Akhand waited patiently outside the haveli, eyes fixed on the large doors, but Manohar Bajwa never appeared. After some time, he sighed and turned away, deciding to head back to the chai stall.

As he approached, the same boy from earlier spotted him and asked eagerly,
“Kaam ho gayo kya, bhaisa?”
("Did you get your work done, sir?")

Akhand shook his head, tired but determined.
“Nahi, mil nahi paya usse.”
("No, I couldn’t meet him.")

The chai stall kaka, overhearing the conversation, chuckled knowingly and said,
“Manohar ne milan to mushkil hai, par uska chhora Sahil se baat kar liyo. Wo Kotha mein rehta hai. Peeta hai, aurat dekhta hai, par paisa mil jaye to kuch bhi kar de hai.”
("Meeting Manohar is tough, but you can talk to his son Sahil. He stays at the kotha. Drinks, womanizes, but for money, he’ll do anything.")

Akhand decided that he need this Sahil at any cost.

Akhand folded his arms, ready for whatever came next.

As Akhand reached the outside of the kotha, he paused, taking in the scene. It was a world apart from the city bars and hookups he was used to—rougher, rawer, with a distinctly village edge. The narrow alley was dimly lit, with flickering lanterns casting shadows on mud walls. The air was thick with smoke and the scent of cheap liquor.

He shook his head and stepped inside cautiously.

Ahead, a small wooden stage was set up, barely lit by a string of bare bulbs. A woman danced there, her movements fluid but practiced, eyes cast downward. Around the stage, men clustered close, some dancing, others whistling, their gazes hungry and unblinking.

Akhand’s jaw tightened. He looked over at one man standing near the wall, his gaze sharp.

“Sahil kahaan hai?”
("Where is Sahil?") Akhand asked quietly.

The man gave him a long, appraising look—from his shirt to his jeans—before smirking. Akhand knew exactly why the man was sizing him up like that; city clothes and all.

“Who are you finding Sahil…! What is your deal?”

That man asked.

“Tell me where is Sahil..?”Akhand said before giving him money.

That man immediately told him.

“Sahil to andar ke kamre mein hai.”
("Sahil’s in the inner room.")

Without another word, Akhand made his way through the crowd toward the door. He knocked firmly, but there was no answer. He knocked again—still nothing. Frustrated, he pushed the door open abruptly.

Inside, the room was dim and cluttered. On the floor lay Sahil’s kurta, tossed carelessly aside. A woman, barely covered, sat on his lap, her eyes tired and distant.

Akhand quickly averted his gaze, discomfort settling over him.

Suddenly, Sahil stormed out, face flushed with anger eyes blazing, and grabbed Akhand by the collar.

“Arre bai, kyu khol diyo darwajo bina poochhe? Kyun pareshan kare ho mhane? Tu Janta bhi hai mai kanu hu..!”
(Hey brother, why did you open the door without asking? Why are you disturbing me?Do you know who i am..?)

 — his words thick with that unmistakable Rajasthani drawl.

Akhand stayed calm, looking him straight in the eyes.
“Main bas tumse milna chahta tha. Kuch zameen ke baare mein poochhna tha.”
(I just wanted to meet you. I need to ask about some land.)

Sahil’s grip loosened as he took in Akhand’s tone, his city clothes, the quiet confidence he carried. He slowly released him, stepping back with a thoughtful look.

“To the koi baat hai, theek hai. Aaja baitho.”
("If that’s the case, alright. Come in and sit.")

Sahil led Akhand through a narrow, dimly lit corridor away from the noisy main room. They settled onto a low charpai in a quieter corner of the kotha, where the flickering light from a lantern cast long shadows on the cracked walls.

From the main hall, a faint tune floated in—soft, melancholic, a spicy song sung by one of the women dancers. The haunting melody mingled with the distant clinking of glasses and murmurs of the crowd, wrapping around the two men like a restless desert wind.

Sahil leaned forward, lighting a hookah as he studied Akhand.

