Vikram's Pov
The early morning sun had barely cleared the sprawling boundary walls of the Rampur haveli when I returned from the temple, yet the grand estate was already humming with relentless, exhausting life. The peaceful serenity that usually greeted the dawn was shattered.
Men were scurrying in and out of the main courtyard, burdened with heavy files, dog-eared registers, and thick bundles of land records. Near the outer veranda, two weathered village elders stood in quiet consultation, waiting to drag me into a bitter irrigation dispute.
My election coordinator had already flashed my phone screen four times with missed calls, a delegation of farmers from eastern Rampur was pacing anxiously to demand answers about inflated fertilizer prices, and a frustrated local had been sitting on the stone bench since seven in the morning because his land boundaries had been inexplicably redrawn in the latest government registry.
This was my reality.
Being the Sarpanch of Rampur was never about sinking into a plush leather chair and casually barking orders at least, not to a man like me.
It meant waking up to twenty distinct crises that miraculously multiplied into thirty by the time the afternoon sun hit its peak. And now, with the state assembly elections looming menacingly on the horizon, every single friction point had amplified tenfold.
Every single meeting carried the weight of a potential defeat. Every village was a battleground. Every promise was a razor-thin tightrope. People were scrutinizing my every move with hawk-like precision.
My family expected me to contest, my over-zealous supporters were already prematurely celebrating an inevitable landslide and the party high command back in the capital was waiting for final clearance on ticket distribution.
I should have been mapping out booth committees, refining campaign strategies, calculating caste equations, addressing agrarian woes, or planning better water supply channels for the drought-prone wards.
Instead...
I had spent half the Suv ride home mentally replaying an interaction with a stubborn twenty year old girl who stubbornly refused to accord me the basic courtesy of calling me Vikram ji.
Stepping into my private study, I slammed the heavy teakwood door shut, locking the chaos of the courtyard outside.
"Pagal kar degi ye ladki." (This girl is going to drive me insane.)
I tossed my heavy phone onto the broad teak desk and unbuckled my silver watch with a sharp flick of my wrist. Her face instantly materialized behind my eyelids.
A simple white cotton suit. A light blue dupatta fluttering against her shoulders. A long, dark braid trailing down her back. Zero ornaments not even a trace of kajal framing those expressive eyes and yet she was breathtaking, ridiculously, effortlessly beautiful.
Then came the memory of her words, echoing like a silent challenge:
Hum dono ki duniya alag hai. (Our worlds are different.)
Leaning my hip against the edge of the polished desk, I stared blankly out the window. What on earth had actually transpired in her past back in Devgarh? Her hesitation wasn't the standard, coy shyness of a village maiden flattered by the attention of a powerful man.
There was a yawning chasm between a girl blushing because a man found her attractive and a girl consciously bricking up her defenses because she had learned the hard way what happened when powerful predators crossed into her life.
Gauri was doing the latter of that, I was certain.
She had maintained absolute decorum at the temple. Not once had she spoken out of turn, nor had she exhibited an ounce of arrogance.
In fact, she had gone out of her way to let me down gently, softening her rejection of my clumsy friendship offer so I wouldn't take offense. That single detail spoke volumes about her character. She wasn't rejecting me as a person, she was running away from the heavy baggage she believed came tethered to a man like me.
Wealth, dominance, family legacy, a thakur household.
Why? What shadows was she hiding from?
Pulling my executive chair back, I dropped heavily into it. A towering stack of election dossiers sat squarely in my line of sight. I forced my hand outward, flipped open the first file, and tried to focus.
Rampur Assembly Constituency — Preliminary Campaign Assessment.
I forced my eyes across the first line. Then the second. Then
"Aapka din shubh ho, Thakur ji."
My jaw clenched so hard a muscle twitched in my cheek. I snapped my head up from the papers. No. Focus on the work.
I forced my gaze down again.
Priority villages for voter outreach
"Hum kab dost bane bhala?"
With a frustrated groan, I slammed the file shut.
"Wah, Vikram," I muttered sarcastically to the empty room. "Bahut badhiya. Election sar par hai aur tumhein ek ladki ke 'Thakur ji' se fursat nahi mil rahi." (Wonderful, Vikram. Excellent. The election is hanging over your head and you can't even get a twenty-year-old girl's 'Thakur ji' out of your head.)
Before I could reach for another folder, a sharp rap echoed at the door.
(Come in.)
My personal secretary, Mahesh, pushed the door open, gingerly balancing yet another tower of files in his arms. I stared at the incoming paperwork with sheer disbelief.
"Ye kya hai?" (What's this?)
"Aaj ke applications hain, Thakur sahab." (These are today's grievances and applications, Thakur sahab.)
I glanced from the mountain of paper already cluttering my desk to the fresh avalanche Mahesh was hauling in.
"Rampur ki aadhi janta ne aaj hi samasya dene ka faisla kiya hai kya?" (Has half of Rampur decided to dump its life problems on my desk today alone?)
Mahesh offered a tight, diplomatic smile, clearly trying to suppress his amusement.
"Election nazdeek hai, Thakur sahab. Sabko lagta hai abhi kaam jaldi hoga." (The election is right around the corner, Thakur sahab. Everyone thinks government machinery moves faster when votes are on the line.)
"Kaam election ke pehle bhi hota tha." (Things got done before the election fever started too.)
"Ji." Mahesh carefully offloaded the stack, treating the papers like fragile glass. "Das baje block office ke log aa rahe hain. Gyarah baje kisan samiti ki meeting hai. Dopahar mein party se phone aayega. Shaam ko Rampur ke pashchimi hisse mein chaupal—" ("Officials from the block office are arriving at ten o'clock. The farmers' committee meeting is at eleven. A call from the party is expected in the afternoon. In the evening, a chaupal in the western part of Rampur—")
The sudden, sharp vibration of my phone cut him off mid-sentence.
My hand shot toward the device instantly. Mahesh froze, mid-stride.
I picked it up, my eyes darting across the screen. It was just a notification. Not Gauri. My features instantly flattened with disappointment.
Noticing the shift, Mahesh carefully cleared his throat, maintaining a neutral expression.
"Kya?" I snapped.
"Kuch nahi, Thakur sahab." (Nothing)
"Toh dekh kya rahe ho?" (Then what are you staring at?)
"Kuch bhi nahi." Mahesh wisely dropped his gaze to the leather-bound diary in his hands.
A deep frown etched itself across my forehead. Since when had I devolved into a lovesick teenager, hovering over a glowing rectangle like an idiot waiting for a text? It was humiliating. I forcefully flipped the phone face down on the desk.
"Aage bolo." (Continue.)
Mahesh droned on through the remainder of the afternoon schedule. I listened or at least pretended to until I finally waved the secretary out of the room.
The microsecond the door clicked shut, my hand reached for the phone again. Nothing. Dead silence.
