👑 Rudra's Perspective

The air at the village square was thick with the scent of dry grain and the judgmental silence of men who had spent their lives working the earth. I stood in the center, my 6'3" frame towering over most of them. I could feel their eyes scanning my fair skin and my uncalloused hands. To them, I was just a "city boy" who would break under the Rajasthan sun.

The Sarpanch, an old man with a turban as white as his beard, pointed toward a mountain of 100kg burlap sacks filled with wheat.

"The truck leaves for the mandi in an hour," the Sarpanch said, his voice gravelly. "If you want to earn your day's ration, you load those. But don't strain yourself, 'Sheher-baboo' (City boy). We don't want your pretty wife coming here to pick up the pieces of her husband."

A few of the younger men laughed, leaning against the stone pillars. One of them, a burly guy named Shera, stepped forward. He hoisted a sack with a grunt, showing off his strength. "It’s okay, Sarpanch ji. If the Prince of the City tires out, I’ll finish his work for him. I’m sure his wife will be grateful."

My jaw tightened. The "Cold-Hearted Prince" inside me wanted to snap his neck for mentioning Ishita, but I reigned it in. I didn't need a security team or a mafia friend like Krishiv to handle this. I just needed my own strength.

I stepped up to the pile. I didn't grunt. I didn't hesitate. I reached down, my muscles coiling beneath my simple khadi kurta. With one fluid motion, I swung the 100kg sack onto my shoulder as if it were a bag of feathers.

The laughter died instantly.

I walked toward the truck, my boots thudding rhythmically against the dirt. I tossed the sack into the bed of the truck with a heavy *thump* and turned back. My eyes, cold and sharp as the ocean, locked onto Shera’s.

"Next," I said, my voice low and dangerous.

As I worked, I didn't just use my strength. I used the "photographic memory" Ishi always teased me about. I recalled the structural logistics I’d seen at **The Rathor Company’s** shipping docks. I calculated the most efficient way to stack the sacks to fit the maximum load, moving with a speed and precision that left the other men breathless.

By the time the truck was half-full, I was drenched in sweat. The dust stuck to my skin, and my shoulders burned, but I didn't stop. Every time I felt my muscles scream, I thought of Ishita back at the hut—her **sindoor**, her **chooda**, and the way she looked at me like I was her whole world. I wasn't doing this for the grain; I was doing it to prove I could be the man she deserved, even without a single rupee to my name.

Shera was now struggling to keep up. He stopped to wipe his face, panting. "Where... where did you learn to work like a bull, city man?"

I grabbed the last sack of my set, swinging it up effortlessly. "I don't just work, Shera. I conquer. Now, either keep moving or get out of my way."

The Sarpanch watched me from his stool, a new look of respect in his eyes. He realized that beneath the fair skin and the handsome face was a man made of tempered steel.

I dropped the final sack into the truck bed with a resounding thud that echoed across the quieted square. My lungs were burning, and my white khadi kurta was now a map of sweat and Rajasthan’s red dust, but I stood tall.

The Sarpanch stood up from his wooden stool, the skepticism in his eyes replaced by a genuine, weathered respect. He walked over and patted my shoulder—a heavy, grounding strike. "Bhout ache, beta," he said, his voice no longer gravelly with doubt but warm with approval.

He looked at the setting sun and then back at me. "Kheti karni aati h? (Do you know how to farm?)" He sighed, looking out toward the horizon. "Kyunki yaha zaroorat h logo ki... pichle saal kam hui thi. (Because we need people here... last year the harvest was low.)"

I stood my ground, my ocean-blue eyes reflecting the orange hues of the evening. I didn't lie; a Rathor doesn't need to. "Aati tho nhi h pr sikh jaunga. (I don't know it, but I'll learn.)"

The Sarpanch’s face broke into a wide, toothy grin. "Yes! Hui na baat! (That's the spirit!) Chlo fir, kal subha thik? (Then tomorrow morning, alright?)"

