Fateh Muhammad was barely fifteen when Kolar fell behind him.
The town's stone walls still lingered in his mind—dusty lanes, the mosque where his father, Shaikh Muhammad Ali, had once prayed and spoken softly of duty. His death had not come with thunder or glory. It had come quietly, like the extinguishing of a lamp at dawn. And with it, the boy's childhood had ended.
The road southward stretched thin and uncertain.
Fateh walked with a small bundle tied at his shoulder—clothes worn thin, a copy of verses his father had once taught him to recite, and a dagger that felt heavier than its weight. Each step away from Kolar felt like a betrayal, yet staying would have been a slow suffocation. Without his father's protection, the town had turned colder, its silences sharper.
The countryside opened into dry plains and scattered groves of tamarind and neem. Travelers passed him—merchants with bullock carts, soldiers in the service of distant nawabs, mendicants with ash-covered foreheads. No one spared the boy more than a passing glance. To them, he was just another orphan of the road.
But Fateh watched everything.
He listened to how men spoke of power—of the Nawab of Arcot, of tax collectors and military service, of fortunes made by the sword rather than the plough. At night, he slept beside roadside fires, his back to the earth, eyes half-open even in rest. Hunger taught him restraint; fear taught him silence.
Near a dried tank, where cracked earth yawned like old wounds, Fateh Muhammad paused to drink the last of his water. The sun had bleached the land pale, and the silence felt brittle.
A sharp sting struck his back.
Not hard—just enough to mock.
A small stone rolled past his foot.
Laughter followed.
Fateh straightened slowly. Three older boys stood a short distance away, lean and restless, their clothes no better than his, but their confidence fed by numbers.
One of them—the tallest, with sharp eyes and a crooked grin—bent, picked another pebble, and tossed it again.
This one struck his shoulder.
"Does the orphan bite?" the boy called out.
The others laughed and joined in. Stones pattered around Fateh—one grazing his arm, another thudding against his bundle. It was not pain they sought, but humiliation.
Fateh turned to face them.
"Enough," he said. His voice did not rise, but it carried.
The laughter faltered—only for a moment.
The smallest of the three stepped forward first, emboldened by the pause. He reached for Fateh's bundle, fingers brushing the cloth.
That was when Fateh moved.
He lunged, driving his shoulder into the boy's chest. They tumbled into the dust, limbs flailing. Fateh struck once—clumsy, but full of fury—catching the boy's jaw. The boy cried out and scrambled away, spitting blood and dirt.
The second rushed him immediately.
This one was stronger. They grappled, hands clutching tunics, feet slipping on dry earth. Fateh felt an elbow crash into his ribs, driving the breath from his lungs. He answered blindly, swinging until his knuckles burned. At last the boy stumbled back, winded, eyes wide with surprise more than fear.
Fateh stood swaying.
His chest heaved. Sweat blurred his sight. The world narrowed to sound and heat and the pounding of his heart.
Then it happened.
This one was stronger. They grappled, hands clutching tunics, feet slipping on dry earth.
Fateh felt an elbow crash into his ribs, driving the breath from his lungs. He answered blindly, swinging until his knuckles burned. At last the boy stumbled back, winded, eyes wide with surprise more than fear.
Fateh stood swaying.
His chest heaved. Sweat blurred his sight. The world narrowed to sound and heat and the pounding of his heart.
Then it happened. The first boy—the one who had thrown the stone—charged.
There was no warning this time. A fist slammed into Fateh's face, snapping his head sideways. Another followed, then a kick to his ribs that dropped him to one knee. The blows came fast, merciless. Fateh tasted blood. His arms felt heavy, useless. He knew, then, that this was how men vanished on the road.
Not with ceremony. Not with witnesses. In desperation, his hand found the dagger at his waist. He drew it—not with skill, but with terror. The blade caught the light.
He did not strike. He only raised it, shaking, breath ragged, eyes burning with something wild and unyielding.
The boy froze.
So did the others.
For a long moment, no one moved. Dust settled. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
"This ends now," Fateh said hoarsely.
The boys backed away, one step at a time. The bravado drained from their faces, replaced by calculation. None of them wanted to be the first to test how far a desperate boy would go.
They turned and left, their laughter gone.
Fateh stood alone beside the dried tank, dagger still in his hand, knees trembling.
He did not feel victorious. He felt changed.
That night, as he cleaned the blood from his face and bound his bruises, his father's words returned to him—not as comfort, but as truth:
Mercy without strength was an invitation to ruin. And on that road, Fateh Muhammad learned that survival demanded both.