Chapter 8 A Village Without a Voice

Padmapur felt different without him.

The banyan tree stood as always, but its shade seemed thinner, like it missed the one who gave it meaning. School mats lay untouched, chalk left unused in tins by the stone step. The children still gathered, at first out of habit, then in hope. But no voice called them to sit. No hand guided their slates.

Rohan came every morning and sat where Arinay once did. He didn't say much. Just watched the dust dance in the sunbeams, as if trying to hear echoes of yesterday.

In the village square, the whispers returned-heavier now, without the teacher's calm to scatter them.

"He was asking for trouble," someone said at the well.

"Too much truth never stays unpunished," said another, eyes darting.

But some voices-quieter ones-spoke differently.

"My child spoke in full sentences for the first time," said a mother.

"He made my daughter dream," said another.

Yet, dreams felt like luxuries now.

The landlord's men visited again, their boots louder, their questions sharper. Parents were warned gently-but with intent-not to send their children to the banyan anymore.

Still, on the third morning, a girl named Meera brought a chalk piece from her pocket and drew a bird on the earth. "He said stories can fly," she whispered.

The drawing was soon kicked away by a careless foot. But not before two other children saw it and smiled.

The banyan tree, unmoving, seemed to watch everything.

And though its leaves did not speak, their rustling carried the ache of a lesson left half-taught.