“To batao, bhai, tum kaun ho? Aur ye zameen ka kya mamla hai?”
("So tell me, brother, who are you? And what’s this matter about the land?")

Akhand met his gaze steadily.

"I’m Akhand. I’ve come from the city. I want to know about the land that was in my mother’s name here in this village.”

Sahil exhaled a slow plume of smoke, his eyes narrowing.

“I see. I will definitely do something.”

Akhand nodded, his voice calm but firm.There was some mischief at Sahil’s face.

“But, Akhand ji-”

Akhand leaned back, the melody of the folk song still swirling around them, feeling the weight of the path ahead.

Sahil took a slow drag from his hookah, eyes glinting as he leaned closer to Akhand.

“Dekho, bhai. Main madad karunga, lekin badle mein mujhe bhi kuch chahiye. Das lakh.”
("Look, brother. I’ll help you, but in return, I want something too. Maybe ten lakh.")

Akhand didn’t hesitate. He simply nodded.

Sahil blinked, surprised at how quickly Akhand agreed.

Should I have asked for more? he thought, raising an eyebrow.

Akhand reached into his pocket and pulled out a checkbook.

Before he could write, Sahil stopped him with a chuckle.

“Arre Saheri babu, kaam ho jaaye pehle, phir paisa dena. Abhi ke liye paanch lakh hi kaafi hai.”
("Hey city gentleman, let the work get done first, then give the money. For now, five lakh will be enough.")

Akhand nodded again, pulling out a cheque and handing it over.

Sahil took the cheque, glanced at it, and his eyes narrowed as he read the name written in neat ink:

Akhand Pratap Chaturvedi.

A small smirk crossed Sahil’s face.

Later that night, Akhand found himself back at the tea stall. The world had gone quiet; the village was fast asleep under a blanket of stars. It was already midnight, and the cool night air wrapped around him like a thin shawl.

He lay down on the old cot outside the stall, exhaustion weighing heavily on his body. His stomach growled, but he hadn’t eaten anything all day.

Fumbling with his phone, he unlocked it and searched for a network signal. The faint glow of the screen was the only light in the darkness.

His thumb hovered over the call button. He thought of calling his dadi. But then he remembered—it was late at night, and she must be asleep by now. He hesitated.

Then his thoughts drifted to his father. Maybe he should call Baba.

But just as quickly, doubt crept in. He must still be angry with me, Akhand thought, swallowing the lump in his throat.

He closed his eyes, the phone slipping from his fingers, and let the silence of the night hold him.

Morning Offering

The first light of dawn crept over the thatched rooftops of the village, washing the mud walls in a soft amber glow. The roosters crowed in the distance, and the village stirred, slowly but surely. But in the Bajwa haveli, all was still. Not a soul had woken yet.

Except Mughda.

She moved quietly through the corridor, her anklets carefully wrapped in cloth to silence their telltale chime. Clutching a small brass thali filled with marigolds, a clay lamp, and a handful of rice grains, she tiptoed past the sleeping silhouettes of servants and cousins. Her breath was shallow, every creak of the old wooden floor threatening to betray her.

She reached the side gate—always rusted, always stubborn—but she knew how to nudge it just so without waking the dogs. The morning air hit her face like a blessing—cool, fresh, and untouched by the chaos of the day.

She was free. At least for a while.

Mughda wrapped her dupatta tighter around her head and began her walk toward the temple that sat on the edge of the village, nestled beneath the old peepal tree.

The sky above was tinged pink, birds fluttered from branch to branch, and the fragrance of moist earth mixed with incense that some priest must have lit even before sunrise. It had been weeks since she had last been allowed to come here. Since her Bari Maa—stern, calculating, ever-watchful—had deemed the temple trips “unnecessary distractions.”

“Zyada sanskaar dikhane ki zaroorat nahi,” Bari Maa had snapped once. “Tu ghar sambhal, pooja-path hamare liye chhod de.”
("No need to act overly pious. You take care of the house; leave the prayers to us.")

But this morning, Mughda didn’t care. Her heart had been restless ever since the stranger came—the one called Akhand. His arrival had stirred something… not just in the haveli, but in her. Some whisper of the past. Something Bari Maa didn’t want mentioned.

