The sun had climbed higher over the Godavari by the time Agastya and Sootikshna arrived at the riverbank. The sound of water flowing over smooth stones mingled with the faint cries of birds. Villagers were gathering quietly, carrying baskets, mats, and bundles of wood for the morning cremation rituals.
An elder approached quickly, head bowed but anger simmering in his eyes. "Maharishi… Rishi-ji," he said, voice shaking. "There's a man here… he has insulted me, disrespected our ways. I… I cannot allow this."
Agastya's calm gaze shifted to the elder, measuring, steady. "Explain yourself," he said evenly.
The elder recounted the scene — Anand helping the low-caste widow and her child, offering water and sweets, and the obscene gesture and words that had followed. His voice trembled with a mixture of shame and indignation.
Sootikshna listened quietly, then stepped closer to Anand, who was standing slightly apart, brushing dust from his knees. "Is this true?" he asked, his voice soft, almost teasing.
Anand shrugged lightly. "I offered help. She was crying. The boy was scared. I didn't like the delay. The rest… well…" He gave a small smirk, glancing at no one in particular.
Agastya's lips twitched slightly, a hint of a smile hidden behind his long beard. "And yet, the villagers' customs must be honored," he said firmly. "But anger and oppression are not dharma. It is your duty to ensure the rituals of the departed are completed, regardless of caste. You acted rightly in caring for them."
The elder's face fell. Ashamed, he lowered his gaze and muttered, "I apologize, Maharishi… I apologize to Anand as well. I… I was wrong."
Anand tilted his head, hands in his pockets. "You should be careful about whom you speak to like that," he said, his voice light but firm. "A little respect goes a long way."
Agastya's voice cut in, calm but decisive: "The elder's apology is accepted. But remember, one must always maintain humility, even when angered. And Anand, your intentions are noted."
Anand nodded, then turned slightly, and in the most eccentric fashion he could muster, he gave the elder a teasing wink and muttered under his breath, "Next time, grow a thicker skin, old man."
Unbeknownst to him, both Sootikshna and Agastya had heard the words. Sootikshna's eyes widened slightly, a barely suppressed smile forming, while Agastya's beard twitched as if holding back laughter. Neither said a word; sometimes, even the greatest sages allowed humor to pass silently.
The villagers, meanwhile, had started arranging the pyres, murmuring prayers under their breath. Anand moved among them, offering guidance where he could — water, a hand to steady the wood, a reassuring smile. The widow and her son watched quietly, their grief softened by the simple presence of someone who had cared.
Agastya looked at Anand for a long moment, silent, approving, as if noting that the young man's morality and eccentricity could coexist without conflict. Sootikshna followed his guru's gaze, understanding without words, and smiled faintly.
By midday, all pyres had been prepared, rituals performed properly for everyone, regardless of caste. Anand stood a little apart, observing, reflecting. For once, his modern mind felt at ease — he had acted according to his conscience, the injustice had been corrected, and the ancient rhythm of the village continued without further disruption.
And somewhere, just under his breath, Anand muttered again, more to himself than anyone else:
"Old man… really needs a thicker skin."
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