Mr. Gupta exhaled and looked up at the sky. “My son called last night,” he said. “Not a WhatsApp forward. A video call. He was crying. He said, ‘Papa, I forgot to wish you for Guru Purnima.’ He asked for my blessing. I thought he was drunk. But he was not. He was just awake.” It was happening everywhere. The helplessness these parents had worn like a heavy coat was lifting. For years they had watched their children chase the mirage of the West: individualism, boundaries, space. They had heard retorts like “You are toxic” or “You do not understand mental health.” They had retreated into silence, lighting diyas in quiet corners, asking not for wealth but for the return of their children’s souls. And now, it seemed, God was listening. Shukla Master walked into the circle. He was not surprised. “The fever is breaking,” he said, taking a sip of tea. “What fever?” Mrs. Taneja asked. “The fever of I,” Shukla Master replied. “A virus told our children they are separate from us, separate from the world. It made them sick. Anxiety, loneliness, numbness. They tried to cure it with money, parties, pills. But the only cure for the sickness of the branch is to reconnect with the root.”