The monsoon had finally broken over Kharwa with full fury, turning the dirt lanes into rivers of red mud and filling every depression with shimmering pools that reflected the stormy sky. Inside the sarpanch’s haveli, however, the atmosphere was drier and far more charged than the weather outside. Tonight was no ordinary evening; tonight Vikram hosted a full panchayat meeting in the large central hall. Villagers with grievances—land boundaries, stolen goats, unpaid dowries, water-sharing fights—had been arriving since late afternoon, squatting on woven mats, murmuring among themselves while waiting for the sarpanch to appear.
Aarohi moved through the gathering like a shadow in motion, her pregnancy now just visible as a gentle rounding beneath her maroon sari. She carried brass trays laden with steel tumblers of steaming chai and plates of crispy mathri and besan laddoo. Every few steps she felt eyes on her—some curious, some envious, a few openly lustful—but she kept her gaze lowered, cheeks warm. The weight of the tray made her arms ache, yet she refused to ask for help. Vikram had been explicit earlier: “Serve them well tonight. Show them what a proper wife looks like.”
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