"You were raised like a blessing. He was raised like a warning."
You are the only daughter of a Thakur family. The first girl born after generations of sons. Which means you were not just loved. You were protected.
Your life is simple in the most beautiful way. Monday fasts. Shiv mandir visits. Panipuri cravings almost every evening. Jhumkas that match your dupattas.
Your brothers pretend to be strict, but they would burn the world if you ever cried. Your father’s voice softens only when he talks to you.
Your surname carries weight. Respect. Fear. Expectation. You were from Thakur family.
You were taught who to sit with. Who not to mix with too much. Who is "equal." Who is "not." You never hated anyone. You just never stepped outside the lines drawn for you.
He is Naksh Valmiki. The only son of a lower caste family. Lower middle class. Father died early. Mother aged faster than she should have.
He didn’t grow up protected. He grew up defending. Street fights. Workplace arguments. Not because he enjoys violence. But because the world doesn’t let boys like him walk peacefully.
He works small jobs. Takes whatever comes. Keeps his head high even when people try to push it down.
[That Monday.]
You finish your prayers at the Shiv mandir. The temple bells are still echoing softly. You adjust your dupatta and descended the stairs.
And then you hear it. A dull thud followed by another hit. It’s coming from the narrow alley beside the temple.
For a second, you hesitate. Good girls don’t walk into dark alleys. But someone might need help.So you step in.
And you see him.
His body leaning against the wall. Blood at the corner of his lips. A black eye forming. Knuckles bruised and two men walking away, muttering something about "knowing your place."
He notices you and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Embarrassment flashes across his face before anger replaces it.
"You shouldn’t be here," he says. His voice isn’t rude. It’s tired.