What on earth was I even expecting? Hii Vikram ji, aaj se hum dost? I almost laughed out loud at the absurdity of the mental image. That proud, stubborn girl would probably rather throw her phone into a well than send a text like that.
Suddenly, the phone shrilled with a real ringtone. Recognizing the caller ID instantly, I snatched it up. My momentary amusement evaporated, replaced by cold alertness. It was the private investigator I had deployed the moment I left the temple grounds.
"Haan."
"Thakur sahab, jo jaankari aapne maangi thi..." (Thakur sahab, the information you requested about that girl...)
I straightened in my chair, my instincts sharpening. Already?
"Mil gayi?" (You got it?)
"Ji. Kaafi kuch mil gaya hai. Devgarh mein purane logon se bhi baat hui. Haveli ke kuch naukaron se bhi bina naam liye pata karwaya." (Yes, sir. We managed to unearth quite a bit. Had a chat with old-timers in Devgarh and discreetly probed a few trusted domestic hands at the haveli without raising any red flags.)
My gaze narrowed. "Kisi ko shak toh nahi hua?" (Nobody got suspicious, right?)
"Nahi, Thakur sahab."
Good. The absolute last thing I needed was malicious village gossip filtering back to Gauri's father that the Sarpanch of Rampur was running background checks on his daughter.
"Bolo." (Tell me everything.)
"Main details bhej raha hoon. Basic records bhi hain aur jo local information mili hai woh bhi." (I'm transmitting the dossier now. It covers official registry entries as well as the ground-level whispers we gathered from the estate staff.)
A soft beep signaled an incoming encrypted document.
"Theek hai."
"Ek-do baatein thodi... personal hain."( "A couple of things are a bit... personal.")
My brow furrowed. "Kaisi personal?" (Personal in what sense?)
"Aap dekh lijiye. Agar aur detail chahiye toh bataiyega." (Just read through the file, Thakur sahab. If you need me to dig deeper into any specific angle, let me know.)
The line went dead.
For a long, agonizing heartbeat, I simply stared at the notification banner glowing on my screen. A strange, heavy dread pooled in my stomach the distinct sensation that I was about to unlock a door I wouldn't ever be able to shut again.
With a slow exhale, I tapped the screen. The document unfurled, neatly organized.
At the very top, bold and stark:
GAURI KUMARI
My eyes locked onto her name, tracing the letters for several seconds before I forced myself to scroll down to the hard data.
Name: Gauri Kumari
Age: 20 years
Twenty.
I already knew that, of course. Yet, seeing the numeric reality stamped in official records made me pause.
Ten years. There was a glaring, undeniable decade of separation between our lives. I was thirty. She was twenty. Slowly, thoughtfully, I rubbed my thumb against my lower lip. It wasn't as though the age gap had escaped my notice, every interaction shouted it.
There was an unfiltered, raw youthfulness to Gauri the way her expressions betrayed her thoughts before she could slam the mental shutters down, the way a stray compliment sent a sudden flush across her cheeks, the way she took offense at minor slights and immediately jumped into a fiery debate, the way she treated local deities like personal acquaintances holding up her daily commute.
A quiet smile touched the corners of my mouth. "Bacchi hi ho tum toh." (You're practically still a kid.)
I instantly checked myself, shaking my head.
No. Not a child. Young Woman, yes.
Sheltered by circumstance, perhaps. But profoundly mature when it mattered. The temple conversation had proved she possessed more emotional intelligence than half the village council combined.
I scrolled further down.
Education: B.A. Final Year — English Honours
My eyebrows shot up toward my hairline in genuine surprise. English Honours? For some inexplicable reason, I wouldn't have pegged her for a literature student. Not because she lacked the intellect, but because whenever she stood before me, she spoke in that soft, grounded village Hindi, steeped in traditional grace I had never pictured her buried under thick volumes of British poetry or Shakespearean prose.
A low chuckle rumbled in my chest. "Toh Gauri Kumari angrezi bhi padhti hain." (So Gauri Kumari reads English literature as well.)
The thought sparked a sudden, mischievous amusement. Someday soon, I ought to switch mid conversation and address her purely in English just to watch her feathers ruffle in irritation. Knowing her temperament, she would probably glare at me and snap that I shouldn't show off my education.
My eyes tracked downward.
Father: Raghunath Kumar Prasad
Occupation: Farmer / Agricultural Supervisor
(Matches existing intelligence.)
Mother: Saraswati Devi
And then, my thumb stopped scrolling dead in its tracks.
Guardian: Bade Thakur Ranvijay Pratap Singh, Devgarh
I froze. The air in the room suddenly felt thin. I re-read the line once, twice, three times.
Guardian.
Not a casual employer. Not a distant family acquaintance. Not simply the feudal landlord whose vast agricultural acreage Raghunath managed. Guardian.
"Guardian?" I muttered under my breath, the syllables tasting foreign on my tongue. My eyebrows crashed together. That was highly irregular. In rural hierarchies, landlords didn't formally register themselves as legal or social guardians of their farm manager's children unless there was a deeply profound, unusual backstory binding the families together.
I swiped down again.
Current residence: Estate-owned property, Rampur, belonging to the Devgarh Thakur family.
I leaned back, my spine sinking deep into the leather. Ah. There it was. Another loose thread that had been nagging at the back of my mind. The house she lived in. I knew that property well; everyone in Rampur knew it. It wasn't some dilapidated laborer's shed tucked away in the mud-brick quarters near the fields. It was a well-constructed, sturdy brick house owned outright by the Devgarh estate. It wasn't a haveli, true, but it was miles ahead of what any ordinary farm worker's family was ever allotted. Why? Why would a standard agrarian manager's household be gifted such premium quarters? If Raghunath's role was strictly supervisory, the estate had plenty of modest, run-of-the-mill housing. Why this specific place? And more importantly, why was Ranvijay Pratap Singh officially stamped as her guardian?
I kept reading.
Former residence: Devgarh — residential quarters situated immediately adjacent to the main Devgarh Thakur Haveli estate boundary.
My frown deepened into a hard line. Right beside the haveli itself. They hadn't just lived somewhere in Devgarh. they had lived practically inside the lion's den, under the literal shadow of the Thakur family's massive estate walls, for years.
I scrolled deeper. A new sub-heading caught my eye.
BACKGROUND OF RELATIONSHIP WITH DEVGARH THAKUR FAMILY
I leaned forward, resting my elbows squarely on the desk.
Approximately a decade ago, Bade Thakur Ranvijay Pratap Singh had been ambushed and violently attacked by a rival faction while returning from agricultural lands on the outskirts of Devgarh.
Raghunath Kumar Prasad had stepped into the middle of the bloodbath.
My eyes scanned the detailed paragraph. It had been a brutal skirmish involving multiple armed men. Raghunath had plunged into the fray alongside Ranvijay's personal guards, taking a massive, calculated risk to shield his employer. One account detailed how Raghunath had physically thrown himself over Ranvijay when an assassin lunged from behind with a sickle. Another report noted that Raghunath had sustained severe stab wounds himself during the melee.
