The sun rose slowly over the ghats, casting golden reflections on the Ganga’s rippling waters.

Morning bells from the temples mingled with the calls of street vendors, while the aroma of incense and fresh marigolds drifted through the narrow lanes. Banaras was alive—chaotic, fragrant, and teeming with life—and it had shaped Rukmani just as surely as the river had shaped the curves of the city.

Her family home was a modest two-story haveli tucked in one of the winding lanes near the river. Its wooden doors were intricately carved with floral patterns, smoothed over by generations of hands.

The courtyard, though small, was lively, a playground for pigeons, children, and a few stubborn goats. Jars of pickles and lentils lined the kitchen shelves, and the air always carried the scent of cumin, turmeric, and coriander.

Inside, faded prints of gods and goddesses adorned the walls, their eyes silently watching over the household. Low ceilings and thick wooden beams gave off a faint smell of sandalwood and hearth smoke.

The house was never quiet; laughter, arguments, and the clatter of pots were constant companions.

Rukmani’s father was a stern but fair man, a local trader who often traveled to other cities for silk and grain.

Though he had little patience for nonsense, he loved his children in quiet, practical ways. Her mother, gentle yet fiercely protective, kept the household running, teaching Rukmani politeness, culinary skills, and the rhythms of daily life with both kindness and discipline.

Rukmani had two older brothers—Ajay, nineteen, and Rajveer, seventeen. Both were married, though their wives still lived with their own families.

Mischievous and endlessly curious, they kept the house in perpetual chaos, much to their mother’s exasperation.

And Rukmani herself? She was a whirlwind. Darting between the courtyard and kitchen, climbing on furniture, asking endless questions, teasing the elders, and laughing at her own antics, she seemed incapable of stillness.

But beneath the energy was a sharp mind and surprising resilience; she was learning early that life demanded both cunning and courage.

In her hometown, she was simply known as Ruku—a girl who thrived on mischief, untamable by the world. Though many blamed girls merely for existing, her father adored her, and even her brothers, Ajay and Rajveer, learned from him to cherish her.

“Ruku… bring me a roti,” Rajveer called, sitting at the breakfast table, unusually early.

Rukmani darted out, blowing on the hot roti to cool it, her fingers stinging from the steam. She almost dropped it, but Rajveer caught it just in time.

“Pagal! You should have brought it on a plate,” he said, shaking his head.

“My hands are burning!” Ruku complained, pouting. “And you’re shouting at me!”

Rajveer raised an eyebrow. “And whose fault is that?”

“Yours!” she snapped. “If you had asked nicely, my hands wouldn’t have burned. I’ll complain to Baba!” She turned on her heel, crossing her arms.

Rajveer groaned and hurried after her. “Fine, fine. My mistake. But next time, use a plate, okay?”

Ruku paused, considered him for a long moment, then nodded. Rajveer helped her back to her seat, feeding her small bites of roti as he ate.

Their mother, Tara, stepped out of the kitchen and sighed. “Don’t spoil her, Raj. She’ll be married soon enough.”

“Then who will handle her tantrums?” Tara muttered under her breath, worry lines creasing her forehead. The world was harsh, and Ruku would face it soon. The most they could marry her was fourteen —but by then, finding a suitable match might be difficult.

(Ruku pov)

“I won’t get married!” I declared, chewing furiously on the piece of roti Rajveer bhaiya had stuffed into my mouth.

“Everyone gets married, Ruku,” Dadi’s voice floated from the courtyard. She settled on the cot like she owned the whole world. She probably did.

I darted straight to her side, slipping my tiny hand into her wrinkled one. Dadi always came back from the temple with sweets. If God had ladoos, then maybe temples weren’t so bad.

“Tell me you’ll get married,” she said, her eyes glinting as she held out a golden ladoo.

I stared at it, my resolve melting faster than ghee on a hot tawa. “Fine,” I muttered, snatching it. “But only if I get sweets every day.”

Maa chuckled from the kitchen doorway. “Then we should tell your Baba to marry you to a halwai.”

My eyes went wide. “Yes! Yes! A halwai!” I grinned, already imagining mountains of jalebis.

Rajveer bhaiya washed his hands and stood, stretching like he’d just conquered the world. “Come on, let’s go to Baba,” he said.

I grabbed his hand quickly, still nibbling the ladoo. “Bhaiya, when will you bring Piya bhabhi?” I asked, tilting my face up at him.

He smiled in that annoying older-brother way. “I don’t know. She’s still young. Maybe when she’s sixteen or seventeen.”

