he called it! All four are counterfeit! The blessings I gave were true—yet the gold was false. Is this dharma? Is this justice?"
A low murmur rippled through the assembly.
Seth Ji rose at once from his place among the prominent merchants near the front. He was a broad-shouldered man in his late forties, dressed in a richly embroidered sherwani of crimson silk, heavy gold chains resting on his chest, multiple rings glinting on thick fingers, and a starched turban wound with precision. His beard was oiled and trimmed, his posture that of a man accustomed to deference.
He addressed the court at large, voice booming with offended dignity. "This is slander! Pure fabrication! I give alms daily—to beggars, widows, orphans. I handle thousands of transactions in a single day—buying grain carts, selling to caravans, lending to shopkeepers. Do you think I would risk my name by passing false coins to a beggar? My mohurs are real! I challenge anyone here to prove otherwise!"
He turned toward Kalyan with a bow that verged on perfunctory. "Faujdar Sahib, this man seeks to extort me. I have nothing but genuine coin."
Kalyan's face remained impassive. He glanced sideways at Zafar Khan, seated to his right with his ever-present ledger.
"Zafar," Kalyan said quietly.
Zafar rose without flourish and approached the beggar. "Show me the coins."
The beggar opened his bowl and carefully tipped four small gold pieces onto Zafar's palm. They caught the light from the high arches—bright, but somehow wrong.
Zafar examined them methodically. He held one to the sunbeam slanting through the lattice window, turned it over, traced the edge with a fingernail, then compared all four side by side. After a long moment he spoke, voice clear and unhurried so every ear in the hall could hear.
"These are counterfeit. Observe." He lifted one coin high. "On a genuine imperial mohur, the Emperor's portrait wears a tiny pearl in the ear-pin. Here the pearl is missing—deliberately omitted in the die. The same defect appears on all four. They were struck from the same faulty mold. Amateur, but consistent."
The court fell into stunned silence first. Then gasps. Murmurs erupted. One elderly noble stood abruptly in alarm, clutching his shawl.
Seth Ji's face drained of color. His mouth worked soundlessly for a second. "I… I must have received them in trade—"
The beggar stepped forward, voice rising to a dramatic pitch. "Four genuine gold coins, Seth Ji! You gave me false ones—now give me real ones, or fear a beggar's curse! My curses have toppled great merchants into ruin and lifted humble travelers to fortune. Do you wish to test my words?"
Seth Ji's arrogance shattered. Superstition—mixed with terror of his name being dragged through the bazaar as a cheat—clutched him. His hands shook visibly. Sweat glistened on his forehead despite the morning breeze.
"No—no curse!" he cried, voice cracking into a whine. "I am very afraid of a beggar's curse! Please, don't curse me! Take them—take four real coins! Here, now!"
He fumbled at the heavy purse tied to his sash, fingers clumsy with panic. Four genuine mohurs clinked into his palm—heavier, shinier, ringing with a clear, true note against each other. He thrust them toward the beggar.
The beggar inspected them briefly, nodded once, then bowed with exaggerated courtesy. "May your luck return, Seth Ji. And may you remember the poor next time."
They left the court together—Seth Ji trailing behind like a man reprieved from execution, the beggar walking with sudden dignity.
Kalyan watched them depart. A flicker of amusement crossed his mind—justice delivered not by law, but by the oldest weapon of the powerless: fear of the unseen. Still, he remained silent. The clerk cleared his throat and began the next petition: "Regarding the boundary dispute between—"
Within fifteen minutes the doors at the side entrance burst open. A guard hurried forward, saluting sharply, face flushed.
"Faujdar Sahib!" he said in a low, urgent tone that carried. "The metal traders here in court—the iron guild men—have just tested payments received this morning and yesterday. Bronze ingots, iron bars, tools—all false. Same missing pearl on the ear-pin. They are refusing to accept any more gold. Common people in the bazaar are already not trusting coins—vendors shouting, families unable to buy evening rice."
Kalyan's eyes narrowed. "How many lots affected?"
"Three large consignments so far, sir. Word is spreading like fire."
Before the guard finished, the heavy main doors swung wide. Bhairav, the army commander, strode in—armor glinting under the arches, face dark with fury and worry. He carried a leather pouch.
"Kalyan," he said without ceremony, voice booming. "We have counterfeit in the ranks."
He upended the pouch onto the low table before the dais. A dozen coins spilled out, ringing dully against the wood.
"Pay issued to the cavalry detachment two days ago. Nearly half these are false—same ear-pin defect. One trooper tried to buy fodder in the cantonment market this morning; the smith refused it outright and raised the alarm. The men are furious—their morale is crumbling. If the infantry gets wind of worthless wages…"
Kalyan stared at the scattered coins. Slowly, he reached out and picked one up. The missing pearl in the Emperor's ear-pin mocked him. He turned it over, studying the edge, the weight, the faint tarnish.
"How many companies touched?" he asked sharply.
"Two full cavalry companies already. If it spreads to infantry—"
A nervous noble near the front blurted, "If the army's pay is false, what stops mutiny?"
Kalyan's gaze swept the court. Merchants pale, clerks clutching ledgers, iron guild men nodding grimly. He noticed the pattern clearly now: fakes entering quietly—at beggars' bowls, then iron traders in this very hall, now army payroll. Multiple entry points. Deliberate seeding.
Zafar leaned close, jaw visibly tightened with genuine worry. "This is no accident. It is organized—already."
Kalyan set the coin down with deliberate care.
Outside the court, the sound of unrest swelled—angry voices, footsteps hurrying, a woman shouting that her husband's day wages were fake. "No one wants to take coins anymore—fear they may be false!"
Kalyan looked at the scattered fake coins on the table while the unrest echoed through the arches.
Someone wanted to destroy his dream—of making Rohtak as grand and secure as Delhi—by shattering the economy or provoking army mutiny.