Devraj took a drag of his cigarette, letting the ember flare bright against the dim room. His face was all hard angles and cruelty carved by years of unchecked power.
Across from him stood Hari—thin, sun-burnt, his dhoti stained with soil and desperation. He clutched his gamcha like a drowning man holding the last piece of rope.
Devraj didn’t even look at him at first.
He blew out smoke and said, almost lazily “Toh bol Hari… kab laa raha hai mere paise?”
Hari cleared his throat. "Sahib... woh... paisa abhi pura nahi ho paya. Thoda waqt chahiye aur."
He scoffed loudly, leaning forward.
"Waqt? Saale tum logon ko na har saal wahi rona— 'barish der se', 'fasal kam', 'bhagwan yeh', 'bhagwan woh'. Bhagwan ne tere liye karja lene ka theka diya tha kya?"
Hari swallowed hard.
"Sahib, fasal thoda—"
Devraj slammed his palm violently on the table. The registers jumped.
"Fasal teri maa nahi jiska dukh sunu main!" he barked.
"Paise maine diye the. Aur tum logon ka bas ek kaam—lautana. Woh bhi nahi hota tum chhote logon se."
He flicked ash on the floor—right near Hari’s feet.
Hari stepped back instinctively.
Devraj noticed.
He smirked.
“Arre, pair peeche kyun kar raha?
Waise hi zameen teri nahi hai.
Meri hi hai sab… mitti se leke mandir ke prasad tak.”
Hari whispered,
“Sahib, ek hafte ka waqt—”
Devraj shot up from the chair so fast the fan rattled above.
His voice boomed like an explosion.
“EK HAFTA? Saale tujhe zindagi bhar ka waqt diya tha maine!
Par tum log… tum log toh kutte bhi nahi—kutte kam se kam haddi wapas le aate hain.”
He grabbed Hari by the jaw—fingers digging into his cheeks.
Hari winced but didn’t fight back.
He shoved him back.
Hari’s back hit the wall. Dust slipped down from the tin roof like dandruff.
Devraj circled him slowly, voice now low and venomous.
“Ab sun…paise tu laa nahi sakta.
Himmat tu rakh nahi sakta.
Aur mujhse baat kare tab bhi teri zubaan thartharati hai jaise thand mein nange pair ka aadmi.”
He leaned close—nose almost touching Hari’s ear.
“Toh ab ek hi cheez bachi.”
Hari’s pulse hammered.
Devraj stepped back, looked him dead in the eyes, and said:
“Teri beti.”
Hari’s breath froze.
Hari's mouth went dry. "Sahib, yeh... yeh kaise baat kar rahe hain aap? Woh meri beti hai!"
Devraj laughed harshly. "Beti hai, toh kya hua? Mera paisa bhi toh hai. Tu mere zameen par rehta hai, mere paani se kheti karta hai, mere baazaar se bechta hai. Tere sans bhi meri daane par chalti hain, Hari."
Hari's hands trembled. "Woh chhoti hai... padhti hai abhi..."
He barked a bitter laugh.
"Padke kya karegi? Collector banegi? Teri to akal ghaas charne gayi hai, Hari. Tum logon ki betiyan likhna-padna nahi seekhti—ya toh kisi ke ghar kaam karti hain, ya kisi ki aurat banti hain."
Hari looked away, shame burning under his skin.
Devraj leaned forward, tone suddenly cold as steel.
Hari whispered,
"Sahib… yeh theek nahi hai."
Now Devraj’s face twisted into pure contempt.
He grabbed Hari’s collar and yanked him forward.
"Theek?" he snarled.
"Theek kya hota hai, haan? Yeh duniya tumhare liye theek hoti toh tum abhi bhi yahan bhookhe-nange matke ban kar nahi khade hote!"
He shoved him back.
Then he straightened his shirt and spoke calmly—too calmly.
"Sunn, Hari…"
"Agar haan bola—sab udhaar maaf. Tera khet, ghar, sab bach jayega."
He paused.
"Agar na bola…"
He smiled, a slow, poisonous smile.
Silence swallowed the room—dense, suffocating.
The wall clock ticked loudly, each second like a hammer blow.
Hari’s breath hitched. Sweat slid down his spine.
Devraj lit another cigarette lazily.
....... ...........  ..........  ........  ........ ........ .......
The shadows grew long by the time Papa returned from Devraj Singh's mansion. The sound of his footsteps outside had always brought a strange comfort to our home—solid, predictable, like the heartbeat of this fragile world we lived in. But that evening, something in his tread was uneven. Hesitant. Heavy.
Maa looked up from the stove, her anklets softly chiming as she turned. The lentils on the fire gave off a faint, scorched smell. My fingers were cold despite the heat in the room. I had been pretending to sew the tear in my old dupatta, though I had pricked my finger twice already. The quiet had felt like waiting for a storm.
When Papa entered, the air seemed to tighten. His shoulders sagged, dust clinging to his shirt like he had carried the whole road home with him. He shut the door slowly, and the click of the latch made my stomach twist.
Papa sat slowly, like each bone ached. He didn’t look at either of us at first. He stared at the floor—the cracked mud coating near his slippers, the faint dust on his cuffs, the hem of his dhoti stained with something darker than soil.