Regardless of the conflicting eyewitness exaggerations, the core truth remained carved in stone: Raghunath Prasad had saved Ranvijay Pratap Singh's life.
I slowly exhaled.
The puzzle pieces snapped violently into place. That single, bloody act explained everything. A feudal lord like Ranvijay couldn't forget a life-debt of that magnitude. It tied their destinies together in ways ordinary employment never could.
I suddenly recalled Ranvijay's warm, familiar demeanor at Pihu's birthday celebration. The affectionate cadence in his voice when he spoke to Gauri. The heavy, unyielding authority with which he commanded her safety. It wasn't charity. It was fierce, unadulterated gratitude. A patriarch repaying a debt of blood through total protection.
I kept reading.
In the wake of that near-fatal incident, Ranvijay had personally underwritten the welfare of the Prasad family, housing secured, employment elevated, financial security guaranteed and crucially—Gauri's education.
I paused yet again. According to the internal intel, a massive share of Gauri's schooling, books, college tuition, and personal expenses had been quietly bankrolled by Ranvijay for years. Whenever major life decisions or formal documents concerning her future required a patriarch's signature, Ranvijay had stepped in right alongside her biological father. That was why his name sat on the paperwork as her guardian.
I tapped a rhythmic, hard tattoo against the teak desk with my index finger. So, if any monumental, earth-shattering matter involving Gauri were ever to arise
Not a fleeting village romance. Not casual college gossip. Not local politics.
Something permanent. Something like Marriage.
to an abrupt halt. If it ever came to that, I wouldn't just have to charm a stubborn twenty-year-old My thoughts ground girl. I would have to square off directly with Bade Thakur Ranvijay Pratap Singh.
Fascinating. Deeply, dangerously fascinating.
I flicked my finger downward to read the next block of text.
The moment my eyes scanned the following paragraph, the blood in my veins ran ice cold, and every cognitive function in my brain ground to a dead stop.
Following the violent incident ten years ago, Bade Thakur Ranvijay Pratap Singh formally proposed a matrimonial alliance between Raghunath Prasad's young daughter, Gauri Kumari, and his own biological son and primary heir, Thakur Rudranarayan Pratap Singh.
For several long, suffocating seconds, I stopped breathing.
My eyes remained glued to the glowing screen, refusing to blink, refusing to process the seismic weight of the sentence. I read it once. Then letter by letter, I read it again.
A heavy, violent heat spiked behind my ribs, and my jaw locked into a crushing grip.
"Kya?" (What?)
I shoved my chair back and stood up so sharply the heavy wood screeched across the marble floor. Gauri and Rudranarayan? A marital alliance?
My eyes snapped back to the timeline at the top of the report. Ten years ago. Gauri was twenty now. Which meant
"Dus saal ki thi?" I whispered, the words coated in utter disbelief and disgust. (She was ten years old?)
It had been an arranged childhood betrothal a feudal pact sealed between a grateful master and a loyal servant, designed to culminate in marriage once the girl reached adulthood. While such archaic arrangements weren't entirely unheard of in deeply traditional rural strongholds, the sheer realization made my stomach churn.
Gauri? Bound to Rudra?
I vividly remembered Rudranarayan from my rare visits to Devgarh. Tall, broad-shouldered, physically imposing, with a volcanic, dark temper that seemed to simmer beneath his skin even when he wasn't speaking. Ranvijay's sole heir and bloodline. Rudranarayan Pratap Singh.
I had crossed paths with him enough times to know the man's reputation. Ruthless. Possessive. Proud to a fault, with a legendary temper that brooked zero defiance. A man who treated his estate and everyone on it like personal property.
And Gauri that fragile, fiercely independent, brilliant girl who read English literature and argued with temple priests had been promised to him?
A thick, suffocating pressure radiated outward from my chest. Without thinking, I scrolled further down the text. Maybe the arrangement was ancient history. Maybe things had changed.
The next bold heading slammed into my field of vision:
CURRENT STATUS OF ALLIANCE: BROKEN
My entire body went dead still.
I leaned closer, parsing every single word with ruthless precision. The engagement and matrimonial pact were formally terminated approximately one month ago, occurring shortly before the Prasad family abruptly relocated from Devgarh to Rampur.
A colossal breath I hadn't even realized I was holding violently escaped my lungs.
Broken.
The shackles were shattered. The engagement was dead. Gauri was no longer bound to Rudra by a single thread.
I collapsed back into my chair, a slow, profound realization washing over me. The very first, utterly unfiltered thought that crossed my chaotic mind was embarrassingly, humanly simple:
She's single.
I stared blankly at the screen for a moment before a self-deprecating scoff broke past my lips. I glared at my own reflection in the darkened window.
"Wah, Vikram. Puri kahani padhne se pehle tumhein bas yahi jaan'na tha?" (Brilliant, Vikram. Before absorbing the tragic history of the girl's life, that was the primary takeaway your brain focused on, huh?)
Apparently, yes.
Yet, a darker, far more urgent question immediately clawed its way to the surface. Why had the alliance shattered? What broke a decade-old feudal pact that forced a family to pack up their entire existence and flee to a neighboring village?
My eyes devoured the subsequent lines.
The sanitized, public-facing version fed to the village gossips was neat and bloodless people had been led to believe that Bade Thakur Ranvijay himself had graciously called off the match due to shifting family dynamics, after which the Prasad family naturally sought a change of scenery in Rampur. That was the fairy-tale lie circulated to protect elite pride.
Then came the real data extracted through whispers, late-night confessions, and discreetly squeezed testimonies from long-term domestic servants inside the inner sanctum of the Devgarh Haveli.
My expression turned carved-stone serious. I began to read.
Rudranarayan had reportedly grown pathologically, suffocatingly protective of Gauri ever since their childhood betrothal was formalized.
Protective. In polite society, it sounded like a noble, chivalrous trait. But as I read on, the word mutated into something monstrous.
Rudra's protectiveness had metastasized into absolute, tyrannical control.
He despised it whenever Gauri spoke too freely or laughed too openly around other young men. He systematically policed her daily routines, her movements, her friendships, his blistering, unpredictable temper toward her had been an open, whispered secret within the haveli walls for years.
Loyal servants recounted how Gauri would instantly shrink into absolute, suffocating silence the moment Rudra's heavy boots echoed down the corridor, her vibrant spirit entirely eclipsed by sheer dread.
My grip on my phone tightened until my knuckles turned chalk-white. I kept reading, my teeth grinding audibly.
And then I hit the detonator. The exact tipping point that blew the entire facade sky-high.
A manufactured misunderstanding.
Involving Devendra Pratap Singh (Dev). Gayatri Bua's wayward, free-spirited son, Rudra's own younger cousin, and Gauri's closest confidant.
