The train moved as though it were reluctant to disturb the land.
Its iron body cut through the early morning with a measured patience, wheels singing softly against the tracks, a sound that belonged to another century and refused to leave it. Rudra sat by the window of a first-class compartment of the Assam Mail, its destination marked clearly as Guwahati Junction, though the journey itself felt less like travel and more like a slow descent into memory.
The compartment was comfortable in the manner of its time. Polished wooden panels bore the faint scratches of decades. Brass fittings dulled by touch still held a quiet dignity. Thick green curtains hung beside the windows, drawn halfway to keep the morning chill from entering too boldly. A ceiling fan turned lazily, stirring air scented with coal, oil, and something older, something rural that clung to travelers bound for the eastern frontiers.
Rudra wore a long, dark woolen overcoat over a crisp shirt, its collar pressed sharply against his neck. His trousers were formal, tailored, the sort worn by men who belonged equally to cities and estates. His shoes were polished but carried dust from the road, already beginning to forget the softness of carpets. He sat upright, one hand resting loosely near his briefcase, the other occasionally tapping against the window frame as his eyes followed the changing land.
Jaydev sat opposite him.
He had folded himself into the seat with practiced ease, legs crossed neatly, spine straight even in rest. His attire was restrained yet exacting: a crisp, pale cotton shirt pressed to severity, sleeves fastened at the wrist, and dark formal trousers falling in an unbroken line to polished shoes. A woolen shawl lay folded beside him rather than worn, as if even warmth had to wait its turn. His Bhagwad Gita lay closed on the small table between them, its pages marked and softened by years of reading. He had fallen into a light sleep, chin lowered slightly, breath steady, as though even rest was something he performed with discipline.
The journey was quiet.
Rudra tried to organize the details of the gardens in his mind. Numbers, locations, labor structures, histories half-read and half-inherited. Makum. Doom Dooma. Chabua. Names that carried weight not just of land, but of blood, sweat, and silence. He wondered when estates stopped being property and began becoming organisms, alive with memories they refused to forget.
Outside, India unfolded slowly.
Villages passed like half-remembered verses. Mud houses with sloping roofs. Women drawing water from hand pumps. Children pausing mid-play to stare at the passing train, their expressions curious, unafraid. Fields gave way to stretches of forest, then to the first rolling hints of the tea country. The air grew colder, heavier, and the light took on a peculiar sharpness, as though every leaf had learned how to watch.
When the train finally eased into Guwahati, it did not arrive with grandeur but with fatigue. The platform was long and low-roofed, its iron pillars darkened by years of coal smoke and monsoon damp. Signboards in English and Assamese hung unevenly, paint peeling at the edges. Porters moved with practiced urgency, their calls rough and rhythmic, while vendors walked the length of the platform with kettles of tea balanced like ritual objects, steam rising in thin white ghosts. The engines exhaled heavily, metal ticking as they cooled, as if the train itself were relieved to have reached the edge of the hills. Rudra stepped down onto the platform and drew his coat closer, the air carrying a wet chill from the Brahmaputra's direction, a mist that clung not to the ground but to memory.
A jeep waited beyond the station.
It was a sturdy Willys CJ, its body dark green, paint chipped in places where years of plantation roads had tested its endurance. The air around it smelled of fuel and damp earth. A man stood beside it, adjusting his woolen cap nervously as he spotted Rudra.
"Sir… Mr. Roy?" he said, stepping forward quickly. "I am Ramesh Pandey, assistant manager, Makum estate."
He was a north Indian man in his early thirties, his coat slightly too thin for the cold, his boots well-worn. His voice carried eagerness, and beneath it, anxiety.
Jaydev joined them, offering a brief nod. They took their seats, Rudra in the front beside the driver, Jaydev settling into the back. The jeep started with a cough and moved forward, leaving the station behind.
The road climbed.
