Arjun dismissed him. He had data. He had spreadsheets. He had a deal with Rudra Singh’s factories to label their discharge as "treated effluent." That night, Arjun dreamed of water. But it was not liquid. It was a scream. He saw a little girl in a faded red frock trying to fill a pot from a drain. The water turned into black snakes. They didn’t bite her—they entered her mouth, her eyes, her lungs. He woke up gasping, his own lungs burning.
Not with a flood. Not with a miracle. But with silence. The aarti lamps flickered. The chemical foam receded three feet from the ghat. The stench vanished for exactly eleven seconds—long enough for every person to smell what the Ganges used to be: wet earth, lotus, and rain.
And then, the river answered.