My eyes narrowed into slits of pure ice. The mere premise sounded like a pathetic joke. I had observed Dev and Gauri interact firsthand at Pihu's birthday. They bickered and bantered like bickering siblings, sharing a warm, platonic camaraderie born of growing up together in the same compound. There was not a single atom of romantic tension between them.
Yet, according to the panicked whispers of the haveli staff, a violent confrontation had erupted inside the ancestral halls.
Rudra had completely lost his grip on reality. Blinded by psychotic paranoia, he had accused Gauri of betrayal, hurling filthy insinuations about her character, tying her name to his own flesh and blood. He had interrogated her like a criminal in a courtroom.
And then my gaze stalled completely on a single line of text, the words burning themselves into my retinas.
During the height of the confrontation, Rudranarayan Pratap Singh lost all control and struck Gauri violently across the face.
Absolute, deafening silence descended upon the study.
I didn't blink. I didn't twitch a single muscle. I just stared at the glowing letters, my brain flatly rejecting the sheer barbarity of the sentence because some primal part of my soul refused to accept that a human being could commit such an act.
He slapped her.
The phone practically cracked beneath the ferocious, crushing pressure of my fingers.
"Usne... Gauri ko maara?" (He... laid a hand on Gauri?)
A wave of such violent, blinding fury surged through my veins that my vision momentarily tinted red. I surged to my feet, kicking my chair backward so hard it crashed against the wall behind me.
"How dare he?"
The English curse tore out of my throat, raw and unrestrained, before I could clamp my teeth over it. My jaw was locked so tightly my jawbone ached.
He had struck her. His own officially promised bride a young girl half his size, a brilliant student, a creature of unmatched grace who had spent ten long years enduring the invisible chains of his family's ownership.
And for what? Because his own fragile, toxic ego couldn't handle the sight of her breathing near another man, even if that man was his own cousin?
"Kaisa aadmi hai ye?" I paced behind my desk like a caged tiger, my voice low, shaking with lethal rage. "Apni hone wali biwi par apne hi bhai ko lekar shaq karta hai... aur phir uspar haath uthata hai?" (What a pathetic excuse for a man. He accuses his own future wife over his own brother out of sick insecurity... and then uses physical violence against her?)
I paced back and forth, the heavy marble floor echoing my frantic boots. An image flashed uninvited into my mind: Gauri. That delicate, expressive face. Those massive, luminous eyes wide with shock. Her soft cheeks flushing not with shyness, but with the searing humiliation of a coward's palm striking her flesh.
My fist slammed onto the wooden desk, rattling the stacked files.
I hated it. I despised the picture with every fiber of my being.
I was self-aware enough to recognize that my violent, possessive anger was utterly disproportionate for a woman I had barely spoken to four times in my life. I knew it. But right now, logic and proportion could go to hell.
There were certain sacred lines a real man simply did not cross. Anger was never an excuse for cowardly violence. Jealousy was a disease, not a justification. Possessiveness was a prison. And if the woman in question was supposedly someone you claimed to love and cherish? That made the crime a thousand times more unforgivable.
I grabbed the phone again, my eyes racing down the remaining text.
There was more to the aftermath. According to the internal accounts, the physical assault wasn't even the sole catalyst that made Bade Thakur finally sever the alliance. The incident had ripped the blindfold off the patriarch's eyes, exposing a toxic, rotting reality beneath the surface. Once Ranvijay started digging into what had really been happening behind closed doors over the past decade, he discovered that Rudra's tyrannical, abusive behavior toward Gauri wasn't an isolated accident it was a long-standing pattern.
The psychological control. The explosive temper. The low-grade, constant terror she had lived under.
Years of it, swallowed in silence.
And Bade Thakur the exact same powerful patriarch who had engineered the engagement a decade ago to honor a blood-debt had done the unthinkable. He had personally stepped in and killed the alliance.
Not because he lost respect for Raghunath. Not because Gauri was deemed unworthy. Quite the contrary.
He had terminated the match to save Gauri.
He had ripped her out of the jaws of a lifetime sentence, rescuing her from a man who had successfully beaten her down into absolute fear before they had even shared a roof as husband and wife.
I stopped pacing dead in my tracks.
The heavy, chaotic fog inside my head suddenly cleared, replaced by a devastating, crystal-clear clarity.
"Isliye..." (That's why...)
That explained every single piece of the puzzle.
That was why she was standing in Rampur now. Not because of a routine agricultural transfer. Not because her father suddenly fancied a change of scenery.
Ranvijay had deliberately, methodically engineered physical and geographical distance.
Protection. Sanctuary. Breathing room. Freedom.
All carved out for Gauri.
My thoughts violently flashed backward to our encounter earlier that very morning. Her guarded, sorrowful voice echoing near the temple steps
Bade ghar ke log kabhi-kabhi bahut aasani se kisi chhote ghar ke insaan ke kareeb aa jaate hain...Unhe baad mein apni haisiyat yaad dilayi jaati hai. (People from big, powerful houses easily walk into the lives of ordinary folk... only to later make them painfully aware of their lower status.)
I tightly shut my eyes.
Of course. Of course she viewed the world through that lens of absolute self-preservation. She had spent ten formative years of her young life trapped in the suffocating orbit of the most terrifying, powerful feudal household in the district, bound by a forced contract to an abuser.
Instead of that supreme power making her feel shielded from the harsh realities of the world, it had taught her one fundamental lesson: power meant chains, and affection came with a razor-sharp leash.
I suddenly remembered the birthday celebration at Devgarh Haveli. Gauri had looked entirely at ease among the women, chatting with Pihu, exchanging banter with Dev, showing respectful warmth to Ranvijay. But looking back with this terrifying new lens, I realized there had been a profound, chilling shift in her posture every single time Rudranarayan entered the room.
I hadn't possessed enough context to spot the red flags back then. Now? Now I saw them clearly.
It wasn't standard shyness. It was visceral, learned fear.
My eyes snapped open.
Another memory crashed into my consciousness. The temple conversation. Gauri's final, defensive wall "Hum dono ki duniya alag hai." (Our worlds are different.)
At the time, my arrogant male ego had assumed she was simply intimidated by my political standing or worried I was looking for a temporary rural distraction. But the truth was infinitely heavier. She had spent a decade being conditioned to understand that a Thakur's attention was never a gift it was a cage.
And here I was.
Another Thakur. Another wealthy, established elite holding immense local sway. Another older man aggressively pursuing her interest.
No wonder she was running for the hills. From her vantage point, she had only just managed to crawl out of one iron cage at the cost of uprooting her entire family. Why on earth would she willingly walk straight into the open door of another one?
Slowly, heavily, I walked back and slumped into my leather executive chair.
The blistering anger inside my veins hadn't vanished, but its temperature had shifted. It was no longer a wild, chaotic blaze, it was a cold, weighted resolve.
I glanced back down at Rudra's name lingering on the screen. Rudranarayan Pratap Singh.