I nodded—a silent, royal pact. I took the small bundle of money and the grain ration he handed me, the first "real" wages I had ever earned with my own sweat and bone.

The walk back to the hut felt different than the walk there. My body was exhausted, but my mind was clear. As I approached our small mud sanctuary, I saw her.

Ishita was sitting on the low stone step of the hut, surrounded by a group of village children. She was showing them something—probably a simple trick with her **chooda**—and the sound of their high-pitched giggles filled the air. She looked like a vision of peace amidst the dust, her long curly hair slightly messy but her brown eyes glowing.

The moment she saw me, her face transformed. The "model" poise vanished, replaced by the raw, instinctive love of a wife. She stood up instantly, her **Payal** jingling a frantic, happy rhythm as she hurried toward me.

"Ru!" she breathed, her voice filled with a mix of relief and pride.

I stopped in front of her, the 6'3" "Prince" now covered in the grime of a common laborer. I didn't want to touch her and ruin her clean peach suit, but she didn't care.

She reached out, her delicate hands trembling slightly as she grabbed the edge of her cotton dupatta. Without a word, she stepped into my space, reaching up to my face. I closed my eyes as I felt the soft fabric of her veil wiping the thick layer of dust from my forehead and the salt of the sweat from my cheeks.

"Look at you," she whispered, her fingers ghosting over my jaw, lingering near the tattoo over my heart. "You really did it. You worked like them."

"I told you I would, Janna," I murmured, my voice low and rough. I caught her wrist, pulling her hand away from my face just enough to press a hard, lingering kiss into her palm. "I earned our dinner today. No Rathor bank accounts, no credit cards. Just me."

I held up the small pouch of coins.

She looked at the money, and then back at my tired eyes, and I saw a tear sparkle in her lashes. "You're the most handsome man I've ever seen, Rudra Singh Rathor. Even covered in dirt."

"I'm just Rudra today, Ishi," I reminded her, pulling her closer despite the mess. "And I'm starving. Tell me the *chulha* didn't win the second round."

She laughed, a bright, beautiful sound that made the back-breaking labor of the day worth every second. "The *chulha* and I have reached a peace treaty. Come inside, Patidev. Your Queen has prepared a feast—well, at least some very round-ish rotis."

I laughed, a tired but genuine sound, as I sat down on the simple jute mat. The hut felt cooler now that the sun had tucked itself behind the horizon. I had shed my sweat-soaked kurta, leaving me in just my trousers, my bare chest still radiating the heat of a day's hard labor. The **tattoo over my heartbeat** seemed to pulse as my breathing finally slowed down.

I watched Ishita move with grace, her **chooda** singing a soft lullaby as she placed the stainless steel plate in front of me. The rotis were perfectly round, stacked neatly, and the aroma of the simple daal made my stomach growl in a way it never had after a five-course meal at a luxury hotel.

I tore off a piece of the warm bread, dipped it into the daal, and took a bite. The flavors were earthy and rich.

"Apne banaya? (Did you make this?)" I asked, looking up at her. My ocean-blue eyes were soft, reflecting the flickering light of the small oil lamp sitting between us.

She tilted her head, a playful, secretive smile dancing on her lips as she sat cross-legged on the mat opposite me. "Aap batao. (You tell me.)"

I took another bite, chewing slowly, pretending to be a world-class food critic. I smiled and nodded. "Acha fir tho... (In that case... then it's amazing.)"

Ishita let out a soft huff and shook her head, her long curly hair swaying. "Mujhe khush karne ke liye jhoot bolte ho! (You're lying just to make me happy!)" She giggled, reaching out to poke my arm. "Mene nhi banaya. Kaki ki bahu ne banaya h... she was teaching me. (I didn't make it. Kaki's daughter-in-law made it...)"

I caught her hand, my dusty, rough fingers intertwining with her soft hands . I pulled her hand to my lips, kissing her knuckles right above her **engagement ring**.

