Chapter 18: Echoes of the Past

The sky was overcast as Ishan sat by the schoolyard fence, watching the clouds roll in like silent witnesses to everything shifting beneath them. A storm was coming — not just in the sky, but in Miraanta itself. Ever since the town hall meeting, the village had begun to split. Like hairline fractures on old stone, lines of loyalty and doubt were forming in whispers, in glances, in closed-door conversations.

Miraanta's development promises had begun to charm the villagers. Solar panels, water tanks, model roads — all beautifully designed brochures and polite corporate smiles. And behind it all stood Armaan Vaidya.

Ayaan.

Ishan kicked a pebble across the mud. He was one boy against a machine that he once commanded. And now it ran without him, smoother than ever, because it had learned from him.

But he wasn't powerless. Not anymore.

He had something they didn't — the truth.

The first sign of change came that afternoon when Kabir returned from the panchayat meeting, his forehead lined with worry.

"They've agreed to a survey," he said, rubbing his temples. "They'll let Miraanta conduct feasibility tests on the temple land."

Ishan froze. "They said yes?"

Kabir nodded. "Not full consent for acquisition — but a step toward it. Too many are tempted. Some even believe it's divine intervention."

"Divine?" Ishan scoffed. "Since when did backdoor deals become holy?"

Kabir looked at him strangely. "You've been… different lately, Ishan."

"I'm awake," Ishan said sharply. "Everyone else is dreaming."

He turned on his heel and walked out. Aaru watched him go, her brows furrowed. "He's planning something."

Kabir sighed. "I know."

That evening, Ishan climbed to the top of the water tower on the outskirts of the village. From there, he could see everything — the temple roof glowing with marigolds, the new Miraanta tents pitched beside the fields, and villagers standing in small clusters, whispering.

He knew that world well. In his past life, he'd designed such takeovers. First charm them. Then divide them. Finally, own them.

But what if he could flip the script?

He pulled out a notebook and began scribbling names. Villagers he'd noticed who still had doubts. People with influence — not power, but respect.

Among them was:

Pandit Ravi, who disliked corporate interference in sacred grounds.

Leela Mausi, who ran the community kitchen and heard every rumor.

Bhola Kaka, the ex-serviceman, principled and proud.

And then there was her.

Asha.

The girl with fire in her voice and justice in her bones.

He found her near the old well, cleaning copper pots with sand. Her sleeves were rolled, face streaked with sweat.

"I need your help," he said.

She didn't look up. "I'm not your soldier."

"No. But you care about this village. About the temple."

"And why should I believe you do?" she shot back.

"Because I know how this ends," he said, stepping closer. "You'll get your road. Your clinic. And then one day you'll wake up, and the temple will be a luxury spa. Your gods locked behind ticket booths."

She froze.

"Armaan Vaidya isn't who he says he is."

She looked at him finally. "Then who is he?"

He didn't answer. Not fully. "A man who wears masks."

After a pause, she spoke. "If you want to fight this… you can't do it alone."

"I know."

"Then come tomorrow," she said. "To the women's circle. They meet near the grain warehouse. They don't trust men in suits. Maybe they'll trust a boy with scars."

The next afternoon, Ishan stood nervously before a group of elderly women, mothers, and daughters sitting on mats beneath neem trees. They looked at him with mild curiosity.

Leela Mausi spoke first. "What does a schoolboy know about land and companies?"

Ishan inhaled. "Enough to tell you this — the company doesn't want to help you. It wants to own you."

Murmurs rose.

"Will they take our temple?" an old woman asked.

"Yes," Ishan said firmly. "Not today. Not tomorrow. But they will. Bit by bit. That's how they work."

He showed them brochures he'd picked from Miraanta's outreach center, explaining what each term really meant — 'cultural partnership' was code for 'rebranding'; 'sacred integration' meant relocation.

By the end of the meeting, eyes were wide, and hearts unsettled.

"You've opened something dangerous, lad," Leela Mausi said. "But I believe you."

News of the meeting spread quietly, like rain soaking through soil.

Ishan returned to the library that evening. The librarian, having seen his discipline over weeks, let him stay.

He began printing articles, satellite images, business reports. He hacked through public company data like slicing butter. The shell company Miraanta used? It traced back to a firm once pitched under Malhotra Holdings.

His former company.

They were using his blueprints. His legacy.

And turning it into a weapon against the people.

He felt sick.

Two nights later, Armaan Vaidya hosted a community dinner.

It was a spectacle — fairy lights, food, a projector screening images of development across other regions.

Ishan attended.

Quiet.

Watching.

Near the end, Armaan stepped onstage. "We are all dreamers," he said. "But dreams mean little without courage."

He turned toward Ishan.

"And the young ones — like this bright boy here — are the most courageous of all."

Everyone clapped.

Ishan felt the heat of every eye.

Ayaan was warning him.

Stay in line, or I'll paint you as part of my show.

But Ishan didn't flinch.

He clapped too.

And smiled.

Because he had already begun writing his own script.

Later that night, he met with Asha again. She handed him a notebook filled with names — villagers willing to resist silently.

"You're not alone anymore," she said.

He looked at her.

And for the first time in weeks, he allowed himself to feel something close to hope.

The revolution wouldn't be loud.

Not yet.

It would begin in whispers, in looks, in the quiet defiance of villagers who knew how to endure.

And Ishan, the boy who once ruled skyscrapers, now stood barefoot on the soil of rebellion — planting seeds of something that could outgrow empires.

Truth.