She climbed the worn stone steps of the temple, each one feeling sacred under her bare feet. No one else was there yet—only the faint murmur of a priest somewhere in the back rooms and the low hum of temple bells being tied up for the day.

She placed her thali before the idol of Shiv-Parvati, lighting the clay lamp with trembling fingers. The flame flickered, then stood steady, as if acknowledging her presence.

Mughda closed her eyes and bowed her head.

“Bhagwan... sach dikhana. Jhoot aur dhokhe se bachana. Aur agar kuch chhupa hai... toh usey samne laana.”
("God... show me the truth. Protect me from lies and betrayal. And if something is being hidden... let it come out.")

She opened her eyes, and for a second, thought she heard footsteps behind her. She turned quickly—but saw no one. Just the wind rustling the leaves of the peepal tree.

Still, the sense of being watched clung to her.

She finished her puja quietly, wiped a tear from the corner of her eye, and turned to leave. She needed to return before the haveli woke.

But as she walked back through the narrow lanes, the first rays of sun warming her skin, she had no idea that someone had seen her.

From behind the broken wall near the well, a figure stepped out, watching her silhouette disappear into the dawn.

The Pond Beside the Temple

The village was still stretching itself awake when Akhand Pratap Chaturvedi walked barefoot toward the pond near the temple, towel slung over one shoulder, a bar of sandalwood soap in one hand, and a metal lotta in the other.

The early morning sun reflected off his damp, tired eyes, and a light breeze stirred the fine layer of dust that always seemed to cling to him no matter how many times he bathed.

"Rajasthan ki dhool hi alag hai," he muttered to himself.
("The dust in Rajasthan is something else.")

He had bathed twice yesterday and still woke up feeling like he'd rolled through a sand dune. Cleanliness wasn't just a habit—it was a need. The grime, the sweat, the smell of smoke from the kotha still lingered on his skin like unwanted memories.

The pond was shallow and lined with mossy stones, nestled in the crook between the temple wall and the thick grove of neem trees. An old banyan arched over one edge of the water, its aerial roots dangling like ancient whispers.

Akhand set his things down, rolled up his sleeves, and stepped into the water. It was cold—sharply refreshing—and he welcomed it with a quiet gasp.

As he splashed water on his face and began to scrub, his mind returned to the events of the night before.

Sahil.
The deal.
The way Sahil had smirked at his surname.
And the land. His mother's land.

He felt a strange weight in his chest, a heaviness that water couldn’t wash away.

He dipped under, holding his breath, letting the silence of the pond muffle the noise inside him.

When he surfaced, droplets clinging to his lashes, he turned his face toward the temple steps—and froze.

For just a flicker of a moment, he caught a glimpse of a woman in a pale green dupatta walking briskly away from the shrine.

Her gait was careful. Hiding. Almost as if she didn’t want to be seen.

He couldn’t see her face. Only the curve of her neck, the quick turn of her head as if checking if someone had followed her, and then—she disappeared into the narrow path between two mud walls.

Something about her stayed with him.

He didn’t know why.

Maybe it was the way she moved—not like the women he’d seen at the kotha last night, nor like the city women in high heels and fast cars.

This one had weight. Grace. Purpose.

Akhand stood still for a moment, water dripping from his body, the bar of soap forgotten in his hand.

He turned back to finish his bath, but something told him—somewhere, his story had just crossed paths with hers.

Who was she?

He didn’t know yet.

But in villages like this—nothing stayed hidden for long.

Later ,

Akhand stepped out of the temple-side grove, his face clean, his kurta freshly changed, and the scent of sandalwood soap still lingering faintly on his skin. His damp hair clung to his forehead as he made his way back toward the chai stall, his eyes scanning the quiet village roads.

The village was now awake. Women were sweeping the courtyards, cows being led out for grazing, and the distant clang of hand-pumps echoed through the air. A few children ran barefoot behind a stray dog, laughing.

