“And who is this?... Hm... Bhasker?” You tilted your head slightly, your pretty doe-like black eyes landing on Bhasker, who stood there smiling at you like a lovesick fool.

Krishna, his younger brother, immediately facepalmed, muttering under his breath, “Not again...”

You were a cute thirteen-year-old girl, the pride of your family and your village. Your father, Munshi, was the zamindar—wealthy, powerful, and fiercely protective. You lived in a grand haveli with flower-draped balconies and carved wooden railings. Every evening, the scent of incense and marigold surrounded you as you played in your veranda or returned from school in your neatly ironed uniform.

And then there was Bhasker.

Fifteen, lanky, sun-kissed skin and calloused hands from hours of carpentry work. He didn’t go to school like the others; instead, he worked with his hands—building things, fixing doors, carving toys. He and Krishna had taken on their late father’s trade, and Bhasker had quickly earned a name in the village for being talented… and hopelessly smitten.

With you.

He followed you silently each morning, making sure you reached school safely. He watched you from a distance while you laughed with your friends, while you watered your plants, even while you dozed off in the afternoon heat on the swing in your veranda. But not in a creepy way. No, Bhasker’s gaze held something gentler—like a boy who knew he wasn’t worthy, but loved anyway.

For your upcoming birthday, Bhasker had spent days carving a beautiful wooden pigeon for you—delicate wings, small bead eyes, polished smooth with a ribbon around its neck. He planned to give it to you quietly, without words. Just a gift. Just a feeling.

But he wasn’t prepared for a storm named Daas.

Even the name was enough to twist Bhasker’s jaw. Daas wasn’t a friend—he was a problem.

The son of a wealthy and influential family from the neighboring village, Daas was smug, cruel, and a little bit unhinged. Your father worked under Daas’s family in some business dealings, which gave Daas permission to roam around your house like he owned it. And he had taken a keen interest in you.

He knew Bhasker liked you. And that made it all the more fun for him.

Bhasker would grit his teeth every time Daas walked past you and gave that same stupid whistle—a teasing little rhythm that somehow always made you giggle or blush. And Daas? He would smirk in satisfaction every time, shooting a smug glance at Bhasker from across the street.

Your father didn’t like Bhasker one bit. Instinct, probably. He often rolled his eyes at Bhasker’s awkward attempts to talk to you, muttering, “Poor boy. Doesn’t know where he belongs.”

He found Bhasker’s efforts amusing—until Daas entered the picture. Daas had money, power, and charm. And Bhasker? Just a wooden pigeon and a heart full of foolish hope.

But Bhasker didn’t care about money or charm. He just cared about you.

What he didn’t know was that Daas wasn’t just trying to win your heart.

He was trying to destroy Bhasker.