The salty breeze carried the smell of fish as they walked toward the riverbank. Loud voices floated through the air—shouts of bargaining mixed with laughter and the clatter of knives on wooden boards. When they reached the spot, they saw the fisherman proudly showing off his catch: three enormous fish, their scales glistening like silver armour under the sun.

A group of men in bright red garments stood nearby, their presence commanding attention. Villagers whispered and called them generals. Behind them loomed a few muscular soldiers, their chests broad, arms veined like ropes, gripping spears and other strange weapons.

The fisherman worked his blade carefully, slicing the fish with surgical precision. Not a single drop of blood touched his clothes. If even a speck of blood splattered on his tunic, those red-clad men would seize the entire fish without paying. It was his survival.

Once in a while, one of the soldiers would take a bold step forward, almost shoving into the fisherman's elbow, trying to make him slip. But the old man's hands were steady as stone.

She leaned toward the boy and whispered, "Did you see how he cuts that?"

He tilted his head, his eyes fixed on the crimson stains dripping into the basin. He signed with his fingers: "What… are those red things?"

She giggled softly. "Blood."

His brows furrowed, lips curling slightly. He signed again: "Bad…"

She rolled her eyes and pinched his ear playfully. "Come on, philosopher. Let's go sit under that tree."

They moved away from the crowd and found a shady spot beneath an old banyan tree. A man sat cross-legged nearby, humming in a low tone. A few children scampered past, their laughter ringing like bells, and a handful of men lounged under the same tree, chatting lazily.

"Good morning, uncles!" the girl called out cheerfully.

One of them grinned. "Ah, Mala, you're here. And this must be that boy—the one who came by fate's river."

"Fate's river?" the boy signed quickly, his brows lifting. "What is that?"

The old man chuckled, his chant pausing. "Nothing serious. Just sit, watch the dances later."

The boy sat close, still puzzled, his curious eyes drifting to the old man's hands. They were thick, scarred, and lined like cracked earth.

"You never seen a hand before, lad?" the man teased, laughing.

The boy signed slowly: "Why… so many lines?"

The old man tilted his head, a grin flashing under his white moustache. "These aren't lines. They're the love marks of battle—the way steel kisses flesh."

"Battle…" the boy signed again, confused.

Before he could ask more, another man nearby leaned in. "What's your name, boy?"

Mala quickly cut in, her tone sharp. "He doesn't remember. He'll stay with us for some time."

The man smirked. "Huh… looks like you brought home a playboy."

Her eyes narrowed dangerously. "Should I call your wife?"

The man puffed up his chest. "What will she do?"

In a heartbeat, Mala screamed dramatically, "Aunty! He's beating me and saying bad things!"

A passing woman stopped, glaring. "Mala! You trying to get him beaten? Fine—I'm calling her right now!"

The man jumped to his feet, panic flashing across his face. "No, no! Don't call her! I'm coming!" He sprinted away like a goat chased by a lion.

The group exploded with laughter. "Marriage is like a laddu," one old man bellowed. "Sweet to see, painful to swallow—before or after!" Another roar of laughter followed, echoing under the banyan tree.

The banyan tree's shade was thick and cool, the air humming with idle chatter. Birds fluttered between branches, and the smell of river and wet earth lingered like a soft perfume. The boy sat cross-legged on the grass, glancing shyly at the men around him. Their voices rose and fell like a lazy drumbeat, punctuated by laughter.

One of them suddenly leaned forward, squinting at the boy. "What is your age, little one?"

The boy hesitated, then looked down at his hands. Slowly, he began counting each joint of his fingers, whispering in silence. At last, he held up his small hand and signed by fingers, "Seven."

The man chuckled, patting his shoulder. "Good boy. At least you know that much."

The boy nodded once.

Then another voice rang out. "Hey, Jaban! Check his hand lines."

The name belonged to a tall man who was humming just before. He turned without a word, grasping the boy's right hand gently but firmly. His calloused thumb ran along the soft palm as his brows knitted together. For a moment, it seemed like an ordinary curiosity. 