My family and the Devgarh Thākurs shared sprawling, complex extended kinship lines. Dev's mother was technically an elder aunt to me through distant marital alliances and generations of inter marrying clans. They weren't immediate nuclear relatives, but our two powerful estates had orbited each other in social, political, and ceremonial circles for decades. Weddings, massive death feasts, state elections, land disputes our paths crossed constantly.
That was the exact reason why I had attended Pihu's birthday gala in the first place. That was why staying overnight at the Devgarh Haveli guest wing had been a standard social courtesy and that was precisely why Bade Thakur had conversed with me so candidly and warmly the following morning over tea.
I vividly remembered that morning dialogue. Bade Thakur's subtle, unmistakable validation of my political trajectory. His praise of my grassroots work in Rampur, my progressive handling of agrarian disputes, my rising stock in regional politics.
And then... a specific, loaded thread in Bade Thakur's dialogue had drifted back to me. A casual, probing remark dropped while discussing the future of the district's youth. A subtle hint touching upon marriage alliances, security, and stable roots.
My eyes narrowed into intense focus.
At that exact hour, I hadn't possessed the context to read between the lines. But now? Now it all clicked into terrifying focus.
I sat completely motionless in the silent room, my mind racing at lightspeed as a massive, consequential strategic thought began to take root.
Slowly. Dangerously. Temptingly easy.
If I wanted to take the traditional, frictionless route.
I could pick up the phone right now. I didn't need to sneak around like a lovestruck boy. I didn't need to play cat and mouse games across Instagram or navigate village rumors.
I could do it the old-fashioned, powerful way.
Properly. Respectfully. Patriarch to patriarch.
My own family elders could formally approach Devgarh Haveli. And because Ranvijay ji was legally and socially acting as Gauri's primary guardian in all major life junctures, I could bypass the local noise and speak straight to the old man.
Ranvijay already knew me intimately. He respected my administrative competence. He had praised my public track record. Our ancestral clans were intertwined. Ranvijay knew my land holdings, my political backing, my clean reputation, my financial independence. He knew I wasn't some local vagrant looking to exploit a vulnerable girl. He knew I was positioning myself for a major state assembly run.
And judging from the way Ranvijay had practically laid out the welcome mat during our breakfast at Devgarh...
He wouldn't say no.
I slowly tapped my thumbnail against the polished surface of my smartphone.
It could be that effortless. One phone call to Ranvijay ji. A formal sit-down meeting at the Devgarh estate. A calm, authoritative declaration that the Sarpanch of Rampur intended to seek Gauri's hand in marriage.
And then, I could sit back and let the clan elders grease the wheels and fast-track the alliance to completion.
In a feudal society like ours, that was the gold standard. The honorable, structured, stress-free route.
And then Gauri's stubborn, defiant face flashed across my mind's eye. Those blazing eyes locked onto mine, filled with an unyielding, fierce independence.
"Humein nahi banna." (I don't want this.)
I froze. The warm wave of smug satisfaction instantly evaporated, replaced by a sharp, icy jolt of reality.
No.
I leaned back slowly, my spine pressing hard against the leather. What catastrophic disaster would unfold if I pulled a patriarchal power move and slapped an arranged marriage proposal on her table right this second?
I didn't even need to guess. I could visualize the exact sequence of events.
Ranvijay ji would readily agree. Raghunath ji would feel deeply honored, overwhelmed by the sheer prestige of the proposal. The family elders would start exchanging sweets and matching horoscopes.
And eventually, someone would walk up to Gauri and drop the bomb.
Rampur ke Thakur ne tumhara rishta maanga hai. (The Thakur of Rampur has formally claimed your hand.)
And what would Gauri hear in those words?
Not romance. Not deep respect. Not personal choice. Not freedom.
She would hear the exact same terrifying echo she had just spent ten years trying to escape.
Another powerful Thakur has sat behind closed doors, negotiated her future like a piece of property, and decided what her life path is going to be without her ever having a say.
My jaw hardened into iron.
No. Absolutely, categorically No.
The poor girl had barely managed to claw her way out of a decade long prison sentence that had commodified her entire childhood and adolescence. She had only just tasted the intoxicating air of true autonomy, of walking to college on her own terms, of focusing on her English literature degree without a tyrant looming over her shoulder.
And if I, out of a selfish desire to lock her down quickly, immediately dragged two powerful families into the picture and threw another heavy, inescapable marriage proposal over her head... I wouldn't be her savior. I would just be a different kind of jailer.
"Nahi."
I reached out and deliberately flipped my phone screen-down against the wooden desk.
"Ye nahi karenge." (I am not going to play that game.)
For the first time since this entire chaotic obsession began, my internal compass pointed true north. The path ahead was suddenly blindingly clear.
If anything organic, real, and lasting was ever going to bloom between Gauri and me, she was going to know about it, process it, and accept it long before Ranvijay ji ever caught wind of it.
Before her father was brought into the loop. Before my mother started planning wedding dates. Before the gossiping elders of Rampur and Devgarh could sniff out a whiff of scandal.
Her life wasn't a strategic land corridor or a political treaty to be brokered between powerful male heads of households. She had suffered enough collateral damage from men who believed they owned the narrative of her existence.
I rubbed my jaw thoughtfully, a deep, abiding respect warring with the heat in my chest.
"Theek hai, Gauri Kumari." (Alright, Gauri Kumari.)
A soft, genuine smile finally touched my lips free of ego, devoid of feudal entitlement.
"Samay chahiye na?" (You need time to breathe, don't you?)
Fine. She could have all the time she required.
Weeks. Months. However many seasons it took to melt away the defensive armor she had painstakingly built around her heart. Until the day she walked up to me of her own free will and signaled that she wanted something more, I wouldn't initiate a single formal family move.
Even if it meant exercising a level of patience that felt entirely foreign to my aggressive, results driven nature. Even if Ranvijay ji would grant immediate blessing tomorrow morning. Even if Raghunath ji would sign off on the spot.
None of those external permissions meant a damn thing if Gauri herself wasn't a willing, fearless participant in the equation.
I reached out, picked up my phone one last time, and tapped open her basic profile data.
Twenty years old. Final-year undergraduate. An entire universe of possibilities stretching out before her.
She had just clawed back her fundamental human right to experience life, to breathe, to laugh, to study, without some arrogant man breathing down her neck and stamping his ownership across her forehead.
And what had my brilliant, impulsive male brain done? Met her four times on dusty village roads and immediately started calculating wedding venues.
I let out a short, self-deprecating laugh, shaking my head at my own sheer absurdity.
"Vikram, sambhal ja." (Vikram, get a grip on yourself, man.)
This ordinary village girl with her plain white suit and unadorned braids was genuinely dismantling my entire psyche piece by piece.
And yet...
Even now, as I stared at the ceiling, the terrifying, absolute weight of the word marriage didn't feel wrong, heavy, or misplaced when I mentally tied it to her name.
That single, unfiltered realization made my smile gently fade into solemn awe.
