"परोपकाराय फलन्ति वृक्षाः, परोपकाराय वहन्ति नद्यः।
परोपकाराय दुहन्ति गावः, परोपकाराय इदं शरीरम्॥"

Paropakaraaya phalanti vrikshaah, paropakaraaya vahanti nadyah,
Paropakaraaya duhanti gaavah, paropakaraaya idam shareeram.

(Trees bear fruit for others' benefit, rivers flow for others' benefit,
Cows give milk for others' benefit—this body too exists for serving others.)

— Sanskrit Subhashita

AARADHYA

Next Morning, Assi Ghat
4:15 AM

The stone steps are cold beneath my feet again. Familiar. Grounding.

I clutch my brass thali to my chest—today it holds a few more marigolds than usual. I'd found them scattered near the market yesterday evening, fallen from a vendor's cart. Slightly wilted, but still bright. Still beautiful.

Ganeshji won't mind, I tell myself. He sees the bhav, not the flower.
(Ganeshji won't mind. He sees the devotion, not the flower.)

The mist is thicker this morning, wrapping around the ghats like a soft blanket. The Ganga is quiet, her waters dark and still. Somewhere in the distance, a temple bell rings—ting, ting, ting—marking the hour before dawn.

I descend the steps slowly, counting each one under my breath. Ek, do, teen...

My body aches less today. The bruise on my cheek has faded to a dull yellow. The one on my ribs still hurts when I breathe too deeply, but I've learned to take shallow breaths. Small mercies.

When I reach the small Ganesh mandir, I'm surprised to see I'm not alone.

Pandit Vishwanath is there—the old priest from the Shiva temple—sitting cross-legged on the platform, his white dhoti glowing faintly in the pre-dawn light. He's chanting something softly, his fingers moving over rudraksha beads.

And beside him, two villagers I recognize—Ramcharan Kaka and Kamla Bua—talking in low, animated voices.

I hesitate. I don't want to intrude. But Pandit ji sees me and smiles, beckoning me forward.

"Aa, beti. Aaradhya, hai na?" (Come, daughter. You're Aaradhya, right?)

I'm surprised he knows my name. I nod, folding my hands. "Ji, Pandit ji. Pranaam."
(Yes, Pandit ji. Greetings.)

"Pranaam, pranaam." He gestures to the space beside him. "Baith. Koi baat nahi."
(Greetings, greetings. Sit. It's alright.)

I sit carefully, setting my thali down, suddenly shy. These are important people—people who matter in the village. And I'm... me.

"Aaj bhi itni subah?" Kamla Bua asks, her sharp eyes studying me. (Again so early?)

"Ji, Bua. Mandir aana hai toh yahi samay achha lagta hai." (Yes, Bua. If I have to come to the temple, this time feels right.)

"Achha lagta hai ya baaki samay ghar mein rehna mushkil hai?" she asks pointedly.
(Feels right, or is it difficult to stay home at other times?)

I look down, my face heating. She knows. Of course she knows. Everyone knows.

Ramcharan Kaka clears his throat. "Kamla, rehne de." (Kamla, leave it.)

She humphs but doesn't press further.

Pandit ji pats my hand gently. "Bhagwaan ke darbaar mein sab barabar hote hain, beti. Yahan tere saath koi bura nahi karega."
(In God's court, everyone is equal, daughter. No one will do you wrong here.)

The kindness in his voice makes my throat tight. I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

I light my incense sticks, the smoke curling upward. I pour water over Ganeshji's feet, place the marigolds at His base, light the small diya. The flame flickers, steady and warm.

As I begin my aarti—softly, so as not to disturb their conversation—I hear Kamla Bua's voice rise slightly.

"Suna tumne? Kal Sarpanch ji ne Dhanraj Singh ko kaisa sabak sikhaya!"
(Did you hear? Yesterday Sarpanch ji taught Dhanraj Singh such a lesson!)

My hands still for just a second. Then I continue the aarti, but my ears are focused entirely on their conversation now.

"Haan haan," Ramcharan Kaka says. "Poore gaon mein baat ho rahi hai. Panchayat mein itna bada faisla! Vikram Thakur ko doshi thehraaya."
(Yes yes. The whole village is talking about it. Such a big decision in the panchayat! He declared Vikram Thakur guilty.)

"Aur Dhanraj ki toh izzat hi utar gayi," Kamla Bua adds with satisfaction. "Usne ladki ko vaishya tak keh diya tha. Baarah saal ki bachchi ko! Sharam bhi nahi aayi usko."
(And Dhanraj's honor was completely stripped. He even called the girl a prostitute. A twelve-year-old child! He felt no shame.)

