The path stretched out ahead of me—dry, cracked earth, small rocks digging into the soles of my shoes with every step. I wasn't dressed for walking through fields. The dust stuck to my jeans, and sweat was already making my shirt cling to my back.
I must've walked for thirty minutes, maybe more. I wasn't checking the time. What was the point? The only thing that felt real was the phone in my pocket showing the impossible date: July 4, 1755.
The trees thinned a bit, and soon, I saw a village.
Small mud houses with sloped roofs. A few cows tied to wooden posts. Smoke rising lazily from one of the kitchens. Some kids running around barefoot, kicking a worn cloth ball. The place looked peaceful—quiet in a way I hadn't felt in years.
But the moment I stepped into view, everything changed.
People stopped. Heads turned. Conversations died mid-sentence.
They stared.
Not curious, not friendly. Careful. Suspicious.
I kept walking, trying to act normal.
A man sitting under a neem tree stood up. Mid-fifties maybe. Tall, wiry build. Wore a plain white dhoti and a turban that looked like it had seen a hundred summers. His eyes followed every move I made.
"You there," he called out. "Where are you coming from?"
I stopped a few feet away. "From the south."
He narrowed his eyes. "From Cochin?"
I hesitated a second, then nodded. "Yes… from Cochin."
He didn't smile or move closer. Just stared harder. "You don't dress like someone from Cochin. You don't walk like one either."
I looked down at my jeans, my sneakers, my T-shirt—covered in dust now but still out of place.
"I'm a traveller," I said. "Got separated from my group. Lost the road."
He folded his arms. "Which group?"
"I'm not with anyone," I said quickly. "I came to see some places. I'm not with any group."
More people had started to gather now. Men stood in the open. Women peeked from behind walls. A few kids had stopped playing, staring at me from a distance.
The man stepped forward. "You're not with the Company?"
I blinked. "What?"
He stared harder. "East India Company. You one of their men?"
"No," I said, hands up slightly. "No, I'm not."
"They come with strange tools. They talk fast. Look around too much. You do all that."
"I swear, I'm not one of them," I said.
He didn't look fully convinced. His eyes stayed on mine for a moment longer before he finally said, "Come. Sit under the tree. You look like you're about to fall."
I nodded and followed him. My legs were sore. The heat was draining. I sat under the tree with him, grateful for the shade.
He poured water into a brass cup from a clay pot nearby and handed it to me. I drank it in one go. Warm but clean. Felt like the first thing I could trust all day.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Aditya."
"Full name?"
"Aditya Menon."
He repeated it to himself, slowly. "Menon… You're sure you're not Company?"
"I'm sure."
He said nothing for a while. Just kept watching me.
Then a boy brought food—a flatbread, some kind of lentil curry, and a little piece of something pickled on the side. No spoons. No plates. Just a simple leaf spread out like a plate.
I sat cross-legged and started eating.
I didn't think much of it. I'd eaten like this at home a thousand times—mixing the dal with the flatbread, scooping with my fingers, careful not to spill. Just the way my mother taught me.
But when I looked up, I noticed something.
They were watching again. Not with suspicion this time, but something else. A few men nodded slightly. One of them even whispered something to another and shrugged.
I kept eating.
It wasn't much food, but it felt like enough. When I finished, I wiped my hand on my jeans and looked up at the older man again.
He spoke slower this time. "You eat like us."
I nodded. "I'm from the south. We grow up eating like this."
He nodded once, thoughtful. "Maybe you're not Company, then. They eat with tools, like they're afraid of touching food."
"I'm not them," I said again, softer now.
He finally leaned back against the tree. "I'm Dharam Singh. People here listen to me. If I say you're alright, they'll leave you be. But don't wander. People still don't like strangers."
"Thank you," I said.
He nodded. "When the sun goes down a little, we'll send someone to take you to the city road. For now, rest here."
I nodded and leaned back against the tree. I slipped the phone from my pocket again. Still 1755. Battery at 70%. No signal.
Just me. The dust. The silence. And a village that didn't trust easily.
But maybe… just maybe, I'd earned myself a little more time.
The shade under the neem tree was the best thing that had happened to me since… well, since the crash, or flash, or whatever that was. The heat had settled for now, and the sound of life in the village had gone back to normal—people talking, cows mooing, someone grinding something nearby with a heavy stone.
I stayed quiet. Let them forget I was new, strange, different.
Dharam Singh didn't forget.
He watched me the whole time, sitting beside me, chewing on something like dried leaves. He didn't say anything for a while. Then he spoke again, calm but direct.
"What work do you do, Aditya?"
I looked at him. His tone wasn't casual. This wasn't small talk.
"I design houses," I said.
He raised an eyebrow. "Design?"
"I… work with spaces. I draw how things should look. Inside a house. Where walls should go, where lights should be, furniture, windows, colours… things like that."
He kept chewing, staring at me. "So you don't build anything with your hands?"
"No, not directly. I tell the workers what to do. I show them plans."
He reached out suddenly and took my right hand in his. Turned it over, palm up. His fingers were rough—scarred, callused, the hands of someone who's worked with tools and land for years.
Mine looked pale beside his. Clean. No cuts, no calluses. Even the dust didn't hide how soft they were.
He grunted. "This hand… like a woman's."
I froze. Not offended—just unsure what to say.
He wasn't joking or insulting me. Just stating something he didn't understand.
"This is not the hand of a man who works. You have no scars, no burns, no cracks. You've never lifted grain sacks. Never held a plough. Not even a hammer."
He let go of my hand, shook his head lightly.
"In this village, men's hands speak louder than their mouths. Your hands say you've done nothing."
"I work," I said quietly, almost to myself.
He looked at me. Not angry. Not judging.
Just curious.
I didn't know how to explain what my job meant. That where I came from, we worked with screens and words and thoughts. That value didn't come from how many bricks you carried, but from how much you could plan and make look good.
I didn't say all that. There was no point. He wouldn't get it. And maybe he didn't need to.
"I understand," he finally said, as if reading my silence. "Maybe your people don't work the way we do."
I gave a small nod. "I work with the mind. Not the body."
He gave a small snort. "That's what the Company says too. That they are thinkers, not labourers. That they rule because they are clever."
He leaned forward, voice lower now. "But here, men earn their place with their hands. Their sweat. Their back. Not just clever words."
I looked away.
He wasn't wrong. In this place, this time… I didn't belong. Not yet. Maybe never.
But just then, a small boy came running from one of the houses, holding something wrapped in a cloth. "Baba!" he called out to Dharam Singh.
The man took the bundle, unwrapped it slowly. Inside were two small rotis and some cooked greens.
He broke one and handed it to me without a word.
I took it, again eating the way I always had—fingers, not thumbs, clean scoops, no mess.
I noticed the boy watching me. So did another man nearby.
A quiet nod passed between them.
Maybe I wasn't one of them. But I wasn't completely foreign either.
I had something familiar, something they understood.
I was still sitting under a strange sky, in a world I didn't belong to. But for now, I had a place to rest, food in my stomach, and the chance—just the chance—to figure out what came next.