Maa whispered,
“Kya hua, Hari?”
Papa closed his eyes briefly, as if holding back something sharp.
The silence in the room thickened, pressing on my chest.
Then he looked up at me.
Not fully—just enough.
And that partial glance scared me more than if he had stared.
It was the look of a man who had lost something precious… or was about to.
His throat worked, but no words came.
Finally, he managed,
“Meera… beta… yahan aa.”
His voice was rough, almost broken. Maa immediately wiped her hands on her sari, leaving a faint smudge of turmeric on the fabric.
My legs felt too light and too heavy at the same time as I walked to him.
Maa’s voice cracked,
“Kuch boliye toh… itna darraiye mat.”
Papa swallowed.
“Woh… Devraj sahieb…”
Even his name felt like a cold wind brushing the back of my neck.
Papa’s fingers curled into fists, jaw clenched so tight the veins on his neck strained.
He whispered,
“Kheta, ghar… sab chhin lega.....use paise nahi wapas kiya toh...Hum kahin ke nahi rahenge.”
Maa’s breath hitched.
My heartbeat pounded.
Papa finally looked at me—really looked. Pain swelled behind his eyes so raw that my own vision blurred.
“Meera…”
He reached out and placed a trembling hand on my head.
His palm was dry, calloused, warm—familiar.
But the warmth carried an ache today. A fear.
“Beta… tu darr mat.”
He swallowed.
“Main hoon na.”
But his voice betrayed him.
A father promising safety while shaking like a leaf.
Maa knelt beside him, gripping his arm.
“Hari… sach batao. Usne kya kaha? Kya chahta hai woh?”
Papa stared into nothing.
Nothing stared back.
Finally, in a ragged whisper, he said:
“Woh kehta hai—
‘Paise nahi laa sakta toh…Meera shee shaadi karne ko.’”
The world went still.
The lentils on the stove bubbled over.
The kettle hissed.
The night insects outside sang.
But inside, everything froze.
Maa’s hand slipped from his arm.
A soft thud as it hit the floor.
I didn’t breathe.
Couldn’t.
Papa wiped his face with trembling fingers. "Bola... ki agar Meera usse shaadi kar le... toh sab karza maaf ho jayega."
Then Mummy jolts upright, her voice breaking into raw disbelief. "Pagal ho gaye ho kya? Apni beti ko uss shaitaan ke haath chadha doge?"My pulse thrums loud in my ears. I can barely find my voice. 
"Nahi, Papa," I manage to whisper. "Please... kuch aur rasta dekh lo. Main sab sambhal lungi. Par yeh nahi."
Papa flinched. I had never seen him look so small, so defeated.
He muttered, almost to himself, "Main kya karun, beti? Ghar, khet, sab chala jayega. Woh aadmi kuch bhi kar sakta hai... police, gaon, sab uske haath mein hain."
Maa's voice shook with fury and fear. "Toh ladki ka balidan dena hi rasta hai ab? Bhagwan ke bharose rehna behtar hai!"
He looked at me—broken, defeated.
“Meera…
Tu meri sabse badi kamzori bhi hai…
aur sabse badi zimmedaari bhi.
Main…
main kya karun, beta?”
The night pressed in, heavy and suffocating.
Even the lamp’s flame swayed uncertainly, as if reluctant to witness what came next.
For the first time in my life,
I saw Papa not as the pillar of our home,
but as a man crushed between fate and fire—
between poverty and a tyrant’s demand.
And in that moment,I understood.
Sometimes storms don’t roar.
Sometimes they whisper your name.
I could taste the salt of my tears before I felt them fall.
I stood up, the ground beneath my feet unsteady. The small room blurred around me—the walls stained with years of smoke, the flickering light swallowing the corners.
The next few days passed in a numb, blue haze.
My hands trembled, the echo of his voice lingering—his cold words slicing through the air like a blade I couldn't close my eyes from.
I thought of the sari I wore when I came to the kitchen this morning, the one Mummy had washed and starched so carefully. It smelled faintly of jasmine and sandalwood, the scent of a world I wanted to belong to but felt was slipping away.
My fingers traced the rough fabric, and I saw the reflection of my own face in the darkened window—eyes wide and frightened, lips pressed tight to keep from trembling.
Papa had arrived with that bowed head of his, the weight of years digging lines in his face, but today there was something different—something broken.
I saw it in the way his shoulders sank, and in Mummy's hands, clutching each other as if trying to hold herself together.
I wanted to scream, to shout, to run far from the fields, far from the eyes that watched and whispered, far from the power that crushed us underfoot like dirt. But the truth was heavier than fear. It pinned me to this spot, to this moment.
I remembered my schoolbag, stuffed in the corner with books I barely touched anymore. Miss Anjali's voice telling us that education was our light. But what use was light in the shadow of Devraj Singh's empire? The village whispered about his reach—how his name could silence voices, close mouths, bend the will of the strongest men.
Yet inside me, a small flame kindled—a stubborn flicker of something fierce. Even if the world saw me as small and soft, I knew I carried more than just my father's debt or my mother's prayers. Somewhere beneath the heaviness, a defiance wove itself quietly with every ragged breath.
I wiped my eyes, stood tall, and faced the dim room. Whatever lay ahead, I would not disappear without a fight.