Lake

**Location: Mandi, Himachal Pradesh**

**Jatin's Ancestral House**

**Date: August 28, 1940**

Jatin awoke with the first light of dawn creeping through the cracked wooden shutters of his ancestral home, a soft golden glow that painted the rough mud walls in hues of warmth. The charpoy beneath him creaked as he shifted, its taut ropes digging into his back—a sensation so far removed from the memory foam mattress he'd left behind in 2025 that it almost felt like a betrayal of comfort. Yet, there was something grounding in its simplicity, a tactile reminder of where he was, or rather, *when* he was. The events of the previous day—the crash, the mysterious Tech System, the sudden plunge into this unfamiliar era—had settled into his bones overnight, no longer a fevered blur but a stark, undeniable reality he couldn't ignore.

He swung his legs over the edge of the charpoy, the cool stone floor sending a shiver up his spine as his bare feet made contact. The air carried the faint musk of earth and the lingering traces of last night's incense, a scent that tugged at buried memories of his childhood. He crossed the small room to a clay pitcher Raju had left by the window, its surface beaded with condensation. The water inside was cold, drawn from some unseen well, and smelled faintly of minerals and clay. He splashed it over his face and neck, letting it wash away the last threads of disorientation that clung to him like cobwebs. His reflection in a small, tarnished mirror propped against the wall caught him off guard—his dark eyes were wide, searching, framed by a face that looked both too young and too weary for his twenty-nine years. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair, the damp strands sticking to his fingers, and took a steadying breath. Today, he decided, would be the day he started to make sense of this madness.

Raju appeared as if summoned by the thought, his soft footsteps barely audible on the packed earth floor. The old man carried a battered brass tray, balancing a modest breakfast of steaming dal, a few chapatis, and a small bowl of spiced curd. The aroma hit Jatin like a wave—cumin, turmeric, and the faint tang of ghee weaving together in a symphony of familiarity that made his stomach rumble despite the turmoil in his mind. Raju set the tray down on a low wooden stool, his movements deliberate and practiced, and offered a gentle smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes.

"Good morning, young master," he said, his voice a quiet melody of deference and warmth. "Did you sleep well? The night was cool, but the spirits of this house are kind. They watch over you."

Jatin managed a small nod, settling cross-legged on the floor beside the stool. "I slept… better than I expected, Raju. Thank you for this." He gestured to the food, tearing off a piece of chapati and dipping it into the dal. The flavors burst on his tongue—simple, hearty, and alive with the taste of home, a home he hadn't known he'd missed until now. He ate slowly, each bite fueling a quiet resolve that had taken root overnight. The Tech System's glowing screen lingered in his mind's eye, its promise of change both exhilarating and daunting. He wasn't just a physicist anymore, tethered to equations and lecture halls. He was something more—a bridge between worlds, a man with the power to reshape this one, if only he could find the courage to start.

As he finished the meal, wiping his hands on a coarse cloth Raju handed him, the weight of his new reality settled deeper. The transition from his life in 2025—surrounded by humming computers, sleek lab equipment, and the sterile glow of fluorescent lights—to this rustic existence in 1940 Mandi was a leap that defied logic. Yet, the more he breathed the smoky air, felt the uneven floor beneath him, and heard the distant clatter of village life beyond the walls, the more it felt real. The Tech System wasn't a dream or a glitch; it was his lifeline, a tool to heal a world he'd only known through his grandfather's stories and his own fragmented memories.

The water filtration schematic he'd unlocked last night burned brightly in his thoughts, a spark of possibility amid the chaos. He could see it so clearly—the layers of sand and charcoal, the steady drip of purified water, the lives it could save. Mandi, nestled in the rugged embrace of Himachal Pradesh, was a place of stark contrasts. Its four lakes, scattered within a thirty-kilometer radius of his ancestral home, were a lifeline for the region's people—thousands of villagers, merchants, and travelers who depended on them. But only one, the distant Prashar Lake, high in the mountains, remained relatively clean, its waters a rare gift in a landscape scarred by neglect. The other three, including the lake on his family's land, were festering wounds—murky, stagnant pools choked with the refuse of a colonial past.

His family's lake, just a short walk from the house, was a particular ache in his chest. Once a shimmering jewel framed by rolling hills and swaying pines, it had been poisoned decades ago by a British factory that had squatted on its shores like an unwelcome guest. The factory, a hulking relic of industrialization, had spewed its waste into the water—chemicals and sludge that turned the lake into a cesspool. It had shut down a year ago, in 1939, its skeletal remains crumbling into the earth, but the damage lingered. The water was a sickly brown, its surface slick with an oily sheen, and the air around it carried a rancid bite that made Jatin's nose wrinkle even from a distance. Villagers still drew from it, their clay pots dipping into the filth out of necessity, not ignorance. Every year, the toll was the same—fevers, dysentery, children wasting away before they could grow strong. It was a quiet tragedy, one Jatin couldn't unsee now that he was here.

Mandi itself was a paradox to him. His childhood memories of the place were vivid splashes of color—the vibrant green of the fields, the bright saris of women washing clothes by the river, the golden flicker of oil lamps during Diwali. He'd spent his early years here, until he was eleven, running barefoot through the dust with his cousins, chasing the wind as it rustled through the deodar trees. But that Mandi had been eroded by time and exploitation. His family had fled to Shimla when the pollution grew unbearable, seeking the crisp, clean air of the mountains. His parents had died there in a car accident when he was seven—a sudden, senseless loss that left him clutching his grandfather's hand as his world crumbled. Shimla had been a refuge, its quiet streets and colonial charm a balm for his grief, but Mandi was his roots, tangled and deep.