My chest tightens. Twelve years old?

"Lekin Sarpanch ji ne ek ek shabd ka jawab diya," Pandit ji says, his voice filled with pride. "Unhone saare gavaah bulaye, jhooth ko faad kar rakh diya, aur panchayat ke saamne sach dikha diya."
(But Sarpanch ji answered every single word. He called all the witnesses, tore apart the lies, and showed the truth before the panchayat.)

"Aur woh ladki... Gudiya," Kamla Bua's voice softens. "Bechaari. Uske maa-baap ne usse ghar se nikal diya tha. Bole ki woh ab apavitra hai. Sarpanch ji ne usse apne haveli mein rakha hai. School mein bhi dakhila karaya."
(And that girl... Gudiya. Poor thing. Her parents threw her out of the house. Said she was impure now. Sarpanch ji has kept her in his haveli. Even enrolled her in school.)

Something warm and unfamiliar spreads through my chest.

He took her in?

"Unke jaisa aadmi kahan milta hai aajkal?" Ramcharan Kaka says. "Taqatwar hain, lekin dil saaf hai. Nyaayi hain. Garib-amir mein farak nahi karte."
(Where do you find a man like him these days? Powerful, but pure-hearted. Just. Doesn't differentiate between rich and poor.)

"Aur unka gussa!" Kamla Bua laughs. "Arre, Dhanraj ki taraf dekha tha unhone jaise... jaise Mahadev ne asur ko dekha ho!"
(And his anger! Oh, the way he looked at Dhanraj... like Mahadev looking at a demon!)

They all laugh softly.

I finish my aarti, the flame circling seven times, and set the diya down carefully. My mind is spinning.

Yesterday, when I'd spilled water at his feet, when I'd been so terrified I couldn't breathe—

He'd knelt. Looked me in the eyes. Said: "Main woh aadmi nahi hoon jisse tumhe darna chahiye."
(I am not the man you should be afraid of.)

And I'd thought... I'd thought maybe it was just words. Maybe he was being kind in that moment because people were watching, because it suited him.

But this—

Taking in a ruined girl. Giving her shelter when her own family abandoned her. Fighting the most powerful man in the region for a child no one else cared about.

This is who he is.

"Beti?"

I jerk my head up. Pandit ji is looking at me with concern.

"Kya soch rahi hai itna?" (What are you thinking so much about?)

I open my mouth. Close it. Then, quietly: "Pandit ji... woh ladki... Gudiya... woh theek hai?"
(Pandit ji... that girl... Gudiya... is she alright?)

His expression softens. "Haan, beti. Sarpanch ji ne uski puri dekhbhaal ki hai. Ab woh safe hai. Surakshit hai."
(Yes, daughter. Sarpanch ji has taken complete care of her. Now she's safe. Protected.)

Safe. Protected.

Words I've never been able to claim for myself.

Something twists in my chest—not jealousy, not bitterness. Something closer to... longing. And maybe, just maybe, a tiny seed of hope.

If a man like that exists—

If justice like that is possible—

If safety like that is real—

Then maybe... maybe...

I don't finish the thought. I'm too afraid to.

I gather my thali and stand, bowing to Pandit ji and the others.

"Chalti hoon, Pandit ji. Kaam pe jaana hai." (I'm leaving, Pandit ji. Have to go to work.)

"Jaa, beti. Ganeshji ka aashirwaad hai tere saath." (Go, daughter. Ganeshji's blessings are with you.)

I walk away from the ghat, but the conversation stays with me, echoing in my mind with every step.

Sarpanch ji.

Yesterday, I'd seen him for barely a minute. Today, I've heard his story. And somehow, the fear I felt is slowly being replaced by something else.

Curiosity.

Respect.

And beneath it all—buried so deep I barely acknowledge it—something that feels dangerously like fascination.

...

The walk to Badi Haveli feels shorter today. Maybe because my mind is elsewhere. Maybe because my feet know the path so well they barely need my attention.

The gates are open when I arrive. The guards nod at me—one of them even mumbles a greeting. Small mercies again.

I slip through the servants' entrance and make my way quickly to the stables, my heart lighter than it's been in days.

But the moment I step inside—

I freeze.

Someone's here.

I can hear it. Soft sounds. Movement. The shuffle of feet on hay.

My first instinct is panic. Dai Maa? Did I come too early again? Is she waiting to yell at me?

But no. This doesn't sound like Dai Maa.

