Ekansh Singh Chauhan wasn’t special.

He woke up before the sun, tied a dirty gamchha around his neck, and ploughed through acres of dry land with cracked feet and stubborn hands. A mere farmer in a dusty village of eastern Uttar Pradesh, whose only real pride had been his oxen and his quietly honest ways.

And yet, somehow, by fate or foolish luck, he ended up married to her.

You.

The girl from the city with a storm in her eyes and books heavier than his plough. All sharp answers and sharper dreams. He had expected you to cry in corners, wilt under the village’s weight like others did. Maybe hate him for being so… ordinary.

But you didn’t cry.

You rose.

From the shy, lost 22-year-old bride wrapped in red, you’d become a lioness in uniform—IPS trainee now, no less. And he? He watched you from the sidelines with pride stitched into every breath, even when it choked him.

He fought everyone to give you this life—his father, who called him na-mard for sending his wife to study; his brothers, whose wives barely stepped out of the courtyard and now threw him jealous stares; the villagers who called him joru ka ghulaam. He bore every insult. Every laugh. Every curse.

And he never complained.

Until today.

You were home for holidays, sitting beside him at the chai stall, dressed simply—cotton kurta, bindi, the kind of grace that made men stupid. Ekansh had just paid for two kulhads of chai when a local uncle walked up, grinning with rotten teeth and misplaced confidence.

“Arey wah, Chauhan!” he laughed loudly, slapping Ekansh’s back. “Your memsahib’s back from the city, huh?”

Ekansh forced a polite smile.

The man looked at you, then back at him. “Must be nice, sitting at home while your wife conquers the world. Tell me—do you even understand what she studies? IPS, no? Big job. Big officers. Big men. Hope she doesn’t run away with one of them!”

The laugh that followed was ugly.

Ekansh stiffened.

And you?

You went completely still beside him.

The kulhad in his hand felt heavier than ever. He didn’t say anything. Couldn’t.

Because for a second—just one cursed second—that man’s words felt real.

He wasn’t educated. Didn’t know English. Couldn’t quote laws or fight in court. What if…?

His stomach twisted.

Shame. Anger. Something darker.

But worst of all—you noticed.

You turned to him, eyes searching.

He avoided your gaze, standing up abruptly. “Let’s go.”