A leaf dropped from the banyan tree, landing on a pothole where last night's rainwater still sat. The surface held a muddied mirror of the sky, broken only by other drifting leaves.
A wooden sandal stepped into the puddle. Ripples spread outward, swallowing the reflection.
The sandal belonged to Sati — yellow saree wrapped close, a jute bag clenched in her fingers. Her anklets gave a faint chime as she walked toward the house. At the bend, her eyes flicked toward the dense path where trees hunched low over the road. The potholes there could drown both her feet, but she moved on without slowing.
The wooden door groaned at her push. Inside, the air still carried the ghost of last night's ashes, faintly metallic.
Laksh lay on his back, one arm thrown over his face. His lips moved faintly, as if speaking to someone far away.
Sati set the jute bag on the table. The knot loosened with a dry hiss of rope. Vegetables rolled out — green gourds cool to the touch, red chillies sharp-scented, coriander leaves wet enough to bead her fingertips.
Steam whispered from two pots on the hearth. She bent, a strand of hair sliding forward, brushing the edge of her cheek. A single flick of her fingers sent it back.
When she lifted the pots, the curl of steam dampened her eyelashes, carrying the scent of fresh cumin and hot ghee. She set the food on the table with deliberate, silent precision.
On the bed, Laksh murmured in his sleep, "Yup, babe… just a little lower… your stomach…"
Her gaze hardened. Without a word, her sandal nudged sharply against his calf.
He startled awake, breath sharp. "Who kicked me?"
Her voice was low, smooth as warm oil. "Patidev, aapko galatfahmi hui hai."
Laksh rubbed his eyes. Memory crashed back — the wrong century, the wrong body, and a wife with hands far quicker than her temper.
"Kya hua?" he asked.
She didn't answer. Her bangles clicked softly as she smoothed the bedsheet, sending a fine dust into the sunlight. Then she stepped closer.
He felt it before he saw it — the faint warmth of her breath, the bitter trace of betel nut on it.
"Nothing, Patidev," she said, her tone lazy but edged. "Just an advice — don't ever think about chasing your dreams with other women. Or I'll tell my brother. You know… the British captain. He doesn't leave people breathing when he's angry."
Her nails grazed his arm — then pressed, just enough to let the sting bloom under his skin — before she let go.
Laksh's gut knotted. She could kill me without raising her voice.
And beneath that fear came another question, colder: Why had the man whose body he now wore married her at all?
She murmured almost to herself, "Lagta hai bhaiya se ise marwāna padega."
He held her gaze until the weight of it pressed on his chest. Then he sank back, towel knotted at his waist.
The smell of coriander and cumin still hung in the air, sharp and heavy.
Sati's voice came again, softer this time:
"Jaake naha lijiye. Aapke kapde sukh gaye hain."
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An hour later, Laksh stood by the mirror, buttoning the sleeve of his white shirt. The fabric was stiff from line-drying, edges pressing faint lines into his wrist.
Behind him, Sati's fingers combed through his hair with slow, even strokes — not like a barber, but like she was taming a restless village boy. He kept himself from ruffling it back, jaw tightening.
Finally, her hand stilled. The comb hung in the air a moment before she set it down. Her lips curved into a small, unreadable smile.
Laksh slipped his arms into his Victorian coat in one smooth motion, the dark wool swallowing the crisp white of his shirt. His eyes dulled, the energy draining from his face, but before he could take a step, Sati reached forward.
Her body leaned against the coat's side as she placed the hat on his head, adjusting it until it sat just so.
He exhaled through his nose, frustrated. "Ho gaya?"
Her chest lifted slightly, almost proud. "Haan, ho gaya… par bhoolna mat maine kya kaha tha."
Laksh turned away, picking up the small silver stopwatch from the table. Its surface was cool, the chain clinking against his palm. He felt her gaze on it before he looked up.
"What do you want?" he asked, crouching to put on his shoes, his tone flat.
"Nothing, Patidev," she murmured. The words were soft, but they landed heavy.
He pushed through the wooden door. The hinges groaned, and the smell of wet earth wrapped around him — thick, raw, and faintly metallic from last night's rain.
His shoes sank slightly into the mud, branches snapping under each step. Above, a banyan leaf drifted down, turning lazily before settling onto the damp street.
Water slapped against Laksh's boots, dark droplets speckling the edges of his trousers. His coat moved with each step — not a swish, but a flicker, as though it caught light and shadow differently than the rest of the lane.
The morning air was thick with the smell of wet earth. A woman passed, balancing a brass matka on her head; her anklets chimed faintly, but her eyes slid away from his face before the sound could fade.
At the next turn, children wrestled and lunged in a slippery patch of grass, chanting "Kabaddi! Kabaddi!" A boy sat apart, chewing sugarcane, his eyes following Laksh without a smile.
"Cowherd," Laksh murmured, adjusting his hat. He ruffled the neat, village-boy hair his wife had combed for him, then set the hat firmly back on.
A man with a thick moustache strode past, jaw tight, his eyes flicking once at Laksh before moving on. Behind him, two sharp-boned men with restless, darting eyes muttered about "some female host in a dhaba." They froze mid-step when they caught Laksh looking at them. One swallowed. Both walked faster.
From the lane's far end came a voice like torn cloth — an old man, face carved in wrinkles, cursing the British under his breath. Laksh's boots struck the mud without pause… until something small thudded into his back and dropped at his feet.
A stone.
He turned, his tone ice-edged.
"Chachaji… kabristan mein jana hai kya?"
From the shadows, a younger man stumbled forward, dropping to his knees.
"Woh thode pagal hain, kripa kare sahab," he stammered.
The street began to shift — doorways filled with watching eyes.
"Yeh toh Sitaram ji hai," one woman whispered.
Another, balancing a basket of brinjals, muttered louder, "Aur unka beta… suna hai dadaji ki zameen Laksh sahab ne kabza li hai."
More heads turned. A woman clutching a boy on her hip stepped closer, her eyes bright, curious.
Matāo aur behno… kya aap dheeme nahi bol sakti? Laksh thought, without breaking stride.
Even the sugarcane boy had stopped chewing, the stalk still between his teeth, grinning faintly as though expecting something to happen.
Laksh's eyes lingered for a heartbeat on the kneeling man.
"Theek hai. Apne dadaji ko wapas le jao."
He turned away. His coat shifted again — not just a flicker, but a ripple, like a shadow bending in a breeze. The boy on the woman's hip twisted to watch him go, his gaze following until Laksh vanished behind the curve of the lane.