CHAPTER 12: The Boy who Defied Shadows

British Police Quarters – The Same Morning

In an office adorned with colonial furnishings, a tall, lean man with sharp blue eyes adjusted his uniform. His blonde hair was neatly combed, his posture straight with the discipline of a British officer.

His name was Thomas Fitzgerald, a young officer who had been stationed in Calcutta for the past two years. He stood beside his superior, Mr. Edward Carlson, an older, seasoned British official with sharp features and a permanent air of authority.

Thomas, his expression curious, broke the silence.

"Sir, why do you love that Indian boy so much?"

Carlson, who had been reading through reports, let out a scoffing laugh. He leaned back in his chair, lighting a cigar before answering.

"Love? Thomas, you misunderstand." He exhaled a cloud of smoke before continuing, his tone dripping with disdain. "I don't love these Indians. They are smelly, unhygienic, and most of them are nothing but superstitious fools. Uneducated, backward, desperate to cling to their outdated beliefs."

Thomas raised an eyebrow. "Then why him?"

Carlson's expression shifted slightly. He hesitated, as if caught between contempt and something else—something resembling admiration.

"I met him when he was just ten," he finally said, his voice quieter now. "An orphan roaming the streets of Calcutta. He was filthy, underfed, and looked like any other worthless street rat. But then I heard him speak—" Carlson tapped his fingers against the desk, recalling the moment. "In English, no less. Not perfect, but impressive for a street child. And do you know what he was doing? He was debating with a church father about sin and forgiveness."

Thomas blinked in surprise. "A ten-year-old debating a priest?"

Carlson smirked. "Not just debating—winning. The father was struggling to answer his questions. The boy argued that if God's mercy was infinite, then why should a man be damned for eternity over one sin? If repentance was sincere, why should punishment be eternal? People gathered around in disbelief."

Thomas chuckled. "That's... quite the sight. But that's still not enough for you to take an interest in him."

Carlson's smirk faded. His next words carried more weight.

"Then something happened." He leaned forward, lowering his voice as if reliving the scene. "That same day, a foolish Indian rebel held a British woman hostage in public. A knife pressed to her throat. He was screaming for freedom, threatening to kill her unless we let him go. The police had him surrounded—ready to end him on the spot."

Thomas exhaled sharply. "And?"

Carlson took another drag from his cigar. "Before anyone could act, that same boy—Isarish—walked straight toward the madman. No fear. No hesitation. The crowd gasped, thinking he was going to be killed."

"And then?"

Carlson's eyes darkened slightly, as if recalling something both troubling and fascinating.

"He spoke to him. In Bengali. Calm, measured. He said—"

---

A Street in Calcutta – 1886

The man trembled, his grip tightening around the knife. The British woman whimpered, her eyes wide with terror. The crowd watched in horror, expecting blood to be spilled at any moment.

And then—

A child's voice cut through the tension.

"Brother, I know you are hurt. I know you are angry. And I know you have every reason to be."

The man flinched. His wild eyes met the gaze of the boy standing before him. A mere child. Yet, his voice carried the weight of something far greater.

"You think this is justice?" Isarish's voice didn't waver. "You think holding a blade to her throat will bring freedom? Will it bring back the lives lost? Will it make them see us as men, not animals?"

The man's breath hitched.

"Every time lies and cruelty held power, trust and righteousness rose to challenge them. Whether it was the Kauravas in the Mahabharata, or Pharaoh in Egypt who thought he could defy God Himself—power built on oppression has always fallen."

The man's grip loosened, just slightly.

"The British rule over us with fear. But do you know what they truly fear?" Isarish took a step closer. "They fear a man who stands with dignity. A man who does not bow, yet does not become a monster. They fear a man who knows his faith, who knows his purpose."

A tear slipped from the man's eye. His rage, his grief—it all stood bare in the face of a child's unwavering conviction.

"Brother, let her go."

The world seemed to hold its breath.

And then—

The knife clattered to the ground. The woman stumbled away, gasping in relief.

The man fell to his knees, covering his face as silent sobs wracked his body.

The British officers rushed in, seizing him. But the moment had already passed.

The battle had already been won.

Not with weapons.

But with words.

---

British Police Quarters – Present Day

Carlson exhaled, flicking the ash from his cigar.

"And the bastard listened," he murmured. "He let her go."

Thomas was silent for a long moment. "That's... remarkable."

Carlson scoffed. "Remarkable? It was terrifying. That kind of mind—so young, so sharp. He understands people, Thomas. He understands them too well. That makes him dangerous."

Thomas frowned. "Then why keep him close? If he's dangerous—"

Carlson smirked; his gaze unreadable. "Because dangerous minds are useful. And besides... he doesn't even know who he really is."

Thomas furrowed his brows. "What do you mean?"

Carlson didn't answer immediately. He simply gazed out of the window, watching the bustling streets of Calcutta.

"Let's just say," he murmured, "there are truths even he has yet to uncover."

------

Meanwhile in Isarish's Home:

Isarish stood by his window, watching the city awaken as the sun slowly climbed the horizon. His hands were still slightly unsteady from the nightmare, his mind haunted by the boy's final words.

"If I don't come again, it means I know the truth."

A strange chill ran through him.

He didn't know why...

But deep inside, something told him—

The past was coming for him.

And this time, there was no escaping it.