"I knew it," I whispered, my voice a low, teasing rumble. "The rotis were too round to be yours, Janna. Yours would probably look like the map of the world we traveled during our Switzerland shoot."

She pouted, but her eyes were full of love. "Hey! I'm learning! By next week, I'll be making them myself. Champa said I have 'city hands,' but I told her I have 'Rathor determination.'"

I pulled her closer, so she was leaning against my side as I continued to eat. "Take your time, Ishi. Whether you cook or Kaki's daughter-in-law cooks, as long as you're the one sitting next to me on this mat, the food tastes like a feast."

I leaned in, my nose brushing against her neck, lingering near the spot he was so obsessed with. "But tomorrow... tomorrow I start in the fields at 5 AM. I'm going to need you to wake me up with that 'Rathor determination,' because my body feels like it's made of lead."

She wrapped her arm around my waist, her head resting on my shoulder. "I'll wake you up, Ru. And maybe by the time you get back, I'll have a surprise for you. A roti that is at least... semi-circular."

I choked back a laugh, my eyes widening as she shoved a massive bite of roti and daal into my mouth. My "Cold-Hearted Prince" dignity stood no chance against her "Rathor determination." I chewed quickly, trying to regain my ability to speak while she defiantly took a bite herself, her jaw working with adorable stubbornness.

"Aap tho ese bol rahe ho jese mene kabhi khana banaya hi nhi," she mumbled through her own mouthful, her brown eyes narrowed at me. "I know how to cook on a stove, not on a chulha, but I will learn! Okay? Don't make fun of me!"

I swallowed the bite, my hand moving to catch her chin, tilting her face up towards the flickering lamp light. I couldn't help the smirk that tugged at my lips.

"I know you can cook, Janna," I said, my voice softening into a low, intimate hum. "I haven't forgotten the meals you made for me back in the city. It’s just... seeing you go from a top model and makeup artist to a village bahu fighting with a mud stove is a sight I never thought I’d see. I’m not making fun of you—I’m in awe of you."

I reached out and wiped a tiny speck of daal from the corner of her lip with my thumb, my touch lingering. "Most women in your position would have run back to the Raj Mahal the second the AC turned off. But you? You're sitting here in the dust, feeding me 'forceful' bites of food Kaki's bahu taught you to make. That’s why you’re my Queen, Ishi. Not because of the palace, but because of this."

She softened then, her pout melting into a small, shy smile. She leaned forward, resting her forehead against mine, our breaths mingling in the quiet hut.

"I'm doing it because you're doing it, Ru," she whispered. "If the great Rudra Singh Rathor can load wheat sacks until his shoulders ache, I can certainly learn to handle a few logs of wood."

I pulled her into my lap, her light 5'3" frame feeling like nothing against my 6'3" build. I rested my head in the crook of her neck, my lips ghosting over those new moles. "We're a team, Janna. Always."

I took the plate from her and set it aside. "Now, enough about the cooking. The sun is going to be up in five hours, and the Sarpanch expects a 'lion' in the fields. Let’s go to bed, Ishi. I need my 'pillow' more than I need my dinner."

💖 Ishita's Perspective

I sat on the edge of the *charpai*, the rough jute ropes creaking under me as Ru settled on the floor between my knees. In the dim glow of the oil lamp, his back looked like a landscape of shadows and strength. I reached out, my hands looking so small against his broad, shirtless shoulders.

Even though he insisted he was fine, I started massaging his muscles, my fingers digging into the firm skin around his shoulder blades. I could feel the heat radiating from him—the literal heat of a man who had been a laborer all day. My **chooda** clinked a rhythmic, soothing tune against his skin with every movement of my wrists.

"Aap tho ese bol rahe ho jese pta nhi kya ho jayega," I murmured, my thumbs tracing the line of his traps. "Subha uthne ki tension nhi h mujhe, vo to aap vese bhi utne hi ho gym ke liye. (I'm not worried about waking up; you're up for the gym anyway.)"