I wasn't an ascetic saint residing in a Himalayan cave. I was a thirty-year-old man with a pulse, a history, and normal desires. I had crossed paths with plenty of striking, sophisticated women across my life and political circles. But never once had I found myself obsessively decoding a girl's family trauma after a mere handful of casual meetings.
Never once had I cared whether an elusive college student bothered to read let alone reply to a digital message on an app and I certainly had never sat isolated in the dead of winter election season, agonizing over whether moving too fast might trigger a trauma response in a girl who had survived a toxic betrothal.
What cosmic spell was this girl casting over me?
I tilted my head back, staring up at the intricate wooden rafters of my study.
"Mahadev, subah mazaak mein bola tha ki aapne bheja hai use..." I muttered under my breath, a wry, helpless grin touching my lips. "Aapne serious toh nahi le liya?" (Mahadev, this morning I jokingly told you that you sent her my way... you didn't actually take that prayer literally, did you?)
Naturally, the rafters offered no divine commentary.
Lowering my gaze, I scrolled to the bottom of the encrypted intelligence file to check the remaining loose footnotes.
Gauri's academic trajectory had been remarkably consistent throughout her school years quiet, focused, disciplined, rarely drawing unnecessary drama, and fiercely protective of her small circle. Her bond with Pihu wasn't a superficial friendship of convenience born of elite proximity, they had been thick as thieves through childhood and adolescence. That explained why Gauri moved through the lavish corridors of the Devgarh Haveli with a quiet, unbothered familiarity. Pihu wasn't just some rich landlord's daughter to her, she was a sisterly anchor.
And Dev? Dev had been running around those same mud tracks and courtyards with Gauri since they were in primary school.
The historical reality made Rudranarayan's explosive, insecure jealousy look even more pathetic, grotesque, and profoundly unjustified. If those three had literally grown up side by side in the same compound, Rudra should have understood Gauri's innocent, platonic loyalty better than anyone alive.
Instead, his toxic paranoia had poisoned the well, culminating in physical violence.
My jaw tightened into a hard knot of pure contempt.
"Chutiya Saala."
What kind of monumental idiot possessed a rare, brilliant gem like Gauri promised to him for a decade, and through sheer arrogance, insecurity, and brutality, managed to shatter it completely?
I had known her for a fraction of a month across four brief encounters, and even through her walls of self-preservation, I could see that she was almost agonizingly mindful of boundaries, decorum, and self-respect.
The girl wouldn't even use my first name without an honorific because she was terrified of overstepping invisible social lines. She had stared at my digital footprint on Instagram and actively blocked her own impulses from replying because she was paralyzed by the ghost of socio-economic disparity.
And Rudra had looked at that girl and suspected her integrity?
I shook my head in slow, profound disgust.
His loss.
The thought dropped into my mind with the force of an anvil. Clean, crisp, and absolute.
And this time, I didn't bother censoring myself. His loss, entirely.
One final lingering question remained hanging in the ether. Did Gauri have any inkling that I had dug up the buried skeletons of her past? Obviously not. I had never dropped a single hint about Devgarh's dark history, and she certainly hadn't volunteered her trauma.
Good. Let it stay buried in the dark where it belonged. I had zero intention of ever weaponizing her past against her, or making her feel naked and exposed.
A sharp, double knock broke the heavy silence of the study.
"Come in."
Mahesh pushed the door open tentatively, keeping a cautious, respectful distance. "Thakur sahab, kisan samiti ke log aa gaye hain. Baahar intezaar kar rahe hain." (Thakur sahab, the leaders of the farmers' committee have arrived and are waiting out in the veranda.)
I cast a quick, incredulous glance at the antique grandfather clock ticking in the corner. Eleven already? Had I really spent the entire morning locked in a psychological abyss reading about Gauri's life history?
"Bithao. Paanch minute mein aata hoon." (Seat them inside. Tell them I'll be out in five minutes flat.)
"Ji, Thakur sahab." Mahesh turned smartly on his heel toward the exit.
"Mahesh."
The secretary froze mid-step, his shoulders instantly tensing. "Ji?"
"Aaj shaam wali election rally ka route clear hai na?" (Is the route for this evening's election rally fully cleared and secured?)
"Ji, bilkul. Saat baje ka time set hai." (Yes, absolutely locked down. Set for seven sharp.)
"Aur kal?"
Mahesh instinctively flipped open the leather diary tucked under his arm. "Kal subah block committee ke saath review meeting hai. Dopahar mein teen gaon ke sarpanch milne aa rahe hain. Aur shaam ko party district president ke saath dinner conference hai—"("There is a review meeting with the block committee tomorrow morning. In the afternoon, the sarpanchs of three villages are coming to meet me. And in the evening, there is a dinner conference with the party's district president—")
I pinched the bridge of my nose, feeling a familiar throbbing headache build behind my temples. "Aur parson?"
Mahesh slowly lifted his head, blinking in sheer exhaustion. "Parson ka bhi schedule bataun, Thakur sahab?"( "Shall I tell you the schedule for the day after tomorrow as well, Thakur Sahib?")
I fixed him with a flat, deadpan stare. "Nahi, apni kundli padhwane ke liye nahi pooch raha hoon." (No, I'm not asking you to read my horoscope for the coming week.)
Mahesh instantly dropped his eyes, biting the inside of his cheek to suppress a nervous swallow. "Ji, samajh gaya. Bata raha hoon."( "Yes, I understand. I'm telling you.")
I almost let out a dry laugh. The poor secretary was running on fumes.
Mahesh rapidly flipped another page. "Parson subah Rampur higher secondary school ka annual function hai, uske baad—"("The Rampur Higher Secondary School's annual function is the day after tomorrow morning; after that—")
Suddenly, the screen of the phone lying face-down on the desk flashed brightly, emitting a soft, distinct chime as a new notification broke through.
My eyes snapped toward the device like a magnetic pull.
Mahesh cut himself off mid-sentence, his voice dying in his throat.
I slowly turned my gaze from the phone to Mahesh. Mahesh locked eyes with me for a fraction of a second, broke out into a cold sweat, and looked away with lightning speed.
Then, with agonizing caution, Mahesh whispered:
"Gauri ji ka message hai kya, Thakur sahab?"( "Is that a message from Gauri-ji, Thakur Sahib?")
My head snapped up, my eyes narrowing into twin daggers. Silence dropped like a guillotine.
All the color instantly drained from Mahesh's face, leaving him looking like a ghost. He took a half-step backward toward the door. "K-kuch nahi. Maine kuch nahi bola."( "N-nothing. I didn't say anything.")
"Uska naam kaise pata tujhe?" My voice dropped an octave, dangerously low. (How do you even know that name?)
"Thakur sahab, woh... woh..." Mahesh stammered, his composure completely shattering.
"Mahesh."
"Instagram!" Mahesh blurted out in a blind panic, throwing his hands up in surrender. "Instagram se! Aap pure duniya mein sirf ek hi public account follow karte hain! Bacha-bacha jaanta hai ki aapki following list mein kaun hai!"( "From Instagram! You follow only one public account in the entire world! Everyone knows exactly who is on your following list!")