Jaban stared longer, tracing the crisscross of lines with his fingertip. Slowly, he began to sketch in the dirt—a square… then connecting two corners… then another square intersecting the first square, splitting it by lines. 

Jaban uncle took a keen stare this time but paused mid-stroke, his breath hitching. A sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead, and his knuckles tightened around the stick. When his eyes met the boy's, they held something raw—horror wrapped in disbelief.

"Who… are you?" he whispered, his voice barely a breath.

The boy blinked at him, mute, small fingers curling inward.

Around them, the others noticed the tension. "Jaban, what's wrong? Are you sick? Why aren't you finishing the reading?"

The man swallowed hard, forcing a strained smile. "Ah… nothing. It's nothing. Not the right time yet." His tone was light, but his eyes darted like startled birds.

Mala's voice cut through, sharp with worry. "Does he… have bad lines?"

Jaban looked at her, lips tightening, and uttered only one cryptic phrase: "The lines have changed."

No one asked further. The laughter resumed, awkward at first, then louder, villagers slipping back into gossip and trivialities, the way people do when they sense a storm but choose to ignore it.

An older man plucked a neem twig from a low branch, snapped it clean, and handed two sticks to Mala and the boy. "Here. Brush your teeth."

The boy frowned, staring at the twig. "How?" he signed, confusion plain on his face.

Mala groaned dramatically, clutching her head. "You moron! You don't even brush your teeth? Ugh, the smell—chchch! Uncle, let's go before I faint!"

The group burst into laughter again, and the boy shrank back, cheeks burning.

"Hey, this way," the uncle said gently, crouching to show him how to peel the bark, chew the fibres, and scrub. His big hands moved slow and patient. The boy followed every step, his clumsy motions earning more teasing—but this time, he laughed with them.

When he finally got it right, his eyes sparkled like river light. "I… learned something new," he signed proudly.

The uncle ruffled his hair. "Good. Do it every morning."

The boy nodded, clutching the bitter stick like treasure.

Just beyond the tree, voices rose in anger—those red-clothed officers from earlier were now bickering with the fisherman. Their heated shouts sounded more childish than fierce, like kids squabbling over sweets. The boy's gaze lingered on them, head tilted in curiosity.

He tugged at the uncle's sleeve and signed: "Are they… monkeys?"

The uncle burst into laughter so loud it made the birds scatter. "Monkeys? Boy, don't insult monkeys like that! Even they have better manners."

The boy blinked innocently. The uncle leaned closer, grinning. "If we compare them to monkeys, it's an insult to the monkeys. Understand?"

The boy nodded gravely, then suddenly lifted his hand and pointed toward the officers again. His finger stretched, his face breaking into a sly grin as he mimicked their quarrels—puffing his cheeks, stomping his feet like a tantrum-throwing child.

Mala and the uncle both doubled over, laughter ringing through the air. "Did you just mock them by seeing those?" Mala gasped between giggles.

The boy only smiled wider, the neem stick dangling from his mouth like a cigar. His earlier shyness melted away in bursts of laughter, playful signs, and quick words. Sometimes he talked, sometimes he mimed; sometimes his laughter rang so pure it silenced the men for a heartbeat.

...........................................

The village square was alive with laughter. People sat in small groups on the dusty ground, teasing one another, sharing silly jokes, and giggling like children. More villagers joined in, drawn by the cheerful noise. Soon, a small crowd had gathered, forming a loose circle. Everyone was laughing, poking fun at each other, and pulling harmless pranks—until a voice cut through the merriment like a whip.

"What's going on here?"

Heads turned. A young officer, barely older than a boy himself, walked into the square. He was dressed in a faded khaki uniform, a rope coiled in his hand like a snake ready to strike. His narrow eyes scanned the crowd with irritation.

"You lazy fools!" he barked. "Standing around laughing when there's work to do?"

Before anyone could answer, he lashed the rope through the air with a sharp crack. The villagers scattered like startled pigeons. Men who had been grinning seconds ago now stumbled over one another, scrambling away from the rope's sting. Laughter vanished, replaced by panic.