This sounds... smaller. Quieter.

I clutch my dupatta tighter and call out, my voice trembling: "K-kaun hai?"
(W-who's there?)

Silence.

Then—

A small voice, hesitant but clear: "Main hoon."
(It's me.)

I step forward cautiously, peering into the dim stable.

And then I see her.

A girl. Maybe twelve or thirteen. Thin, with long hair braided down her back. She's wearing a clean blue salwar-kameez—too new, too bright, like someone just bought it for her. She's standing near Aashiq's stall, one hand resting on the horse's neck, her face turned toward me.

Recognition flickers.

I've seen her before. In the village. Near the mango grove. Always alone. Always quiet.

"Gudiya?" I ask softly.

Her eyes widen slightly. "Aap... aap mujhe jaanti hain?"
(You... you know me?)

"Haan," I say, stepping closer slowly. "Gaon mein dekha hai tumhe. Tum... tum theek ho?"
(Yes. I've seen you in the village. Are you... are you alright?)

It's a stupid question. Of course she's not alright. But I don't know what else to say.

She looks down, her fingers tangling in Aashiq's mane. "Haan. Ab... ab theek hoon."
(Yes. Now... now I'm alright.)

The word "ab" (now) carries so much weight it makes my chest ache.

I set my bag down and move to Baadal's stall, starting my work routine but keeping my voice gentle, casual.

"Aashiq tumse baat kar raha tha?" I ask with a small smile. (Was Aashiq talking to you?)

She glances at the horse, then back at me, and nods. "Haan. Woh... woh achha hai. Daraata nahi."
(Yes. He's... he's good. He doesn't scare me.)

"Haan," I agree softly. "Woh sabse achha dost hai. Sunta hai, lekin kabhi galat cheez nahi kehta."
(Yes. He's the best friend. He listens, but never says the wrong thing.)

A tiny, fragile smile appears on her face. "Bilkul."
(Exactly.)

I start mucking out Baadal's stall, keeping my movements slow and non-threatening. I don't ask her what happened. I don't ask why she's here. I just... work.

And slowly, she starts to relax.

"Tumhara naam kya hai?" she asks after a few minutes. (What's your name?)

"Aaradhya."

"Aaradhya didi," she repeats softly, as if testing the sound. (Sister Aaradhya.)

Something warm blooms in my chest. No one's called me didi in years.

"Tum yahaan kaam karti ho?" (You work here?)

"Haan. Ghodo ki dekhbhaal karti hoon." (Yes. I take care of the horses.)

"Mujhe bhi ghode pasand hain." Her voice is a little stronger now. (I like horses too.)

"Toh phir tum meri madad karogi?" I ask, keeping my tone light. (Then will you help me?)

She looks up, surprised. "Main?" (Me?)

"Haan, tum! Dekho, Moti ko brush karna hai. Lekin mera haath thak gaya hai." I hold up my hand dramatically. "Kya tum kar sakti ho?"
(Yes, you! Look, Moti needs brushing. But my hand is tired. Can you do it?)

It's a lie. My hand isn't tired. But she doesn't need to know that.

She hesitates, then nods slowly. "Haan... main kar sakti hoon."
(Yes... I can do it.)

I hand her the brush and guide her to Moti's stall. Moti is the gentlest horse we have—a cream-colored mare with soft eyes.

"Aise," I show her, moving the brush in long, smooth strokes. "Dheere se. Woh pyaar se hai, toh tumhe bhi pyaar se brush karna padega."
(Like this. Gently. She's loving, so you have to brush her with love too.)

Gudiya takes the brush carefully and starts working. Her movements are tentative at first, then gradually more confident.

Moti turns her head and nuzzles Gudiya's shoulder.

Gudiya freezes—then laughs.

It's a small sound. Barely more than a breath. But it's real.

And it's the most beautiful thing I've heard all week.

We work together in comfortable silence for a while. I fill the water troughs. She brushes Moti, then moves to Bijli. I check the tack. She organizes the hay.

It's easy. Natural. Like we've been doing this for years instead of minutes.

"Gudiya," I say eventually, unable to hold back my curiosity. "Tum yahaan kyun ho? Matlab... ghar pe nahi?"
(Gudiya. Why are you here? I mean... not at home?)

Her face shutters immediately. The light that had started to return dims.

I curse myself internally. Stupid, Aaradhya. Stupid.

"Maaf karna," I say quickly. "Tumhe batana zaruri nahi hai—"
(Forgive me. You don't have to tell me—)

"Nahi," she says quietly. "Koi baat nahi."
(No. It's alright.)