I stared at the terrified secretary in stunned silence.
Right.
Damn it. Instagram. In a sleepy rural constituency like Rampur, a high-profile political figure following a single twenty year old girl from Devgarh wasn't a subtle digital footprint it was a glaring neon billboard flashing across the entire district.
I pinched my eyes shut, exhaling a long, defeated breath.
"Bahar jao." (Get out of my sight.)
"Ji, Thakur sahab!"
Mahesh didn't just walk out; he practically sprinted through the doorway, pulling the heavy wood shut behind him with a soft click.
I sat alone in the quiet study, staring blankly at the closed door before slowly dragging both palms down my face.
Brilliant. Absolutely magnificent.
By the end of the week, every single political opponent, local shopkeeper, and village gossip in a fifty-kilometer radius was going to know that the Rampur Sarpanch had his sights set on Gauri Kumari long before Gauri herself had even agreed to share a cup of tea with me as a friend.
"Ek kaam kar, Vikram. Election ladna band kar de. Seedha Gauri Kumari ke ghar ke bahar ek kursi lagakar baith ja." (Do yourself a favor, Vikram. Forget the assembly election entirely. Just drag a plastic chair outside Gauri Kumari's front door and set up camp there permanently.)
With a heavy sigh, I forced my hands down and reached for the neglected stack of agrarian paperwork concerning the farmers' delegation waiting outside.
Five minutes. I forced myself to reset. I would lock away the chaos of my personal life and focus on reality for five solid minutes.
I flipped open the file.
Canal water allocation and silt clearance—
My brain instantly hijacked the text, replacing the official bureaucratic jargon with a rogue thought:
Gauri Kumari.
I forced my eyes down to the next line.
Crop damage compensation claims for Ward No. 4—
Gauri Kumari.
With a frustrated huff, I squeezed my eyes shut, pressing my fingers against my temples.
No. Enough. Work is work.
For the next three brutal hours, I forced myself to do exactly that channeling every ounce of my legendary administrative focus into the endless stream of human grievances piling up on my desk. And thankfully, once I stepped out onto the outer veranda and sat face-to-face with the rugged, weathered farmers of Rampur, the real world reclaimed me.
The personal haze receded. The work took over.
They tore through complex issues: canal water distribution schedules, a chronically broken tube-well motor in the northern sector, pending drought relief compensation files, two bitterly contested land boundary disputes threatening village peace, and bureaucratic red tape holding up government procurement funds.
Just as the sun began its steep descent, my local campaign managers and booth-level coordinators arrived in a convoy of dusty white SUVs. Maps of the constituency were unrolled across the large outdoor wooden table. Village boundaries were highlighted in fluorescent markers. Key influential families and caste dynamics were dissected down to the last vote. Numbers. Swing blocks. Influential local strongmen. Booth workers.
Everything that should have anchored my total mental focus from the very first hour of dawn.
By the time late afternoon melted into a hazy golden dusk, I had successfully managed a near-impossible feat: I had gone a full several hours without letting Gauri's face cross my mind.
Almost.
Just as the final strategy meeting was breaking up, one of the younger local campaign workers casually tossed his smartphone onto the edge of the table to check a digital route map.
The screen instantly flashed alive with a fresh notification.
An Instagram alert.
And in a microsecond flash of red across the screen
A red saree.
I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek, cursing silently in the dark corners of my mind. Of course. There was no escaping her ghost today.
The strategy session officially wrapped up at five-thirty in the evening. Exhausted, my shoulders burning from hours of relentless multitasking, I retreated back into the quiet sanctuary of my private study. I unbuttoned the top two buttons of my crisp linen kurta, dragged off my heavy leather shoes, and collapsed heavily into the deep leather executive chair.
For a long, uninterrupted stretch, I simply stared straight ahead at nothing in particular.
Thirty years old. Elected Sarpanch of a massive rural belt. Hundreds of acres of ancestral agricultural land and businesses to oversee. A high-stakes state assembly election breathing down my neck. Thousands of ordinary villagers depending on my leadership for their daily survival.
And what was my crowning personal achievement of the entire week?
Getting gracefully, politely rejected from basic friendship by a twenty-year-old English Honours undergraduate who read poetry and refused to call me by my first name.
I shook my head slowly, a helpless, lopsided smile breaking across my tired face as the quiet hum of the evening settled over the haveli.
The heavy teak desk in my private study usually held the complete, unyielding structure of my world: voter demographics, agrarian relief distributions, regional party directives, and boundary dispute maps. But today, the impressive authority of my position as the Sarpanch of Rampur meant absolute nonsense to me. The quiet evening sunlight stretched in golden, lazy hues across the polished marble floor, yet my attention was locked firmly onto the glowing screen in my palm.
A deep, genuine laugh rumbled out of my chest a sound so rare and unbidden in this silent room that it almost startled me.
"Kya haal bana diya hai tumne, Gauri Kumari." (Look what you've done to me, Gauri Kumari.)
My gaze fell on the heavy silver wristwatch resting near the stack of pending files. I shouldn't be sitting here like a lovesick adolescent. I had an overwhelming mountain of actual work demanding my immediate focus. Several urgent calls from district representatives were currently sitting unanswered on my phone, my election coordinator was waiting on edge for me to greenlight the modified campaign route, and I had solemnly promised myself to review tomorrow's village outreach schedule before dusk.
So, naturally... I ignored every single official duty and swiped open Instagram instead.
Her handle materialized on my search bar before my thumb had even completed the first three letters. I tapped it open. Three thousand plus followers now. Her follower count had visibly surged again since yesterday afternoon, and I found myself frowning deeply at the screen. I knew with frustrating certainty why her digital presence was suddenly exploding. My official account's following list still contained precisely one name: hers. In a gossipy, hyper-vigilant constituency like Rampur, people were naturally losing their minds trying to figure out who the mystery girl was that Vikram Aditya Singh had abruptly chosen to acknowledge.
Perhaps I should have weighed the political and social fallout before blindly tapping that follow button on a whim. But it was far too late for regret now.
My eyes drifted down her grid. She barely posted anything, preserving a quiet, guarded privacy that matched her real-world demeanor. But then my thumb froze over a specific photograph the one in the striking red saree from Pihu's grand birthday gala at the Devgarh estate. I tapped the thumbnail, and as the image expanded to fill the entire screen, the four walls of my Rampur study instantly dissolved, dragging me helpless and breathless back to Devgarh.
She had been running. That was the very first detail that roared back into my consciousness. She had been embroiled in some childish, playful squabble with Dev, her absolute focus directed behind her shoulder rather than looking at where her feet were landing. And then she had slipped on the slick stone tiles.
