The sun had barely risen when Anand noticed a flurry of activity near the riverbank. Villagers moved quietly but with purpose, carrying bamboo, firewood, and woven mats. The air was heavy with smoke, the scent of incense and burning wood mixing with the sharp tang of herbs and ash.
Sootikshna and the disciples were busy tending to the ill, distributing herbal concoctions, soothing the fevered, and checking those who could stand. Agastya walked calmly among them, guiding and instructing, his presence like a silent current of control. Anand trailed behind briefly, then let himself wander.
As he strolled, he stumbled upon a small clearing where a family prepared a pyre. The body of a man lay on bamboo and straw, pale and lifeless. His wife sobbed violently, clutching their small boy who buried his face in her shoulder. Anand's chest tightened. Death was immediate, raw, and unmediated by the herbs and care that had saved others.
His eyes widened further when he noticed a cruel detail. The mother and child were not allowed to perform the cremation themselves. They were of the Shudra caste — low-born according to the village hierarchy — and their ritual would be delayed for days, while higher-caste deaths were honored immediately.
Anand's mind raced. The rules of caste dictated who could mourn when, and how, and even in the shadow of death, inequality persisted. The cries of the woman, the terrified boy, and the solemn efficiency of the villagers left him reeling.
Three days? They should cremate within twenty-four hours. Two at most.
He clenched his fists. He could do nothing physically — any interference would be seen as disrespectful, as blasphemy even. And yet, his modern instincts rebelled. How can they call this dharma? How can anyone call this right?
He stepped closer, watching the bamboo pyre being lit, flames licking the body, smoke spiraling skyward. A few villagers chanted quietly; others just moved with ritual precision. Anand felt nausea and sorrow in equal measure.
He whispered to himself, voice tight with disbelief:
"This… this is wrong. There's no reason they should wait. Not the mother, not the boy. Not anyone."
He looked around, realizing Agastya and Sootikshna were absorbed with the sick. Their calm, purposeful movements reassured him that the ashram's wisdom was not absent — they simply allowed the villagers' customs to play out while they focused on life and care.
And yet, Anand could not silence the outrage swelling inside him. He saw injustice. He saw human suffering compounded by rigid ritual. He saw grief delayed and denied.
He lifted his chin, squared his shoulders, and muttered under his breath:
"I don't care what your rules are. That mother and child deserve the same honor. Death is no excuse for cruelty."
The words hung in the smoke-filled air as Anand stepped back, letting the flames and the villagers continue their work, yet knowing his mind would not rest. The world here — beautiful, disciplined, serene in many ways — had shown him its sharp edges.
And for Anand, the outsider, the modern mind in an ancient rhythm, it was a shock that would not leave him soon.
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