“And what about Ajay bhaiya’s bhabhi?” I pressed.

He laughed. “She’s not Ajay bhaiya’s bhabhi. She’s our bhabhi.”

I hummed a tune, deciding not to argue. Next year after Diwali, he said. Fine. I could wait till then.

We walked toward the fields, the sun spilling pale gold over the wheat. Baba’s voice carried over the rustle of stalks. Ajay bhaiya bent low, rubbing a grain between his palms, serious as always. “Baba, these patches are dry. We should start cutting them.”

I nibbled the last bite of my ladoo and thought, they all worry about fields, crops, marriages… but what about ladoos?

I tore across the field, dust flying around my ankles, my braid bouncing like it had a life of its own. “See, I came first, Baba!” I shouted, clutching his leg before Rajveer bhaiya even made it past the edge of the wheat.

“Bhaiya is late!” I stuck my tongue out as he huffed behind me.

Baba scooped me up like I was a sack of rice. His face was stone, but his eyes were soft, softer than clouds. “Yes, you did. But next time, don’t run like that.”

I nodded very seriously, then shoved the half ladoo I’d been guarding all morning into his palm. “I saved this for you.”

Ajay bhaiya chuckled. “And also saved all the sugar on your hands, little monkey.”

I looked at my sticky fingers. Oops. Baba raised one eyebrow, but before he could scold me, I stuffed the sweet straight into his mouth. Problem solved. Then I wiped my hands on my dress. Problem double solved.

We were about to sit under the banyan tree when Ajay bhaiya grabbed my wrist. “First wash.” He dragged me to the handpump, splashing water on my face. I squealed, wriggling like a caught fish. “Stop it! My kajal will go!”

Then Baba’s voice cut across the field, sharp as the sickle he sometimes carried. “Ruku.”

I froze. Everyone froze when Baba used that tone. I ran back to him, my feet still dripping. “Yes, Baba?”

He stared at me for a long time, and my stomach did a funny flip. Then he said it. “You know most of your friends are getting married.”

I blinked. The words didn’t make sense. Married? My friends? To who? I had only been trading ladoos with them, not husbands.

“Married?” I repeated, tilting my head. “But… Baba, how will they eat ladoos if they’re married? Will their husbands buy them sweets?”

Before he could say something worlds came out of my mouth like magic I nodded quickly. “Yes.” Then the words tumbled out before I could stop them: “But I won’t get married. I don’t want to leave you, Baba.”

Baba’s jaw tightened, and even Ajay bhaiya and Rajveer bhaiya stopped shuffling in the field. Their silence scared me more than his frown.

“Everyone gets married, Rukmani,” Baba said, his voice heavy, like the earth after rain. “Especially girls.”

I pressed my lips together. My braid was messy, strands sticking to my cheek, and then Baba’s rough fingers undid it. He combed through with his hand, gentle even when his words weren’t. I should have hated the way he scolded me, but instead, I leaned into his touch.

“But Baba,” I whispered, “Dadi says we must only follow our own tradition.”

He chuckled low, tying my hair again. “And the world is ours too, Ruku.”

I scrunched my nose. “But Banaras is ours, not the world.”

He looked at me for a long time, his eyes narrowing like he was deciding whether to explain or to scold. Then his voice dropped softer. “Banaras is ours, yes. But Shivji lives here. And Shivji belongs to the world. Which means…” He tapped my forehead lightly. “The world is ours too.”

His words twisted my head in circles, but I nodded anyway. It was easier than arguing. I slipped my small hand into his big one, sticky with sugar, and whispered, “But not today, na? I don’t have to get married today.”

Ajay bhaiya laughed. “No, silly. Maybe next year.”

Relief rushed through me, and I smiled so wide my cheeks hurt. By next year I will be big, I told myself. Big enough to choose. Big enough to stay.

I didn’t know then that far away, in a haveli I had never seen, someone was already preparing for me.

____

I was halfway down the staircase when Ammaji’s voice rang through the haveli.

“Rajendar!”

Her tone always carried the weight of command—sharp enough to slice air, strong enough to still the scurrying of servants. Pitaji walked beside me, his stride slower, heavier. We both bent to touch her feet, but I knew her gaze lingered on me longer. Always on me.

“Today we go,” she announced. Her voice didn’t ask; it declared. “If you don’t like the girl, say it directly. I will not waste time.”

