The late afternoon sun slanted through the canopy of gulmohar and neem trees, casting flickering shadows on the narrow path that wound like a snake through the hills. Sagi walked slowly, his leather shoes brushing against dry leaves and the occasional burst of small white daisies nestled in the lush grass. The air smelled of damp earth, mingled with the faint incense still lingering from the shrine he'd just visited — the sacred Sakara shrine, the gentle deity of the village, perched on a moss-covered ridge like a fading memory.
He paused for a moment as the breeze tousled his hair, and looked back through the dense trees. The shrine was scarcely visible now, save for its cracked but proud stone pillars, wrapped in faded red cloth and offerings of rice, incense, and flowers.
Roji smiled to himself — not the stiff, performative smile he wore during office Zoom calls, but the quiet, full-bodied kind that came from knowing he'd finally made it. A remote IT job, decent pay, and enough stability to send money home. His parents wouldn't have to worry about the leaking roof or the rising cost of medicines anymore. After years of unsatisfying corporate life in the suburbs, he had returned to the countryside with a promising work-from-home setup and a bit of extra freedom for his sanity.
In his crooked mind, he entertained fantasies of courting a village woman — someone pure, untouched by the chaos and promiscuous decay he associated with city life. He lusted after the slow rhythm of rural existence, the loosened social norms, the ever-picturesque landscapes. It hadn't even been a month since his return, yet his aspirations had already bloomed into a kind of delusional excitement.
The path widened as he neared the village's main road, revealing terraced fields and tiled rooftops clubbed like sleeping cats in the valley below. The village hadn't changed much — the same crooked banyan tree near the tea stall, the tall and rusted clock by the town hall. But something felt… heightened. The colors were too vivid, the silence too deep. As if everyone he once knew had left and never returned — except him.
He passed a group of children playing with sticks and stones, their laughter echoing strangely. One of them paused to stare at him — not with recognition, but with a kind of curious detachment, like he was a painting they couldn't quite interpret.
Roji shook off the feeling. He was just tired. City life had dulled his senses, and now the village was waking them up again. He reached for the bottle of water in his hand and took a long sip.
That's when he smelled it.
A rich, savory aroma wafted through the air — thick, meaty, and impossibly comforting. It curled around his senses like a warm blanket, tugging at something primal. He turned toward the source and saw it: a small stall near the banyan tree, painted in deep crimson, with a brass pot bubbling over a coal stove. A woman stood behind it, ladling soup into clay bowls with a grace that felt rehearsed.
He was transfixed for a moment, his gaze locked on the stall and the woman's sylph-like hands as she gently stirred the contents of the enormous pot with a long-handled spoon. He wondered what exactly she was cooking — how could something smell so intoxicating from so far away?
A sudden jolt on his shoulder broke the trance. Shika, his neighbor, stood beside him with a wide grin stretched across her face, her enthusiasm almost nauseating.
"Come with me! To the stall," she said breathlessly. "It's new in the village. Everyone's loving it!"
Roji gave her an awkward smile. He knew how infatuated she'd become with him since his return, and he had no interest in entertaining her attention. Her flushed, eager face made him uncomfortable — not just because of her appearance, but because of the intensity behind it.
"I'll pay for us!" she added, trying to contain herself, her voice trembling with excitement.
"No, thanks. My mother is waiting for me," he said firmly, careful not to sound cruel. Then, without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked away.
"Been an insufferable moron since childhood," Roji snickered to himself, thinking about her.
He wasn't in a rush to head home. The sun hadn't set yet, and there was nothing waiting for him there — no work, no excitement, just silence. He wandered toward the old stone bridge that arched over the roaring stream and settled onto a nearby wooden bench. The river's loud ripples filled the otherwise quiet, sun-drenched atmosphere. A few passersby drifted past, their faces blank, the neighborhood dull as ever.
Roji pulled out his phone and shot a message to the one person he considered worth talking to in this place — Moragi.
"Hey man, where are you at?"
It took a few minutes for the reply to come.
"I am out."
Roji frowned. That was unusually dry. Moragi was the kind of guy who texted like he was performing — emojis, exclamations, weird punctuation. This felt off.
"You free?" he asked.
"Not quite."
Roji stared at the screen, puzzled. Something was off. He tried to lighten the mood.
"I'll take you out to the highway lamb joint. Best meat in the region."
Another long pause.
"No man. I'm busy."
Roji blinked. Busy? With what? He chuckled and typed:
"Eh? Haha. What's up?"
"I'm at the Soup Lady's. The new one in the village."
That irritated him. Seriously? He was offering a full meal and a drive, and Moragi was stuck at some soup stall?
"I'm offering you the tastiest lamb around. We'll go out, chill. And you're stuck with some damn soup stall run by a hag? Come on. I passed by that place 30–40 minutes ago. I'll come pick you up."
The reply came after another long stretch.
"NO. Have some decent language, man."
Roji stared at the screen, confused and annoyed. Moragi never talked like that. Never this cold.
He looked up at the stream, the heavy water raging beneath the bridge, and felt a strange emptiness settle in his chest.
Finally, he got up and began heading home.