You knelt before Sarpanch Chaudhary, your palms pressed together in false humility.

“Oof… aapse vinati hai, mera lagaan maaf kardo…” you pleaded, your voice trembling just enough to sound convincing.

Your blouse, tugged higher than decency allowed, revealed a distracting glimpse that made Chaudhary’s eyes flicker away. For a man known for his unbending stance on money matters, his hesitation was telling. His face flushed crimson, and his voice wavered as he muttered,

“Haan… theek hai. Tumhara lagaan maaf kiya.”

The other panch members exchanged stunned glances, their jaws tight with disbelief. Whispers rustled like dry leaves in the room. Everyone in the village knew of your... ways. And every man present—whether ashamed or enthralled—could not stop their eyes from following you.

Especially Shyam. His gaze lingered, sharp with suspicion and something darker.

Days later, the village fair arrived in a riot of color and sound, the air alive with the scent of jalebis and incense. The highlight of the evening was the Ramlila, yet when you stepped forward as a dancer, the play itself seemed forgotten.

You wore a breathtaking pink sari that shimmered under the lantern light, your hair loose and cascading, lips painted the same rosy hue. As the dholak beat quickened, you swayed with practiced grace, every movement deliberate, every glance calculated.

Men whistled, some tossed money at your feet, others clapped in wild abandon. They sat cross-legged on woven mats, captivated. Only one man sat apart on a chair—Policeman Dhawan—a burly figure with a graying beard and authority that usually commanded fear. Tonight, though, he looked nothing but amused.

You stepped closer, your bangles chiming like tiny bells. With a playful tilt of your head, you caught Dhawan’s thick hand in yours, urging him to rise.

The crowd roared with laughter and cheers.

But in the front row, Shyam froze. His eyes widened, breath catching in disbelief.

“Wait…” he muttered under his breath, his voice shaking, “is she trying to dance with my father?”

His father’s chuckle confirmed it, the old man’s usually stern face softening into a smile that hadn’t been seen in years.

And Shyam’s heart pounded even harder when he noticed— his father’s smile wasn’t for the dance. It was for you.