I kept my eyes lowered, but inside, my chest tightened. Seventeen years old, and the world already wanted to hand me a wife like another piece of land or a new pair of juttis. Ammaji’s love was a chain—mul se pyara byaaj, she used to say. Interest is always dearer than the principal. I was her interest. Her investment.

“Ji, Amma,” I murmured, though the words tasted of iron.

She adjusted her spectacles, her hawk-like eyes sweeping across the hall. “The haveli must be spotless. Every brass polished, every corner scrubbed. This is not a visit—it is a verdict.”

I stood straight, hands behind my back, pretending I didn’t feel the sting of her words. A verdict. That’s all this marriage was to her. Not mine. Hers.

The ring of the telephone cut through the haveli like a blade. The servant scrambled to answer, but Ammaji’s hand was faster, snatching the receiver before he could breathe. Her voice was steady, sharp, each word carrying the weight of command.

I stood beside Pitaji, silent. In this house, no one spoke over Ammaji. Not Pitaji, not me. Not even the walls dared to creak when her voice filled the air.

Her face stiffened as she listened, and I felt the tension ripple through the room like storm winds. Then her words dropped, cold and clipped:

“I see. So you have already accepted another rishta.”

Her knuckles whitened around the receiver, but her voice never broke. “Mubarak ho. May your daughter’s house be blessed.”

The click of the receiver echoed. Silence fell, heavy, dangerous.

“They refused,” Ammaji said, her eyes like steel. “They gave their daughter to a merchant.”

Pitaji’s jaw twitched. “Merchants. Beneath us.”

“Beneath or not,” Ammaji snapped, “they moved faster. And now the girl is gone.”

I said nothing. My lips curled, though. Another family’s girl stolen away—who cared? There would be others. Always others.

But Ammaji’s gaze cut across me, hawk-like, and I lowered my eyes. She never had to strike. One glance was enough to remind me—I was hers. Her blood. Her heir.

“Not plenty, beta,” she said, voice softening only for me. “The right one. A lion does not settle for scraps.”

Pitaji cleared his throat. “There is another family. In Banaras. Ram, the trader. His daughter has come of age. His ties in silk and grain could be useful.”

Ammaji’s eyes narrowed, considering. “Ram… yes. Dignity intact. His family keeps honor. A clean house.”

“And the girl?” I asked, my voice low, careful.

“A child,” Pitaji muttered. “But ready for talks.”

Ammaji’s lips curved into a thin smile. “Then we shall see her.”

Her clap thundered through the haveli. Servants scattered like frightened rats. “Kamla! Prepare. Tomorrow we travel to Banaras.”

The hall buzzed again, but I kept still. In front of Ammaji, my tongue stayed leashed. But inside, my blood boiled. I did not care for the girl’s face or her laugh or her age. A wife was not a companion—she was property. Mine to command. Mine to break.

I wanted to say it, but I swallowed my words. Ammaji’s eyes would pin me if I spoke.

Pitaji bowed his head, obedient as always. Ammaji ruled him, ruled us all. He had killed for her before—his own sister’s life crushed under the weight of dignity and honour. He would kill again if she demanded it. And one day, so would I.

I walked into the study Indra and I shared. My hand brushed the cold iron shackle, and the smell of old pages—decades of knowledge and accountancy—struck me. It wasn’t comforting. It was a reminder. A warning.

The same muskwood table, the two chairs, the towering bookshelves… all of it trapped inside these walls, like everything else in this haveli. I couldn’t escape the thought: marriage. My so-called friends were already married, some with wives at home, barking their disgusting laughter while speaking of the women I didn’t have—and wouldn’t, not unless I willed it. Women weren’t meant to be anything more than tools. To feed, to amuse, to survive our anger or satisfy our whims. That’s what Pitaji drilled into Indra and me. That’s what I saw everywhere I looked.

Indra, of course, was different. Maa had stuffed her head with nonsense, about humans and their “rights.” Technically correct, but irrelevant. Compared to us, to men who rule the house and the world outside, they were nothing.

I let my gaze settle on the pages, the ink from decades bleeding into the paper. Pitaji taught what was necessary. Only what was necessary. Especially for me. The heir of Thakur—half a fool if I didn’t learn fast.

The surname itself was a lion, wild and unbroken. Either you grab it by the throat, or it devours you alive. And this haveli… a metal cage, keeping all the maniacs inside, each clawing for survival, each praying they’re not next, but it leaves none.

("I’m still oscillating between first and third person POV, so I’d really appreciate any advice. I’m open to feedback, so please let me know the areas I need to work on.")

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