The room they were led into wasn't a dining room.
It was a statement.
Long table. Stone floor. High ceiling that didn't care about acoustics. The kind of space where your voice came back smaller than you sent it.
Oil lamps burned along the walls. Not decorative—functional. Their light didn't soften anything. It sharpened shadows.
Arun stepped in half a pace behind Aditi.
Immediately, the room reacted.
Not visibly.Not dramatically.
Chairs stopped moving.Voices paused mid-syllable.Eyes didn't turn—but attention did.
Aditi walked forward without hesitation.
Arun followed.
No one guided him.
He understood quickly: if you didn't know where to stand, that itself was information.
An elder seated at the head didn't look up. His hands rested on the armrests like they had never learned nervousness.
Another elder spoke softly to someone beside him, still not acknowledging Arun.
"Sa aayi hai."
(She's arrived.)
That was all.
A chair was pulled back—not for Arun.
For Aditi.
She sat.
Only then did someone look at Arun.
A man in his late fifties, sharp eyes, trimmed moustache, voice calm enough to be dangerous.
He nodded slightly toward a chair.
Not beside Aditi.
Below her.
Offset.
A position that said: you're allowed to be here, not included.
Arun sat without hesitation.
The chair was solid. Heavy. It didn't creak.
Good sign.
Food arrived silently.
No one said "please eat."
They began.
Arun waited a second longer than needed, then followed. He matched their pace—not slow, not eager.
An elder on Aditi's left finally spoke, tone conversational.
"Sheher ro kaam karan lag gyi hai tu."
(You've started working with city folk.)
Aditi didn't answer.
She didn't need to.
This wasn't addressed to her.
Another elder replied, eyes still on his plate.
"Kaam ho jaave toh jagah farak koni pade."
(If work gets done, the place doesn't matter.)
A pause.
Then the first elder finally turned his gaze—directly at Arun.
Not aggressive.
Assessing.
"Tu sheher ro hai."
(You're from the city.)
Arun didn't say "yes" immediately.
He nodded first.
Then, "Ji."
The elder chewed once, slowly.
"Sheher ro aadmi tez hove."
(City men are fast.)
Arun said nothing.
The elder continued.
"Tez ghoda… door jaa sake.""Par bagair lagam… pathar pe phisle."
(A fast horse can go far.Without reins, it slips on stone.)
The room went quiet.
This wasn't metaphor for fun.
This was placement.
Arun lifted his gaze just enough to meet the elder's eyes.
"Ghoda lagam pe chale toh," he said calmly,"pathar bhi raasta ban jaave."
(If the horse accepts the reins, even stone becomes a road.)
A fork paused mid-air.
Someone exhaled through their nose.
The elder didn't react immediately.
Then, quietly:
"Lagam kaun pakde?"
(Who holds the reins?)
This was the real question.
Arun answered without raising his voice.
"Jiska ghoda ho."
(Whoever owns the horse.)
Silence.
Not offended silence.
Evaluating silence.
Aditi took a sip of water.
She didn't look at Arun.
But she didn't interrupt either.
Another elder leaned back slightly.
"Apna ghoda bol reyo hai."
(He's calling himself owned by himself.)
The eldest at the head finally spoke.
His voice was old stone.
"Apni cheez… sambhalna mushkil hove."
(Things that belong to themselves are hard to control.)
Arun met his gaze.
"Par tootne se pehle jhukte nahi," he replied.
(But they don't bend before breaking.)
A low murmur moved through the room.
This wasn't defiance.
This was spine.
Food continued.
Conversation shifted.
But Arun noticed something important.
They stopped talking around him.
Now they talked with him in the room.
A cousin—young, same one from earlier—decided to test lighter.
He smiled, casual, fake-friendly.
"Sheher mein sab cheez ka hisaab rakha jaave hai?"
(In the city, you keep accounts for everything?)
A few smiles appeared.
This was bait.
Arun smiled faintly.
"Isliye sheher mein nuksaan dobara nahi hota."
(That's why losses don't repeat in the city.)
The smile faded.
An elder nodded once.
"Yaad rakhna… achho gunn hai."
(Remembering is a good quality.)
That was approval.
Small.
Heavy.
Then it came.
The sentence Arun knew would arrive.
The eldest leaned forward slightly.
"Tu yahan kyun baitha hai?"
(Why are you sitting here?)
Not "why are you here".
Why are you seated among them.
Arun didn't look at Aditi.
He didn't look at the table.
He answered simply.
"Kyuki mujhe bithaya gaya."
(Because I was seated.)
A ripple of reaction.
The elder stared at him.
Then smiled—not warmly.
"Bithaya jaa sakta hai… uthaya bhi."
(One can be seated… and removed.)
Arun nodded once.
"Maloom hai."
(I know.)
No fear.
No challenge.
Just acknowledgment.
The eldest leaned back.
Dinner continued.
But the air had changed.
When tea arrived, Arun noticed something subtle.
His cup was placed closer than before.
Not equal.
But closer.
When they stood to leave, one elder said casually to Aditi:
"Sheher ro ladko sambhal ke rakhi."
(Handle the city boy carefully.)
Not send him away.Not remove him.
Handle him.
Aditi nodded once.
"Main sambhal sakti hoon."
(I can handle him.)
That wasn't a boast.
That was a declaration.
As they walked out, Arun felt it clearly now.
He wasn't accepted.
But he wasn't dismissed either.
He had survived the Darbar.
And in this house—
Survival itself was a qualification.