She sits down on a hay bale, her hands folded in her lap.

"Sarpanch ji ne kaha hai ki main ab yahaan rahun. Peeche godown ko mere liye kamre mein badal diya. Aur... aur itna sundar bana diya."
(Sarpanch ji said I should stay here now. He converted the godown in the back into a room for me. And... and made it so beautiful.)

Her voice is filled with wonder, like she still can't believe it's real.

"Unhone mera school mein dakhila bhi kara diya. Nayi kitabein bhi di. Aur... aur kaha ki main jo padhna chahun, padh sakti hoon."
(He also enrolled me in school. Gave me new books too. And... and said I can study whatever I want.)

My throat tightens.

"Aaj school ki chhutti hai," she continues. "Isliye main yahaan Aashiq se baat karne aayi. Woh... woh mujhe samajhta hai."
(Today is a school holiday. So I came here to talk to Aashiq. He... he understands me.)

I nod, swallowing past the lump in my throat. "Haan. Ghode samajhte hain. Insaano se zyada."
(Yes. Horses understand. More than humans.)

She looks at me then—really looks at me—and I see recognition in her eyes.

She knows.

She knows what it's like to hurt. To be afraid. To feel like the world is crushing you.

"Aaradhya didi," she says softly. "Aapke haath pe... yeh kya hai?"
(Aaradhya didi. On your hand... what's this?)

I glance down. There's a bruise on my wrist. I'd forgotten to cover it.

"Kuch nahi," I say quickly, pulling my dupatta over it. "Bas... kaam karte waqt lag gaya."
(Nothing. Just... got it while working.)

She doesn't say anything. But the look in her eyes says she doesn't believe me.

And for some reason, I don't mind.

We spend the next hour together. I teach her how to braid Moti's tail. She tells me about her new books—Panchatantra and a Hindi reader. I tell her about Ganeshji and how praying helps when everything feels too heavy. She listens like every word matters.

At one point, she asks: "Sarpanch ji se milti hain aap?"
(Do you meet Sarpanch ji?)

I shake my head quickly. "Nahi. Main bas yahaan kaam karti hoon. Woh... woh bahut bade aadmi hain. Mujhe kya maalum unse."
(No. I just work here. He's... he's a very important man. What would I know about him.)

"Lekin woh achhe hain," she says firmly. "Bahut achhe. Agar woh nahi hote... toh main... main..."
(But he's good. Very good. If he weren't there... then I... I...)

She doesn't finish. She doesn't need to.

"Haan," I say softly. "Woh achhe hain."
(Yes. He's good.)

And I mean it.

We're laughing—actually laughing—about how Bijli tried to eat Gudiya's braid, when we hear footsteps.

Heavy. Confident. Approaching fast.

Gudiya's laughter cuts off immediately. Her body goes rigid.

I turn toward the stable entrance, my heart suddenly racing.

And then—

He walks in.

Raajvardhan Singh Rathore.

The morning sun is behind him, outlining his frame in gold. He's wearing a white kurta again, sleeves rolled to his elbows, that Rudraksha mala stark against his skin. His hair is slightly damp—like he just bathed.

His eyes sweep the stable—taking in everything in one glance.

Me. Gudiya. The horses. The work half-done.

And then his gaze lands on me.

And holds.

My breath catches.

For a moment, the world narrows to just that—his eyes and mine, across the dust-filled air, across the space that separates a Sarpanch and a servant.

Then Gudiya breaks the silence.

"Sarpanch ji!"

She runs to him—not with fear, but with joy—and stops just short of crashing into him.

He smiles.

Actually smiles.

It transforms his entire face, softening the hard edges, lighting something warm in his eyes.

"Gudiya," he says, his voice gentle in a way I didn't know was possible. "School ki chhutti hai aaj?"
(Gudiya. School holiday today?)

"Haan, Sarpanch ji! Isliye main yahaan aayi. Aaradhya didi ke saath kaam kar rahi thi!"
(Yes, Sarpanch ji! That's why I came here. I was working with Aaradhya didi!)

His gaze flickers back to me.

"Aaradhya."

He says my name like he's testing it. Like he's committing it to memory.

I can't speak. I just fold my hands and lower my eyes.

"Sarpanch ji," I manage, my voice barely above a whisper.

When I dare glance up, he's still looking at me.

And something in his expression—

Something I can't name, can't understand, can't even begin to unravel—

Makes my heart race faster than any fear ever has.

END OF CHAPTER 4