As Akhand neared the familiar stall, the chaiwala kaka—a wiry man with tired eyes and a permanent smile—called out from behind the boiling kettle.

“Bhaiya ji, chai taiyaar hai. Aaiye, baithiye.”
("Sir, tea is ready. Come, have a seat.")

Akhand smiled faintly and settled back onto the wooden cot where he’d spent the night. Before he could speak, the old man looked at him thoughtfully.

Akhand sipped the hot tea silently, eyes wandering toward his black Mahindra Jeep, parked slightly crooked under a neem tree, its windshield dusty, but the body solid—like it had stories of its own.

After finishing his tea, he rose, stretching his arms.

He patted the side of the jeep affectionately, then climbed in.

The engine sputtered once, then roared to life. Dust scattered as he rolled forward.

But he didn’t tell anyone where he was going.

Not even the chaiwala who watched him from the stall, wiping his hands on a towel, his eyes quietly following the trail of dust the jeep left behind.

Akhand drove slowly through the narrow village lanes, passing mud houses, green fields, and curious glances from men chewing tobacco on their charpais.

He wasn’t sure where he was going—not exactly.

But something inside told him to follow the northern road, the one that curved toward the old canal and the abandoned Shikargarh, the old hunting ground that once belonged to the Bajwas—his mother's side.

He remembered a half-torn letter in an old trunk.

Something about the land.

Something that didn’t sit right.

And as the road stretched out ahead, the morning sun rising fully behind him, Akhand tightened his grip on the steering wheel.

He wasn’t here just to claim land.

He was here to dig out a truth buried under years of silence and dust.

The Haveli Awakens

By the time Mughda stepped back into the Bajwa Haveli, the morning sun was well over the horizon, casting long shadows through the tall arches of the inner courtyard. The haveli, with its faded grandeur, was slowly coming to life.

The air inside was thick with the smell of ghee, old stone, and secrets. Servants bustled in whispers, drawing water from the well, and a slow clatter came from the kitchen where copper vessels were being polished.

Mughda kept her head down, her dupatta still neatly covering her hair, and walked swiftly through the verandah toward the side stairs leading to her room. Her heart thumped with every step, every squeak of the ancient wooden floor echoing louder than she liked.

But just as she reached the staircase—

"Subah-subah kahan se aa rahi ho?"
("Where are you coming from so early in the morning?")

The voice was low. Calm. But every syllable carried iron.

Bari Maa.

Standing tall at the threshold of the main hall, wrapped in her crisp white cotton saree, her eyes sharp as a hawk’s. A woman untouched by time or softness.

Mughda turned slowly.

“Mandir se,” she replied, her voice even, her eyes meeting Bari Maa’s for a moment before looking down.

Bari Maa raised an eyebrow. “Kaun sa mandir?”
("Which temple?")

Mughda hesitated. The temple wasn't far, but unspoken rules in the haveli forbade women—especially younger ones—from venturing out alone before sunrise. Bari Maa had made it clear: tradition was sacred, and appearances were everything.

Still, she replied quietly, "Wahi purana Shiv Mandir... peepal ke paas wala."

(Shive Temple..near the Sacred Fig.)

There was a long pause. Only the distant clang of a utensil in the kitchen broke the silence.

Then, Bari Maa stepped forward, her voice calm but lined with warning.

“Bajwa haveli ki ladkiyan chhup ke kuch nahi karti. Tum bhool rahi ho apna ghar ka rang-roop. Pooja-path theek hai, par maryada ke andar.”
("Girls of the Bajwa haveli do nothing in secret. You’re forgetting the ways of this house. Worship is fine—but within proper boundaries.")

Mughda felt a sting rise in her chest, but she stayed composed.

“Main sirf mann ki shanti ke liye gayi thi,” she said, almost whispering.
("I only went for peace of mind.")

Bari Maa stepped closer. Her eyes narrowed.

“Shanti ki zarurat kis baat ki hai tujhe, Chorri…?”
("What do you need peace from, Girl?")

That question pierced deeper than it should have. Mughda looked up—just for a second—but in that second, something flickered between them. A challenge. A knowing.