His grandfather had been his anchor after that— a wiry, white-haired man with a voice like gravel and eyes that twinkled with mischief. He'd taught Jatin to love knowledge, to chase the why and how of the universe, filling their Shimla evenings with stories of Mandi's past and lessons in math scratched into the dirt with a stick. When he'd passed three months ago, at the age of eighty-seven, his body finally succumbing to a cough that wouldn't relent, Jatin had felt the ground shift again. Returning to India a year earlier, fresh from his PhD and a teaching post abroad, he'd hoped to care for the old man in his final days. Instead, he'd buried him, the rituals of the cremation grounding him in a way he hadn't expected. Now, alone in Mandi, the ancestral house was both a sanctuary and a ghost, its silence heavy with the echoes of a family gone.

He pushed the tray aside and stood, the Tech System's promise humming in his veins. He needed to act, to turn his grief and confusion into something tangible. "Raju," he called, his voice steady as the old man reentered the room, wiping his hands on a faded cloth. "I need your help. We're going to build something—a water filter. It'll clean the lake, make it safe for everyone."

Raju's brow furrowed slightly, but he nodded, stepping closer as Jatin handed him a list scrawled on a scrap of paper torn from an old ledger he'd found in the house. The ink was smudged, his handwriting shaky from the rush of adrenaline, but it was legible:

- *Activated Carbon Granules*: Enough to fill barrels, to strip the water of its poisons.

- *Silica Sand*: Fine and coarse, for layers to catch the grit and murk.

- *Gravel*: Rough stones of varying sizes, to anchor the system and keep it flowing.

- *Zeolite*: A mineral he'd read about in textbooks, perfect for trapping metals and toxins.

- *Chlorine Tablets (Calcium Hypochlorite)*: Small, potent doses to kill the invisible killers lurking in the water.

- *Fine Mesh Filters (Stainless Steel)*: To strain out leaves and debris before the real work began.

- *PVC Piping*: Simple, sturdy tubes to guide the water through.

- *Pumps (Manual and Small Electric)*: To move the water, because gravity alone wouldn't be enough.

- *Testing Kits (pH, Turbidity, Chlorine)*: To prove it worked, to show the villagers they could trust it.

Raju scanned the list, his lips moving silently as he read. Then he looked up, his eyes wide with a mix of awe and doubt. "Young master, these things… I can find them, but it will take time. A month, maybe more. The merchants in town might have some—sand and gravel are easy enough—but the carbon, the zeolite? That's strange stuff. And the cost…" He hesitated, scratching his chin. "At least ten thousand rupees, I'd wager. Can we really clean the lake with this?"

Jatin met his gaze, a flicker of a smile tugging at his lips. "Uncle, believe in me. We *can* clean it. I've got the inheritance—fifty thousand rupees from Grandfather. This won't break me, even if it fails. But it won't fail. People are dying every year—kids, families. We have to do this, and we have to do it fast."

Raju's expression softened at the word "uncle," a term Jatin hadn't meant to let slip but felt right in the moment. The old man nodded, tucking the list into his kurta. "Alright, young master. I'll go to the market today. You'll see—Raju doesn't let his family down." He turned to leave, his steps quick with purpose, leaving Jatin alone with the echo of his words.

Stepping outside, Jatin squinted against the morning sun, the air thick with the scent of woodsmoke and the distant tang of the Beas River. His ancestral home sat on a gentle rise, about two kilometers from Mandi's bustling core, its weathered stone walls blending into the landscape. The town itself was alive—a chaotic tapestry of merchants haggling over sacks of grain, travelers trudging in from the hills, and children darting through the dust with makeshift kites. Thousands passed through daily, drawn by Mandi's reputation as a trading hub, their voices a low, constant hum that carried on the breeze.

He walked toward the family lake, his sandals crunching on the dry path. The lake came into view—a four-hundred-meter expanse that should have been a mirror for the sky but instead reflected despair. Its surface was a dull, oily brown, littered with patches of algae and the occasional dead fish bobbing listlessly. The stench hit him first—rotting vegetation mixed with a chemical bite that stung his throat. Villagers lined its edges, their clay pots dipping into the muck with resigned efficiency. A woman in a faded red sari knelt nearby, scrubbing clothes against a flat stone, her hands raw from the water's harshness.

Jatin approached her, crouching to her level. "Namaste, aunty," he said softly, using the respectful tone his grandfather had drilled into him. "Does the water always smell like this?"

She looked up, startled, her weathered face creasing with suspicion before softening. "Namaste, beta. Yes, always. It's been bad since I was a girl—worse now, maybe. We boil it, but the children still get sick. What else can we do?"

Her words twisted in his gut. "I'm Jatin," he said. "This is my family's land. I'm working on something—a way to clean it. It'll take time, but I promise it'll get better."

She studied him, then nodded slowly. "You're the Sharma boy, aren't you? Your grandfather was a good man. If you say so, I'll pray it's true." She returned to her washing, but her eyes followed him as he stood.

Further along, an old man with a graying beard sat mending a fishing net, his gnarled fingers deft despite his age. Jatin greeted him too. "Uncle, do you fish here?"

The man grunted, not looking up. "Used to. Nothing worth catching now—just sludge and bones. My father said this lake was full of mahseer once. Now it's a graveyard."

"I'm going to fix it," Jatin said, more to himself than the man. "It won't be like this forever."

The old man snorted, but there was a flicker of curiosity in his glance. "Big words, lad. We'll see."

Jatin lingered by the lake, the voices of the villagers weaving into his resolve. This wasn't just about points or technology—it was about them, the people who'd suffered in silence. The lake could be more than a scar; it could be a promise. He turned back toward the house, the sun climbing higher, his mind buzzing with plans. One step at a time, he'd heal this place—his home, his past, his purpose.