Nishaan -

Every morning, Arjun would walk to the edge of the village, where a single, ancient ber tree stood against the rising sun. On its trunk were a hundred small knife marks—the tally of his practice. He would draw a circle of wet red clay on the bark, step back twenty paces, and throw. His weapon of choice was not a gun, but a chakram —the steel, circular disc of his ancestors. It was his nishaan of truth. When it flew, it sang a low, humming song.

Old Thakur Ajit Singh had been murdered five years ago. No one knew who held the smoking gun, but everyone knew why . A land dispute. A whispered insult. A line crossed. The nishaan of the killer’s boot had been found in the wet mud by the well—a distinctive half-moon crack on the heel. For half a decade, Ajit’s only son, a quiet, intense young man named Arjun, had kept that cracked imprint burning in his mind like a hot coal. nishaan

Arjun walked back to his mother. She saw his face—not the face of a ghost, but of a man who had put down a heavy stone. Every morning, Arjun would walk to the edge

“The mark is all that is left of him, Mother,” Arjun would reply. His weapon of choice was not a gun,

Arjun felt his pulse become the drumbeat. He did not confront Sukha. He did not draw his chakram . Instead, he waited.