The village of Nishantapur was not merely a collection of houses; it was a living, breathing kingdom of emerald and earth. While most villages could be crossed in a twenty-minute walk, Nishantapur stretched as far as the eye could see. To the north, it touched the hem of the dark forests; to the south, it dissolved into the shimmering silver of the riverbanks.
Arjun stood at the entrance, where a massive, ancient banyan tree acted as a silent sentinel. Its hanging roots were like the beard of a wise old man, and beneath its shade, the village elders sat on a raised concrete platform. They were the keepers of time, their faces etched with wrinkles that told stories of floods, harvests, and the changing world outside.
"Back again, son?" one of them called out, his voice a dry rasp.
Arjun nodded. In the city, everything was measured in square feet and minutes. Here, life was measured in the distance between the call of the morning rooster and the scent of evening jasmine.