Pāpi slept soundly.
Wrapped in Madhu's upper cloth, his small body rested against the old physician's chest as Madhu walked back toward Mālakā. The child's earlier cries had emptied him completely. He was, after all, only a child—one who had walked for nearly twenty days, lived on fruits and river water, and slept beneath open skies. Exhaustion claimed him the moment safety arrived.
Madhu adjusted the cloth around the boy with care, ensuring the torn edges did not scrape his skin.
"Mahādeva," he murmured quietly, breath steady as his steps, "thank you for keeping this child safe."
Yet even as gratitude rose within him, unease followed.
Who is he?
Madhu's eyes lowered to the sleeping face. The child's remaining clothes were simple—nothing that marked wealth or status. And yet…
This face, Madhu thought, troubled. This beauty does not belong to a life of neglect.
Years of tending to bodies had sharpened his judgment. Malnourished children carried certain signs. Abandoned children carried others. This child carried neither.
Perhaps a noble family's son, he reasoned, lost in the jungle… or led astray by fate.
Madhu sighed inwardly.
First let's take him to my house, he decided. Questions can wait.
As he emerged from the jungle path, another figure appeared ahead—Dhanu, his third student, returning with freshly gathered herbs tied in cloth. Dhanu stopped short when he saw his guru carrying a child.
"Gurudev?" Dhanu whispered, instinctively lowering his voice.
He hurried closer, concern etched clearly on his face. Seeing the strain on Madhu's shoulders, he gently shifted his bundle aside.
"Please," Dhanu said softly, "let me carry him."
Madhu did not argue. Carefully, he transferred the sleeping child into Dhanu's arms.
The moment Dhanu looked down, his breath caught.
Such a child.
The calmness of his face, the softness of his features, the way even sleep seemed graceful upon him—it stirred something protective and wordless in Dhanu's chest.
"Gurudev," Dhanu asked quietly as they walked, careful not to wake the boy, "what happened? Where did this child come from? And… his clothes?"
Madhu answered in low tones.
"I heard crying near the Gaṅgā," he said. "When I went, I saw Kāliā beneath a neem tree. The dog was not attacking—only watching. At the child's feet lay torn cloth. He must have climbed the tree to escape."
Dhanu frowned. "Kāliā does not harm children."
"Yes," Madhu replied. "That troubles me more than if he had."
They walked on in silence.
By the time they entered Mālakā, eyes began to turn.
First a woman paused mid-step. Then a man looked up from his work. Soon whispers followed them like wind through dry leaves.
"Whose child is that?"
"Found where?"
"Look at his face…"
Dhanu answered gently, repeating what little they knew. By the time they reached Madhu's house, all ninety-seven villagers knew of the child found near the river, saved beneath the neem tree.
No one knew his name.
So the village gave him one.
"Neem," they said, simply.
The name settled, light and unchallenged.
Pāpi awoke the next morning to unfamiliar walls.
For a moment, instinct stirred—alertness, caution. Then he smelled crushed leaves, warm water, smoke, and something bitter-sweet. His eyes followed the sound: tink… link… tink…
A stone grinder.
Stone against stone.
He turned his head.
A man in his early thirties sat near the hearth, grinding herbs with practiced movements. His posture was calm, his breathing even. When he noticed the child awake, his face brightened with gentle warmth.
"Oh," he said softly, setting the stone aside. "You are awake, putra Neem. Are you feeling well?"
Neem? Pāpi thought, confused.
He glanced around, then back at the man.
He thought to himself " Ah… the neem tree. They call me neem because i was on neem tree."
Before he could respond, footsteps entered the room. Madhu appeared, followed by two others—Nāth, solid and quiet, and Dhanu, who smiled with visible relief.
Their eyes first checked the child's condition, not his answers.
"You slept well?" Madhu asked kindly.
Pāpi did not understand every word, but he felt the concern. He nodded slowly.
Then the questions came—careful, gentle, never rushed.
"What is your name putra?"
"Where are your parents?"
"How did you come to the jungle?"
Fragments reached him. Name. Parents. Place. His tongue felt heavy, unfamiliar with shaping this language. So he did what he allowed.
He shook his head.
"I… I… I don't know," he said haltingly. "I… not know."
His broken speech sounded like a child who had never spoken much—or had never learned language to survive.
Madhu watched closely.
This was not ignorance born of deceit. This was the speech of a child who had never been taught language properly.
A child of three or four should speak more, he thought. Even poverty teaches words.
Another thought followed, darker.
Madhu believes Neem was a child the world abandoned—or one his noble parents were forced to abandon. Perhaps they sent him into the jungle, not out of cruelty, but as a final act of love, hoping he would survive while enemies closed in. And even if fragments of that past still live within Neem, he will never give them words. Some truths, he knows, are safer buried in silence.
Madhu showed none of this on his face.
He raised his hand gently, stopping further questions.
"This child has lost his memories," Madhu said firmly. "And I saved him."
No one argued.
"Until he remembers," Madhu continued, "he will stay with me. He will eat here. Sleep here. Learn here. He will be my 4th student."
He paused, then added, "Since the village calls him Neem… that shall be his name."
Avi smiled. Nāth inclined his head. Dhanu placed a hand over his chest.
"Our brother," Avi said simply.
Pāpi did not understand the words fully.
But he felt it.
Warmth. Acceptance. A quiet circle closing around him.
For the first time since leaving the Gaṅgā, he was not merely surviving.
He belonged.
And so began the Parīkṣā that Mahādeva had prepared for them both.
Chapter End