He let out a low, relaxed hum, his head dropping forward to give me better access to his neck. I leaned in, my breath fanning over his ear. "Pr kheti... Ru, how will you do it? Dirty dirty nhi hoga? (But farming... won't it be so dirty?)"

I thought about his meticulously organized office at **Eternity**, his polished shoes, and his expensive colognes. The idea of Rajasthan's most eligible, "Greek God" businessman standing knee-deep in soil and mud felt so surreal.

👑 Rudra's Perspective

I closed my eyes, letting her delicate touch work its magic. Her hands were soft, a stark contrast to the heavy burlap sacks I’d been hauling, and the scent of her jasmine hair was the only "aromatherapy" I needed.

"Dirty?" I repeated, a small smirk tugging at my lips. I turned my head slightly, my jaw grazing her knuckles  "Janna, I’ve already spent the day covered in wheat dust and sweat. A little mud from the fields won't kill me. Besides, I have a beautiful wife waiting at home to wipe the dirt off my face, don't I?"

I reached back, catching one of her hands and pulling it over my shoulder to kiss her palm. i needs to get his hands dirty to appreciate the throne he's about to sit on. If my ancestors did it, I can too. And as for the 'dirty' part... well, that’s what the well water is for. Or are you worried your 'model' husband won't look good in a mud-stained kurta?"

I shifted, turning around to face her, my ocean-blue eyes locking onto her brown ones. The playfulness left my voice, replaced by that intense, possessive heat.

"Don't worry about the dirt, Ishi. Just worry about how you're going to keep me from staying in bed when you wake me up at 4:45. Because right now, the only 'gym' I want to visit is right here."

I pulled her down onto the bed, her 5'3" frame landing softly against my chest. The wooden bed was hard, but with her lying on top of me, I didn't feel a thing.

💖 Ishita's Perspective

The sky was still a deep, velvety indigo when I felt the bed shift. The silence of the room was broken by a soft, rhythmic knocking on our crooked wooden door.

"Rudra Bhai! O Rudra Bhai! Chalo, time ho gaya," Kaki’s son whispered loudly from outside.

I groaned softly, the early morning chill making me want to burrow deeper into the thin quilt. But before I could even blink, I felt the warmth leave my side. Ru was already up. Even after a day of back-breaking labor, his internal clock—honed by years of 5 AM gym sessions and corporate discipline—was flawless.

In the faint, ghostly light of the pre-dawn, I saw him pulling on a fresh, simple kurta. He looked like a shadow of strength. He knelt back down on the edge of the *charpai*, the wood creaking under his weight.

He leaned in, his scent—a mix of sandalwood and the lingering coolness of the night—enveloping me. I felt his lips, warm and soft, press firmly against my cheek. The stubble on his jaw tickled my skin, making me smile even in my sleep-heavy state.

"Lock the door, then sleep, ok love?" he murmured against my skin, his voice a deep, gravelly vibration that sent a familiar shiver through me.

"Ru... it's so early," I whispered, reaching out to catch his hand. His fingers, rough from yesterday's work, squeezed mine protectively.

"The sun doesn't wait for the Prince, Janna," he teased softly. "Go back to sleep. I’ll be back before the heat gets too bad. And remember—don't open the door for anyone but Kaki until I’m back."

I nodded sleepily, watching him stand up. He looked 6'3" of pure, rugged determination. He grabbed his water bottle and stepped out, the door clicking shut behind him.

I waited until I heard his footsteps fade away with Kaki’s son, then I forced myself to get up. I walked to the door, my **Payal** jingling softly in the quiet hut, and slid the heavy wooden bolt into place just like he asked.

I climbed back into the bed, but it felt too big and too cold without him. I pulled his discarded shirt to my chest, breathing in his scent.

*My husband is out there probably trying to figure out how to plow a field with a photographic memory,* I thought with a giggle, finally drifting back into a light sleep.

