Three days after Vishwanath left, the rain returned—heavier this time. The trenches Aarav had dug brimmed with water, filtering down slowly. Children played near them, splashing and floating dry mango leaves like tiny boats. But behind the laughter, the village held its breath.
For it was in this weather—warm and wet—that illness came like a thief.
It began with Bhola again. A mild fever, chills, and a headache. At first, his mother thought it was just the change in season. But by the second morning, three other children had the same symptoms. Then an elder. Then Kavita's younger brother.
It was spreading.
Aarav stood beside Bhola's cot, checking his pulse with two fingers against the thin wrist. The boy's skin was hot, his breath shallow.
"It's not just a cold," Aarav murmured. "It's something else."
His mind raced through memories—videos, textbooks, articles. Malaria? Dengue? Viral fever? All possible. But the symptoms were too uniform, too rapid. And there were no rashes.
He walked to the village well and stared down into the water. The surface reflected his face—tense, uncertain. Then he saw it: a thin film of scum floating near the edges.
Contaminated water.
His stomach turned.
He called a meeting with the village elders.
"We have to act now," Aarav said. "Boil every drop of water before drinking it. No raw water, no matter how clean it looks. And we must stop the children from playing in the trenches."
Some grumbled. Others nodded, frightened.
Aarav continued, "I will prepare a herbal tonic. But we also need to clean the well."
"How?" someone asked. "We don't have money for lime or ash in large amounts."
Aarav thought fast. "We'll use neem bark, alum, and charcoal. I've already gathered some. I'll explain the method."
That evening, he and Kavita boiled neem bark in large pots and mixed it with powdered alum—something the village used occasionally to clarify water. He tied sacks of crushed charcoal and lowered them into the well with ropes.
The water turned murky for a time, then clearer.
In homes, he distributed a kadha made from tulsi, pepper, dried ginger, and jaggery.
Within three days, the spread of illness slowed.
But Bhola was still sick.
Aarav knew the herbs alone wouldn't be enough. He needed to keep the boy hydrated. He remembered a simple treatment from modern medicine: ORS—oral rehydration solution.
In his clay bowl, he mixed salt, jaggery, and boiled water in careful proportions. He tasted it. Balanced. Just right.
He coaxed the boy to drink.
Two sips. Then more.
That night, Bhola's fever dropped slightly.
By morning, he could sit up.
The village breathed again.
---
The elders came to Aarav's home that afternoon.
"You stopped it," one said.
"You knew what to do," said another.
Aarav shook his head. "I got lucky. If this happens again, we may not be."
He stood up. "We need a proper medicine hut. A place to store herbs, dry roots, and keep clean water. And I'll need help."
For the first time, no one argued.
The old temple storehouse was offered—unused for decades. Aarav and Kavita cleared it out. They swept cobwebs, patched the leaky roof with palm thatch, and laid out shelves made from old wooden crates.
He began labeling everything carefully in both Devanagari and pictograms for the illiterate.
Neem (for infection)
Tulsi (for fever)
Dry ginger (for digestion)
Charcoal packets (for filtration)
ORS mix (salt + jaggery instructions)
He also added a new section: prohibited items—raw pond water, stale rice, uncovered milk.
Kavita joked, "You're starting a new shastra, aren't you?"
Aarav grinned. "Maybe I'll call it the Grameen Jeevan Sutra."
---
By the end of the week, the rains slowed. The fields steamed. The sun returned.
And with it, the zamindar's messenger arrived.
A man in orange robes with a gold-thread belt, mounted on a sturdy horse. He carried a scroll, stamped with the symbol of a lion.
The message was read aloud at the temple courtyard:
> "The honorable Zamindar Raghunath Dev acknowledges the report of innovations and improvements in the village of Manikpur. He summons the one known as Aarav, son of Hariram, to his court for discussion and possible patronage."
Silence followed.
Aarav stepped forward.
"I will go."
His mother tried to stop him. "It could be a trap. Or punishment."
His father said, "No. It is fate. Go, but go prepared."
Aarav packed nothing but a set of herbs, a small scroll with his designs, and a clean dhoti.
Kavita handed him a pouch of dried mango and said quietly, "Don't speak too much. Let your work speak."
He nodded.
The next morning, as the sun rose golden over the wet fields, Aarav climbed onto the messenger's cart and began the journey toward power, risk… and opportunity.