End of tale.
He stood up, shaking the dust from his dhoti. “Now go home. And check your shadows before you sleep. If they are pointing the wrong way… come find me tomorrow.”
The children gasped. An old woman chuckled, knowing what came next.
“That didn’t really happen!” shouted a boy.
The village children would gather at dusk under the ancient banyan tree, its roots like coiled pythons. The oil lamp would flicker. The betel-nut would crack. And Bhramar would begin.
The old man cast no shadow at all.