Namaste, Stranger
Copyright© 2026 by Art Samms
Chapter 10
The rumor reached Jack before the question did.
It arrived obliquely—through a pause in conversation when he entered a room, through the way a shopkeeper’s greeting faltered, through Tom’s offhand, “Hey, just a heads-up,” delivered with more seriousness than usual.
By midday, Jack was called into Raj’s office.
Again.
“This time,” Raj said, closing the door behind them, “the story is ... creative.”
Jack didn’t sit right away. He waited.
“They say you are advising villagers for your own purposes,” Raj continued. “That you are influencing local voices. That you are—” He paused, clearly irritated. “—too involved.”
Jack exhaled slowly. “With the work?”
“With life,” Raj said flatly.
The rumor, it turned out, had taken familiar fragments—Jack’s presence at the guesthouse, Anjana’s growing visibility, his involvement with schools—and braided them into something distorted but persuasive enough to travel. Not scandal. But suspicion.
Jack finally sat. “I’ve been careful.”
“I know,” Raj said.
The words landed with unexpected force.
Two officials from the ward office joined them shortly after. The questions were formal, rehearsed.
How often did Jack meet community members outside project work?
Did he coordinate with local media?
Was he aware of perceptions surrounding his presence?
Jack answered plainly, without defensiveness. He didn’t volunteer more than asked. He didn’t minimize concern—but he didn’t inflate it either.
Throughout it all, Raj remained still.
Until the end.
“Jack Morgan has followed protocol,” Raj said, his voice steady but firm. “More than most.”
The officials looked surprised.
“He has reduced visibility when asked,” Raj continued. “He has deferred leadership. He has documented every engagement.”
Raj leaned forward slightly.
“If we begin punishing restraint,” he said, “we will discourage it.”
The room fell quiet.
One of the officials cleared his throat. “We are only responding to concerns.”
“Yes,” Raj said. “And I am responding to facts.”
When the officials left, Jack stayed seated, hands clasped tightly in his lap. Raj closed the door again.
“You will be watched,” Raj said. “That has not changed.”
Jack nodded. “I expected that.”
“But,” Raj added, “you will not be questioned again unless something new happens.”
Jack looked up. “Thank you.”
Raj held his gaze. “Be aware,” he said. “This attention is not about wrongdoing. It is about discomfort with change.”
Jack absorbed that quietly. When he stepped back into the street, the afternoon sun felt harsher than before.
But beneath the lingering tension, something fundamental had shifted.
This time, he hadn’t stood alone.
And that, Jack realized, mattered more than the rumor ever could.
The neighbor stopped Anjana just outside the gate. She recognized her at once—a woman she had passed dozens of times, whose name she knew only through proximity, not conversation. She stood with her arms folded, expression carefully composed.
“I hear many things,” the woman said.
Anjana adjusted the strap of her camera bag, already aware of what was coming.
“So do I,” she replied calmly.
The neighbor did not raise her voice. That, Anjana noted, was important.
“They say you are inviting attention,” the woman said. “That you are confusing people. That your work is ... encouraged.”
Encouraged. By whom did not need to be said.
Anjana met her gaze, not backing down.
“My work is my own,” she said. “No one tells me what to record.”
The woman frowned. “People are uncomfortable.”
“Yes,” Anjana said. “I know.”
The neighbor hesitated, then pressed on.
“And the American?”
Anjana did not flinch.
“He does his work,” she said. “I do mine.”
There was no apology in her voice. No defensiveness.
“I speak with many people,” Anjana continued. “Some are from here. Some are not. That does not make my voice borrowed.”
A few passersby slowed, curiosity sharpening the air. The neighbor’s tone softened, if only slightly.
“You must understand why people worry.”
“I do,” Anjana said. “But worry is not my responsibility. Honesty is.”
The words landed, measured and precise.
“I will not make myself smaller to ease someone else’s discomfort,” she added. “And I will not pretend I am less capable than I am.”
Silence stretched between them.
Then the neighbor nodded once—slowly, thoughtfully.
As Anjana walked away, she felt the familiar flutter of nerves—but beneath it, something stronger.
Relief.
She knew not everyone would approve. She also knew that approval was no longer the measure.
By evening, the story had changed slightly as it traveled. Less accusation. More curiosity. And in a place where perception often hardened quietly, that shift—subtle, but real—was enough.
Anjana returned home with her head high, aware that sometimes the most powerful response was simply to stand, unbending, in the open.
The change was not dramatic. It revealed itself in small, almost dismissible ways—until Jack realized he had begun to expect it.
A light rain fell the night before Jack returned to the pilot site above the footpath. He climbed the slope early the next morning, boots sinking only slightly into the damp soil.
Where water had once carved deep channels, it now moved in thinner lines, slowed by low stone berms and newly planted grasses. The soil held together longer, resisting collapse. Leaf litter—deliberately left rather than cleared—caught sediment and debris.
Jack knelt and pressed his palm against the ground.
It held.
He followed the runoff path downhill and found it dispersing rather than gathering, its energy broken into manageable threads.
This was not prevention. It was mitigation. And it mattered.
At the school, the courtyard hummed with purposeful noise. A group of students clustered around wooden compost bins they had built themselves—rough but sturdy. One girl lifted the lid and gestured animatedly as she explained the layering process to her classmates.
“Dry leaves,” she said. “Then food waste. Then soil.”
Jack stood back, resisting the urge to correct the uneven measurements. They adjusted as they spoke, learning in real time.
Nearby, another group tracked rainfall in a shared notebook, comparing it to the previous month’s data. They argued over entries, referencing dates and soil conditions with growing confidence.
“These ones teach their parents,” a teacher said quietly beside Jack.
Jack smiled. “I believe it.”
Later that afternoon, Jack walked through a neighborhood where compost piles now dotted small gardens, each one slightly different. Some were neat. Others were improvised.
He noticed children reminding adults not to throw peelings into the stream. He saw a man redirect roof runoff into a barrel instead of letting it spill into the yard.
None of this bore Jack’s name. None of it needed to.
The work had passed from instruction to habit.
Jack documented what he saw—not for praise, but for continuity. He took notes on soil texture, plant survival rates, the spacing of erosion barriers.
He photographed the same slope from the same angle as months before and compared the images side by side.
The difference was unmistakable.
The land still bore scars—but they were no longer widening.
As sundown approached, Jack stood at the edge of the site and watched the students disperse, their laughter drifting uphill.
This was what success looked like here—not a finished product, but a process that continued without him. Roots in place, habits forming.
Jack packed his bag and headed home, carrying with him the quiet certainty that something had taken hold.
And this time, it wasn’t waiting for him to lead it.
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