Devavrata and the others returned before sunset.
They had planned it carefully.
Wash at the river again.
Shake out their upper cloths.
Brush dust from their ankles.
Speak of ordinary things.
"Remember," Varun muttered, "we were at the river the whole time."
Devavrata nodded.
He had already composed his answers.
Skipping stones.
That was all.
Nothing more.
They walked into the village as though nothing had shifted.
But mothers notice dust.
Fathers notice silence.
And guilt has a scent sharper than smoke.
Devavrata's mother frowned first.
"You were at the river?"
"Yes."
"For this long?"
"Yes."
Her eyes moved to his hands.
Fine yellow petals clung near his wrist.
Not from the riverbank.
From the laburnum tree.
She brushed them away slowly.
"Swear upon your life," she said quietly.
Devavrata froze.
Swearing lightly was one thing.
Swearing upon one's life — upon one's future — was another.
His father looked up from the courtyard.
"Swear," he repeated.
The air grew heavy.
Devavrata swallowed.
He thought of Balu laughing.
Of stone meeting stone.
Of the moment no one stepped back.
He hesitated.
And that hesitation was enough.
His father stood.
"Where did you go?"
Silence stretched.
Finally—
"To the tree."
The words felt like betrayal.
"Whose tree?" his mother demanded, though she already knew.
"The lower settlement."
The courtyard seemed to shrink.
Voices rose from neighboring homes.
Other children were being questioned.
Other hesitations were unfolding.
One by one, the truth surfaced.
They had gone.
They had played.
They had mixed.
The uproar spread like fire through dry grass.
"How could you?"
"You know the rules!"
"Have you lost all sense?"
The children were led to the well.
Water drawn.
Not once.
Many times.
They were scrubbed.
Foreheads marked again.
Clothes set aside.
Incense burned at thresholds.
Priests summoned to chant purification verses.
Homes sprinkled with sanctified water.
Not hatred.
Not violence.
Just fear disguised as ritual.
Mothers wept in embarrassment.
Fathers stood rigid with wounded pride.
Children watched silently, confusion settling where laughter had been hours before.
Again and again, one name surfaced.
"He is the one who goes between them."
"That outsider."
"He eats there."
"He teaches strange games."
"He blurs lines."
The blame found direction.
And settled.
Anand.
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