Diwali arrived like a storm of light in the village. Strings of oil lamps flickered on every mud wall. Firecrackers cracked through the night. The air smelled of gunpowder, roasted peanuts, and sweet jalebi frying in roadside kadhais. Children ran with sparklers, laughing. Women wore their brightest sarees—red, green, gold—blouses low, bindis shining on foreheads. For one night, the village forgot fear. But not Rudra.

He decided to celebrate publicly. Not for joy—for display. Meera would be shown off. Owned. Marked in front of everyone without them knowing the full truth.