Swaminathan stretched lazily under the banyan tree, watching a slow trickle of afternoon sunlight filter through its dense leaves. The marketplace across the street hummed with life—vendors shouting over one another, bullock carts trundling along the dusty roads, and the occasional cycle bell ringing in protest. The smell of roasting peanuts drifted through the air, mingling with the earthy scent of Malgudi after a light drizzle.

But Swami wasn’t thinking about the town’s lively bustle. He had arithmetic homework waiting at home, and his father’s stern voice still echoed in his mind: “No excuses, Swami. I expect it done before dinner.” He sighed, kicking a small stone into the road. He could hear his friends laughing somewhere behind him, playing cricket in the narrow lanes. The thought of numbers and sums weighed heavy on his mind, making the world outside seem even more tempting.

The street dog, Tiger, sauntered toward him, tail wagging. “You have no homework to do, do you?” Swami muttered, scratching its ears. Tiger responded with an enthusiastic bark, making a passing shopkeeper chuckle.

“Swaminathan! Come home at once,” his father’s voice boomed from the verandah. Swami winced. He stood up reluctantly, giving Tiger one last pat before trudging home, where ink-stained notebooks and difficult numbers awaited him.