The horse cart moved slowly down the dusty road near Muttom, its wooden wheels creaking under the weight of Kochu Kunju Channar, the once-mighty patriarch of the family. The air was still, and the sun hung low, casting long shadows on the path.

“Stop the cart,” a voice commanded from ahead.

Sankaran, the driver, pulled the reins and brought the cart to a halt. Standing in the middle of the road was a figure Sankaran recognized immediately—Sreedharan.

“Why are you blocking the way, Sreedharan?” Sankaran asked hesitantly.

“Step aside, Moopan. This is not about you,” Sreedharan replied firmly, his eyes fixed on the old man seated in the cart.

“What is the meaning of this?” thundered Kochu Kunju Channar, leaning forward. “Do you know who you are speaking to?”

Sreedharan didn’t flinch. “I know exactly who you are. Do you remember me, Kochu Kunju Channar?”

The old man squinted, his gaze sharpening. “Of course, I remember. The insolent boy I threw out of my car years ago. What of it?”

Sreedharan smiled faintly. “That day, you taught me humiliation. Today, I return the lesson.”

Before Kochu Kunju Channar could react, two men stepped out from the shadows—Gopala Kurup and Ramakrishna Kurup. They approached the cart swiftly, their movements deliberate.

“What are you doing?” shouted Kochu Kunju Channar, struggling to rise.

“Stay seated, old man,” Gopala Kurup said coldly. “It’ll be easier for you.”

The men seized the reins, and with one swift motion, they cut the harness, sending the startled horse galloping away. The cart rocked violently as they grabbed the old man and dragged him out.

“Unhand me!” Kochu Kunju Channar roared, flailing against their grip.

But Sreedharan stepped closer, his voice calm but steely. “Did you unhand me when you threw me out of the car, calling me names? Did you spare me the humiliation in front of my friends?”

“That was years ago!” Kochu Kunju Channar spat. “A lesson you deserved!”

“And this,” Sreedharan said, his eyes narrowing, “is a lesson you deserve.”

With a forceful shove, the old man fell to the ground, dust rising around him. The once-proud patriarch lay sprawled on the dirt, his cries of protest muffled by the laughter of the men around him.

Sreedharan turned to leave, his voice ringing out one last time. “Pride has a way of breaking, Kochu Kunju Channar. Remember that.”

The cart stood empty on the road as the men walked away, leaving the old man to gather himself under the weight of his own downfall.