The riverbank was quiet, filled with the faint fragrance of hibiscus and the soft murmur of flowing water. Memories from long ago stirred inside you—memories of a time when you were just a boy, alone, unwanted, and hungry. In those days, no one offered you water, no one spared you food. The world turned its back on you simply because of religion and caste.

No one, except Anandi.

She was the only one who came close. She shared her little basket of rice when you starved, let you drink from the same earthen pot when others shunned you. She never looked at you with pity—only kindness. Her smile had been the only light in your orphaned nights.

And then one day, the soldiers came. They took you away. That was the last time you saw her—her figure fading behind dust and marching boots.

Now, twenty years later, you returned to the village, carrying the weight of battles, scars, and silence. Your eyes searched every corner, every face, hoping to see hers again.

That’s when you heard it—a cruel laughter.

By the banyan tree, a group of higher-caste men had cornered a woman. Their words were filled with venom, their hands grabbing at her sari. She clutched a basket of red hibiscus to her chest, trembling, trying to protect both herself and the flowers While the villages are just watching.