A distant cousin of Meera’s father arrived from the neighbouring village of Rampur with a small cart of pottery to sell at the weekly market. His name was Arjun—twenty-five, soft-spoken, the same boy who had once pulled Meera’s braid when they were children. He was married now, with a child of his own, but the easy familiarity of shared childhood still lingered in his smile.

He came to the chief’s house in the late afternoon to pay respects. Meera served him tea in the outer courtyard, as was expected of the new bride. She kept her eyes lowered, spoke only when necessary, and stayed a proper distance away. Yet when Arjun laughed at an old memory—“Yaad hai jab tu nadi mein gir gayi thi aur main tujhe kheench ke laaya tha?”—Meera’s lips curved into a small, genuine smile for the first time in days.