Hills rose slowly, layered with endless rows of tea bushes, their leaves dark and glossy, wet with morning dew. Laborers moved among them like shadows given shape. Men and women alike, bent low, baskets strapped to their backs, fingers moving with mechanical precision as they plucked leaf after leaf. Their clothes were simple, faded saris and coarse shirts, many barefoot despite the cold ground. Their faces were unreadable, eyes lowered, as though looking up was an unnecessary luxury.
Ramesh Pandey spoke eagerly.
"The estate has been running smoothly, sir. Production is… well, manageable. We are doing our best under the circumstances."
Rudra did not respond. His gaze remained fixed on the passing gardens. He remembered another time, another visit. Himself younger, his mother's shawl brushing his arm, his father walking ahead, tall and silent. The three of them together. A completeness that now felt like a story told by someone else.
Jaydev's voice cut in calmly.
"Then why are the numbers falling?"
Ramesh hesitated. "Sir… there have been difficulties. Forest issues. Labor unrest. Some… local beliefs."
"What beliefs?" Jaydev asked.
The jeep slowed as the road curved inward, the forest tightening around it. Ramesh lowered his voice, though no one else was near. "The workers speak of something in the forest. A child-spirit. They say the trees bleed at night."
Rudra turned sharply, his gaze locking onto Jaydev's face.
Jaydev did not answer at once. His fingers tightened slightly around the edge of his shawl. Then, almost imperceptibly, he inclined his head, not in disbelief but in reluctant recognition, as though the words had given form to something he had long carried without naming.
They reached a large iron gate, its surface half-painted, fresh black strokes uneven against old rust. A worker stood nearby, brush in hand, frozen mid-motion as the jeep approached. The gate opened with a groan.
Beyond it lay the colony.
British-era bungalows lined the path, their whitewashed walls softened by moss, their sloping roofs heavy with age. Servants moved about their tasks: washing clothes, sweeping verandas, carrying baskets of firewood, tending to flower beds that bordered the houses with unnecessary beauty. Everything appeared orderly, maintained, yet there was a tension beneath it, like a breath held too long.
The jeep climbed higher, deeper into the plantation. The main bungalow rose above the rest, commanding the hill like an old monarch refusing retirement. Another gate stood before it. Two servants, dressed in pressed uniforms, stepped forward and opened it without a word.
Ancient electric lamps lined the driveway, their yellow bulbs glowing faintly despite the daylight.
Jaydev frowned slightly. "Why are the lamps lit?"
Ramesh swallowed. "Sir… they are kept on."
They entered the bungalow.
Two maids stood near the entrance, dressed in clean cotton saris, hair neatly tied back. They greeted them with folded hands, voices soft and respectful. Rudra stepped inside.
The bungalow was grand in the understated way of colonial authority. High ceilings, wide rooms, polished wooden floors that creaked faintly underfoot. Heavy furniture carved with European designs sat alongside Indian artifacts, a careful blend of ownership and adaptation. Portraits of former British company managers lined the walls—men in stiff suits and military moustaches, their expressions severe, their eyes painted with the confidence of ownership. The frames were heavy, darkened with age, and as Rudra passed beneath them, it felt less like being observed and more like being measured, as though the house itself were asking whether he belonged among them or would be added in some other way.
Rudra walked through slowly, memories drifting back like smoke. The structure was unchanged. Even the fountain in the backyard still flowed, water falling in crystal-like drops, catching light as it always had. For a moment, it felt as though time had folded in on itself.
Jaydev approached quietly. "Your room is ready, sir. You should rest. The journey has been long."
Rudra shook his head slightly. "Is the assistant manager still outside?"
"Yes."
"Ask him to invite all administrative staff for dinner tonight. And instruct the kitchen. Vegetarian."
Jaydev nodded. "As you wish."
He stepped out onto the veranda.
Rudra remained where he was, standing before the vast plantation stretching endlessly into the woods. The tea bushes moved slightly in the wind, whispering among themselves. The forest beyond watched in silence.
Something in Makum had already noticed him.