Bari Maa turned away first, but not before leaving her final words:

“Agli baar bina bataye ghar se nikalne ki zarurat nahi. Bajwa naam jahan le jaogi, sab poochhenge—kyun gayi thi, kis se milne gayi thi.”
("Next time, don’t leave the house without telling anyone. Wherever you take the Bajwa name, people will ask—why did she go, and who did she go to meet?")

Mughda stood frozen for a second. Then, without another word, she turned and walked up the stairs, her steps a little slower this time.

Behind her, Bari Maa watched silently, eyes unreadable.

But one thing was certain:

She knew.

Maybe not everything.
But something.

And in this house, even half-knowing was dangerous.

Mughda closed the wooden door of her room gently, almost too gently—as if afraid the sound itself might betray her emotions.

She stood there for a moment, forehead resting against the wood, the voices from downstairs muffled but ever-present. Somewhere, a servant called out for Doodh ke liye bhains baandhna hai ("The buffalo needs to be tied for milking"), and utensils clanged again.

But up here, in her little corner of the grand haveli, the world was still.

Safe.
Silent.
Mostly.

She exhaled slowly and turned around, walking across the cool floor, her bare feet making soft sounds on the worn stone. Her room was small, tucked into the older side of the haveli—once a guest room, now hers. The paint on the walls had faded, but Mughda had made the space her own. A few pressed flowers in a tin frame, an old painting of Saraswati Mata, and a wooden almirah that creaked every time it opened.

She sat down on the edge of her charpai, staring blankly at the embroidered pillow Bari Maa had stitched decades ago.

Why does she keep taunting me?
The question echoed again.

Not just today—every day. In every sideways glance. Every veiled comment. Every small thing Mughda did, no matter how right, somehow always ended up “wrong.”

She wasn’t reckless. She wasn’t disobedient. But she wanted more than just the role of an obedient Bajwa daughter, trained to smile, to serve tea, to marry well, and fade into the next haveli.

Her eyes drifted to the bottom shelf of her almirah.

Slowly, carefully, as if handling something sacred, she pulled out a leather-bound diary, frayed at the corners, its pages slightly yellowed with time. She’d hidden it behind a stack of old sarees—because if anyone found it, questions would follow.

She opened it.

On the first page, written in her careful, upright handwriting:

"Mughda Bajwa ki kahani"

She smiled faintly. That line had felt so clever when she wrote it three years ago.

She flipped past the pages—some filled with poems, others with prayers. But then came the one she'd written late one night, when the monsoon rains had poured outside and hope had whispered through her like wind through a cracked window.

"I want to be a teacher."

"I want to stand in front of a blackboard with chalk in my hand and light in my eyes.
I want to teach girls who are told to lower their eyes.
I want to change how things are seen in this village—slowly, gently, firmly.
I don’t want to just pour tea. I want to pour knowledge.
If that makes me disobedient—so be it."

Mughda touched the words, as if they might dissolve if she pressed too hard.

“But they’ll never let me,” she murmured, blinking back the burn in her eyes.

Not with the weight of the Bajwa name.
Not with Bari Maa watching every move like a hawk.
Not when women’s dreams were dismissed as luxuries in this house.

She closed the diary, holding it tightly to her chest.

But somewhere, beneath the ache, a quiet voice stirred:

Maybe one day. Maybe still.

And she didn’t know why, but the image of the man from the day before—the one in city clothes, who had asked about land—flashed briefly through her mind.

She shook it off.

It was just a stranger. Just coincidence.

And still...

Something was shifting in the air.

Sneak peek- Chapter 10

"Bhai-sa! Chor dijiye mujhe!"
("Brother! Let me go!")

But Sahil’s grip only tightened.

“Sar pe ghoonghat nahi, sabke saamne angan mein khadi hai? Kaun seekha raha hai tujhe ye sab?”
("No veil over your head? Standing in the courtyard in front of all these men? Who’s teaching you this nonsense?")

She winced as he dragged her across the courtyard.