Chapter 7 The Hearing

The district office was a monument to monotony-grey walls, rusted fans, corridors that echoed with bureaucracy. Arinay walked its length without hesitation, though each step sounded louder than the last.

The hearing room was bright, sterile, and full of unfamiliar faces. A panel of five officials sat behind a table, papers stacked like shields before them. One man adjusted his glasses. Another coughed theatrically. A woman in a starched saree led the questioning.

"You are Arinay Dev, schoolteacher of Padmapur?"

He nodded.

"You are accused of spreading discontent, politicizing your lessons, and encouraging social unrest. Do you deny these charges?"

He stood straight. "I deny any wrong. I taught them dignity, not defiance. I gave them words, not weapons."

"But you told them about land rights."

"I told them stories about fairness."

"You spoke of landlords exploiting labor."

"I asked them to observe the world, not ignore it."

"Do you believe your teachings are dangerous?"

He paused, then said, "Only to silence."

The room shifted, uneasily.

One of the men scribbled something. Another muttered, "Idealism has its place, but not in classrooms."

The verdict did not arrive that day. It would "take time," they said. For now, he was suspended-effective immediately. Barred from teaching. Barred from returning.

As he stepped outside into the glare of a hard sun, Arinay did not feel defeat. He reached into his pocket and unfolded the crumpled piece of paper-Rohan's poem, written in clumsy but heartfelt lines.

He read it once more. And smiled.

The world might have taken his chalk, but not his purpose.

The fire had only begun.