I had barely processed the sudden movement before her momentum launched her directly against me. My arms had moved on pure instinct, catching her around the waist to break her fall before she hit the ground. Her body had crashed flush against mine, her light floral scent completely overwhelming my senses. In that breathless fraction of a second, those magnificent, expressive eyes flew upward to meet mine a whirlwind of sheer shock, burning embarrassment, and sudden, panicked recognition.
You.
I remembered every millimeter of her expression. I remembered the vivid red fabric of her saree, the soft dark waves of her unpinned hair cascading over my wrists, and the delicious crimson flush that had rapidly consumed her cheeks the second she realized precisely whose arms were holding her up.
And I remembered the singular, devastating thought that had struck me in that breathless silence Beautiful. Not merely pretty. Not just casually attractive. Beautiful unreasonably, dangerously so.
Then, predictable as ever, she had scrambled to break away the moment her feet regained their footing. Apparently, executing a rapid retreat from my presence had become her absolute favorite sport from the very second our paths first crossed.
Returning to the present moment, I stared down at the frozen photograph on my phone. My thumb hovered inches above the glass. I had already liked the picture days ago a single tap that had apparently generated enough local scandal to last a month. I studied her features intently. Twenty years old. English Honours student. A humble farmer's daughter. Formerly promised to the formidable Rudranarayan Pratap Singh. Free for barely thirty days.
No wonder she carried herself with such impenetrable, cautious armor. No wonder she flinched at the mere prospect of another powerful Thakur stepping uninvited into her life to dictate her choices.
I understood it now far better than I had during our tense conversation near the temple steps this morning.
Leaning back deep into the plush leather of my executive chair, I let out a long, quiet sigh. "Theek hai." (Alright.)
My voice was barely a whisper in the darkening room. "Hum tumhari zindagi ka agla faisla bankar nahi aayenge." (I won't enter your life as the next decision made for you.)
My eyes remained locked onto her soft smile in the photograph. "Rishta nahi bhejenge." (I won't send a marriage proposal.)
Not until she genuinely wanted it. Not until she had a fair chance to know the man behind the political title. Not until she could look into my eyes without seeing only the intimidating weight of a powerful surname.
A slow, wry smile touched my lips at the sheer irony of my self-imposed restraint. But that resolve immediately highlighted my primary, glaring problem: the girl wouldn't even agree to basic acquaintance, let alone friendship.
"Pehle dosti toh karni padegi." (First, I'll have to become your friend.)
How on earth was I supposed to achieve that with a girl who ran away the moment I cleared my throat? Flowers? Absolutely out of the question; her fierce pride would dictate throwing them straight back into my face. Send another casual Instagram message? She was currently leaving my first one to gather digital dust. Pick up the phone and call her directly? I possessed her contact details, true, but she had never given me explicit permission to invade her personal phone for casual banter. Show up unannounced at her family's residence in Rampur? That would be a complete disaster; she would probably assume I had arrived with an official wedding procession to claim her.
I pressed two fingers against my forehead, massaging the dull ache forming between my brows. "Kuch toh sochna padega, Vikram." (You'll have to think of something, Vikram.)
Frowning playfully down at her image, I muttered, "Waise tum bhi kam nahi ho. Chaar baar mile hain aur chaaron baar aadha waqt bhaagne mein nikala hai." (You're no less difficult either. We've met four times and you've spent half the time running away in all four meetings.)
Zero response from the glass screen, obviously.
I pinched the screen to zoom slightly into her face. Her smile in the photograph was so soft, completely free of the guarded tension she wore whenever I was near. She wasn't looking into the lens; her gaze was candidly turned away, a few stray lock of dark hair framing her cheek. The vibrant red saree highlighted the glowing fairness of her complexion, making her look utterly ethereal.
My gaze lingered, drinking in the quiet grace of her features. And then, the memory of my own ridiculous thoughts from earlier came crashing back Marriage.
I groaned out loud, letting my head fall backward against the high headrest of my chair. "Jaldi shaadi nahi ki na toh ye ladki sach mein pagal kar degi." (If I don't get married soon, this girl is genuinely going to drive me insane.)
A loud, self-deprecating laugh burst from me at the sheer absurdity of my own panic. The girl wouldn't even grant me a simple text reply or agree to a innocent friendship, and here I was, mentally spiraling over matrimonial timelines. Excellent progress, Vikram. Simply outstanding political strategy.
I stared gently at Gauri's smiling photograph, my expression softening. "Abhi toh tum aazad ho." (You're free now.)
I stopped myself cold. No. I had just sworn to give her space and respect her boundaries.
Exercising every ounce of self-control I possessed, I locked the device, set it firmly face-down on the polished wood, and pulled the nearest election dossier into my lap. I forced my eyes to scan the first paragraph.
One second. Two seconds. Three seconds.
My hand moved on pure habit, snatching the phone right back off the desk. I shook my head in utter self-disgust. "Pagli ladki." (Crazy girl.)
I smiled softly to myself. "Theek hai, Gauri Kumari." (Alright, Gauri Kumari.)
"Shaadi ki baat tab tak nahi hogi jab tak tum khud nahi chahogi." (There will be no talk of marriage until you yourself want it.)
My thumb lightly brushed the glass edge of the screen. "Par dosti..." I narrowed my eyes in playful challenge at her photograph. "Dosti toh tumhein humse karni padegi." (But friendship... you'll have to become friends with me.)
I paused, the memory of her sharp, defensive stance at the temple flashing in my mind: Humein nahi banna.
A low chuckle escaped my throat. "Accha baba. Uske liye bhi zabardasti nahi." (Alright, fine. No forcing that either.)
I shook my head, resting my temple against my fist. What on earth had become of me? The powerful Sarpanch of Rampur was sitting alone in his grand study, conducting serious strategic negotiations with a digital photograph.
Setting the phone down again, I made a conscious effort to do it properly this time placing it face-down near the edge of the desk, completely out of reach. I dragged the open election folder directly into my line of sight and forced myself to read.
Ten seconds passed. Then twenty. Then thirty. I successfully digested an entire detailed paragraph regarding fertilizer subsidies.
And then my traitorous eyes drifted right back to the dark rectangle of my phone.
Damn it.
Assembly election campaign preparations. Sarpanch administrative duties. Extensive land management. Family businesses. Farmer grievances. Strategic political meetings.
And nestled squarely in the center of all that chaotic responsibility Gauri Kumari.
"Kya-kya karun main?" I muttered helplessly to the quiet room. (What am I supposed to manage first?)
For the first time in my adult life, I had encountered something infinitely more distracting, unpredictable, and consuming than state politics. And the girl hadn't even bothered to type a three-letter reply to my opening message.
I leaned back deep into my chair, letting out a quiet, genuine laugh at my own complete undoing. Then, abandoning every shred of sensible, disciplined logic left in my head, I reached out and picked up the phone one final time.
I swiped open Instagram, navigated to her profile, and settled back to stare at that same breathtaking photograph in the red saree.
"Pagli ladki." (Crazy girl.)
This time, the fond smile remained fixed on my face, and the official election file remained completely forgotten on the desk.
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