After some time

The sun was beginning to climb, turning the village into a golden furnace. I walked toward the well with Laxmi and Champa, an empty metal bucket in each hand. My **chooda** felt heavy today, and my **Payal** seemed to chime a warning with every step.

Back at the Raj Mahal, or even our apartment in the city, water was something that just *appeared* when I turned a silver knob. Here, it was a battle.

"Don't worry, Bhabhi," Champa said, swinging her own buckets effortlessly. "It’s all in the shoulders. Just drop the rope, let it bite the water, and pull!"

I looked at the well. It felt like a deep, dark abyss. I leaned over the stone ledge, my 5'3" frame feeling dangerously top-heavy. I threw the bucket down just like they showed me. *Splash.* "Okay, now pull!" Laxmi encouraged.

I gripped the rough hemp rope and tugged. My eyes nearly popped out of my head. The bucket, now filled with liters of water, felt like it was made of solid lead. I pulled with all my might, my slim arms trembling and my face turning a bright shade of pink.

"Oof! It’s... it’s so heavy!" I gasped, my feet sliding a little on the wet stones.

A few other village women had gathered, watching the "city bahu" with amused expressions. I could hear them whispering.

"Look at her wrists... they’re like glass."

"Does her husband do everything for her? She looks like she’s never lifted anything heavier than a lipstick."

I felt a sting of embarrassment. Ru wasn't here to sweep me off my feet or carry the load for me today. He was miles away in the dirt, proving he could be one of them. I had to prove I could be one of them, too.

I gritted my teeth, wrapping the rope around my hands—ignoring the way it burned my palms. I gave a massive heave, my breath hitching in my throat. The bucket rose an inch, then two. My muscles—which were used to yoga and light pilates, not manual labor—were screaming.

"Come on, Ishi," I whispered to myself. "You're a Rathor now. Don't let them see you fail."

Just as the bucket reached the rim, my foot slipped on a patch of moss. I let out a small shriek, the rope sliding through my fingers—

"Haye! Sambhalo!" (Hey! Careful!) Champa and Laxmi both lunged forward, catching the rope just before the bucket plummeted back down.

They helped me haul it over the ledge. I slumped against the cool stone wall of the well, panting, my hair falling out of its neat braid. My palms were red and raw, and my heart was hammering against my ribs.

"Your 'Ru' really has spoiled you, hasn't he?" Laxmi laughed kindly, wiping a smudge of wet mud from my forehead. "You're like a delicate flower, Bhabhi. If he saw your hands right now, he’d probably set the whole well on fire out of anger."

I looked at my shaking hands and then at the bucket of water I had *technically* helped fetch. It wasn't much, but it was a start.

"He's not here to spoil me today," I said, trying to regain my breath, a stubborn spark in my brown eyes. "But he’s going to be thirsty when he gets back from the fields. I’m carrying this bucket back to the hut if it’s the last thing I do."

Back at the hut, the struggle continued, but this time I had my "village sisters" by my side. With Laxmi’s patient instructions, I finally managed to tame the *chulha* without causing a smoke signal that could be seen from the Raj Mahal. We packed the fresh, slightly smoky rotis and spicy sabzi into steel tiffins, ready to take them to the men.

My hands were stinging—the rough hemp rope had left angry red welts across my palms, and the dry February air made the itching even worse. But I ignored it, hiding my hands in the folds of my dupatta. I wanted to be a "strong village wife" for Ru.

As Champa, Laxmi, and I approached the clearing near the fields, I noticed a crowd. It wasn't just the men working; there was a swarm of village girls gathered under a large neem tree. They were whispering, nudging each other, and giggling like they were at a premiere of a Bollywood movie.

"What is happening here?" I muttered, my eyes narrowing.

