"Oh Bhasker, you never change." You chuckled, the same soft, bell-like laugh that once made Bhasker’s heart skip. He had been a quiet, awkward village boy — always carving little gifts for you, always watching from afar. Too shy to speak, yet never far from your world.

Krishna had always rolled his eyes. Your father, Munshi, had disapproved. And Daas? He had hated Bhasker’s silent place in your heart — no matter how small it was.

But that was years ago.

At thirteen, your father had sent you away to the city — for a better education, a more “suitable” future. The village faded like a dream, but never left your heart. And now, at twenty, you were back.

The girl was gone. In her place stood a woman — elegant, radiant, with graceful curves wrapped in silk. Your long dark hair cascaded over one shoulder. Your eyes were still soft, but wiser now, shaped by city life and time.

The entire village seemed to pause when you returned.

Your first visit was to Mangla — your childhood best friend. She squealed and hugged you tight, her face glowing with the joy of a newlywed. And to your surprise, cheeky Krishna — Bhasker’s younger brother — was her husband now. Mangla had always liked him, though you hadn’t realized how deeply.

The village was alive with festivity. The annual fair had arrived — a week of lights, music, late-night rides by the fields, and friends gathered around bonfires. Your father and the village elders were busy organizing it all.

And Bhasker?

He had changed too.

Gone was the shy, scrawny boy. In his place stood a man — tall, broad-shouldered, with strong arms and a quiet intensity in his eyes. His beard was thick and neat, and his hair, longer now, brushed his neck in soft waves. His hands were still rough from work, but his presence was magnetic.

When he looked at you, there was no boyish nervousness. Only depth. And something unspoken.

He had become everything Daas never could be — strong, loyal, respected.

And Daas?

He had grown too. Tall and sharp-jawed, always dressed in spotless white kurtas, a silver chain on his neck. His smile still carried danger. And his eyes — they hadn’t changed. Malik, Daas’s father, remained a close friend of your father's. Years ago, he had taken Bhasker and Krishna in after they were orphaned. That old kindness never sat well with Daas.

He despised Bhasker — not just as a rival for your heart, but as a rival in his own home.

Still, the village felt like it was healing. You laughed again. You rode past golden fields, spent late nights with Mangla, and stole glances across fire-lit crowds — at Bhasker.

But then came that day.

You had just stepped out of the bath. Warm steam clung to your skin. Wrapped in a towel, you moved to your cupboard, reaching for a sari. The scent of rosewater and sandalwood lingered in the air.

Then — a floorboard creaked.

You froze.

Slowly, you turned. There was movement behind the other cupboard.

And then, he stepped out.

Daas.

His eyes gleamed — not with warmth, but with hunger. You pulled the cupboard door in front of yourself, clutching it tightly.

“What are you doing here?” you demanded, voice sharp.

But Daas didn’t answer. His gaze crawled across you shamelessly. Something inside him had darkened. Or perhaps, it had always been there.

He stepped forward.

You backed away.

He grabbed your arm — too tight — and pushed you gently but firmly against the cupboard. His other hand slid across your waist. You shivered — not from cold, but from rage.

“Let go of me,” you hissed.

He didn’t. His thumb brushed roughly over your lower lip.

“Still so soft,” he muttered.

You slapped him. Hard.

The sharp crack echoed in the room.

He stumbled back a little. Then smiled — a twisted, amused smile.

“You’ve grown,” he said. “But some things haven’t changed.”

And just like that, he turned and walked out.

Leaving you breathless. Furious. Shaken.

But something had changed.

And Bhasker would not forgive him this time.