All but one.

Amid the chaos, that boy stood still. He didn't flinch as the officer turned on him.

"You," the officer growled, his face twisting. "Think you're brave? I'll teach you a lesson."

The rope whistled again, striking the boy's shoulder. The sound of impact was sharp, but he didn't move. The officer sneered and raised the rope for another blow—until the boy's hand shot up.

In one smooth motion, he seized the rope. His fingers clenched with such force that the officer froze. For a heartbeat, silence fell. Then, with a sudden jerk, the boy yanked the rope free. The officer stumbled, lost his balance, and fell hard on his back, dust rising around him.

The crowd gasped. Someone let out a nervous laugh.

"How dare you?" the officer roared, scrambling to his feet, his face burning red with shame. "You dare make me fall? I'll kill you!"

He charged forward like an enraged bull, teeth gritted, rope dangling uselessly from his hand. But when his eyes met the boy's again, something made him hesitate. Those eyes were cold, unblinking but held a strange weight, as though they could swallow the very fire from his veins. Fear flickered across the officer's face, but pride shoved it down.

"Bastard," he spat. "I challenge you to a duel!"

The words hung in the air like a storm cloud. The villagers, who had crept back to watch, stared wide-eyed. A duel? Here? With that boy?

The officer snatched a dirty napkin from the ground, its edges stained with mud, and flung it at the boy's chest. It stuck for a second before sliding off. The boy looked down at it, then up again, his expression unreadable. Slowly, a smile curved his lips. Without a word, he turned and began walking away.

The officer's pride shattered like glass. With a roar, he sprinted after the boy, kicking up clouds of dust. His boots pounded the earth as his body lunged forward, shoulders hunched like a bull ready to gore its prey. Even his legs moved comically, almost cartoonish, flailing in a blur as the ground sprayed dirt behind him. The villagers, forgetting their fear, burst out laughing again.

Just as the officer closed in, the boy sidestepped with a grace that looked almost lazy. The officer stumbled past him, but before he could regain his footing, a hand gripped his head. The boy twisted and hurled him down with brutal precision, slamming him into the ground as easily as tossing a sack of grain.

A heavy thud shook the dust. The officer lay flat, his face buried in mud. Stars seemed to twinkle above his head—at least, that's how the villagers imagined it as they roared with laughter. Someone slapped his knee. Another doubled over, tears streaming down his face. Even those who had feared the officer moments ago now clutched their stomachs, laughing so hard they could barely breathe.

The boy said nothing. He simply brushed the dust from his hands, his calm eyes sweeping the crowd for a second before he turned to her sister mala. His voice was soft but clear.

"Let's go," he said.

The villagers, still stunned, nodded slowly. The boy walked away without looking back, his steps quiet and unhurried. Behind him, laughter rolled like thunder across the square, drowning out the officer's muffled curses as he lay in the mud, humiliated and broken.

....

He yanked the officer's head down, forcing him to sit on the ground. In one swift motion, he snapped the officer's tooth stick and pressed it against his nose like a mocking gesture. The boy jolted upright, dazed and blinking. For a moment, confusion clouded his eyes—then laughter erupted from every corner. People clutched their stomachs, roaring at his ridiculous state.

Suddenly, the officer's memory returned. His expression twisted. Shame burned his cheeks. Tears welled up as he stumbled to his feet and ran, mud still dripping from his clothes. Before the crowd could settle, Jaban uncle stepped forward, frowning. "Mala, go home before they return," he warned. But the laughter only grew louder, echoing through the street like a festival of mockery.

One curious voice broke through: "Hey! How did you do that? Teach us!" All eyes turned toward the boy. He stared at his own hands, bewildered, a strange storm of emotions churning inside him. "Let's go," she whispered urgently, tugging his arm. They bolted as if chased by a snake. Breathless, he suddenly remembered—the man's broken tooth stick was still in his grip. Before he could speak, her palm smacked his back. "Idiot! I'll teach you some manners one day, foolish boy!"

And together, they vanished down the lane, leaving whispers behind.

To be Continued...