As we got closer, I saw the "attraction." There was my husband. Even in a simple, mud-splattered kurta, his 6'3" frame dominated the landscape. He was handling a plow with a focus that was terrifyingly attractive. I reached the boundary of the soil and stopped, taking a long, shaky breath. My heart finally settled when I realized—*thank God*—he hadn't taken his shirt off like he usually does at the gym. He was still covered, though the sweat had turned the fabric translucent in places  The way the fabric of his kurta pulled tight across his broad shoulders with every movement made it very clear why these girls were staring.

"Dekho toh sahi (Just look at him)," one girl whispered loudly. "Is he a man or a statue come to life?"

My blood began to boil. My "Cold-Hearted Prince" was being treated like a tourist attraction. I felt a surge of possessiveness that made my grip on the tiffin tighten until my red palms throbbed.

**"Kameniya sari ki sari... (Shameless, every single one of them...)"** I hissed under my breath, my teeth gritted so hard my jaw ached.

I marched toward the edge of the field, my **Payal** jingling with an aggressive, territorial rhythm. Every girl I passed got a sharp, "I-am-his-wife" glare that could have withered the crops.

👑 Rudra's Perspective

I sensed her before I saw her. It’s a Rathor instinct—or maybe just the way my soul reacts to the scent of jasmine in the air. I wiped the sweat from my brow with my forearm and looked up.

There she was. My Ishi.

She was standing at the edge of the field, looking like a fierce little goddess in her peach suit. Her face was flushed, her eyes were snapping with fire, and she was staring down a group of village girls as if she were ready to go to war.

I felt a smirk tugging at my lips. My "Janna" was jealous.

I handed the plow to the man next to me and started walking toward her, my long strides eating up the distance. The girls under the tree went silent, their giggles dying down as they watched the "Handsome Newcomer" head straight for the girl with the tiffin.

"You're late, Janna," I murmured, stopping right in front of her. I reached out to take the tiffin, but my eyes caught something else—the angry red marks on her delicate, slim hands.

My expression shifted instantly from playful to "Cold stone. I grabbed her wrist, my voice dropping into a dangerous rumble. "Ishi... what happened to your hands?"

I didn't even hear her words at first. My entire world had shrunk down to the size of her palms. The sight of those raw, red welts on her porcelain skin made a vein throb in my temple. I knew exactly what this was—the well rope. I had spent years making sure she never had to lift anything heavier than a makeup brush, and now, because of this "hidden life," she was bleeding for a bucket of water.

"Ishi, these are rope burns," I muttered, my voice thick with a mix of guilt and fury. I ignored the dirt on my own hands and used my thumbs to feather-lightly caress the marks, trying to pull the sting out of them with my touch.

"Ru! Vo chodo!" she snapped, trying to yank her hand back, but my grip was like iron—gentle, but absolute. "In sab ko hataya kyu nhi? (Why didn't you shoo them away?)"

I finally looked up, blinking at her. Her brown eyes were sparking with a fire that had nothing to do with the sun. She threw a sharp, lethal glance toward the cluster of girls under the neem tree.

"Gaon ki titliya zayda achi lag rahi h kya? (Are the village butterflies looking too good to you?)" she hissed, her pout so deep it was almost a challenge.

The man in me almost laughed, but the "Husband" in me was far more interested in the territorial flare in her voice. I realized then that while I was worried about her skin, she was busy protecting her "property."

I didn't look at the "butterflies." I didn't give them the satisfaction of a single glance. Instead, I stepped even closer, my 6'3" frame completely shielding her from their view. I leaned down until my lips were inches from her ear, my breath hot against her skin.

"Janna,  I whispered, my voice a dark, possessive rumble. "I can't even see them. My brain is too busy playing a loop of you in that peach suit. To me, this field is empty. There is only you."

I took the tiffin from her other hand and set it on the ground without breaking eye contact. I grabbed both of her small, aching hands and brought them to my lips, kissing the red welts slowly, one by one, right in front of the whole village.

"As for the 'titliya'..." I murmured, looking over her head for just a split second with a gaze so cold and lethal it made the girls under the tree visibly flinch and look away. "They just realized that this lion belongs to a very fierce queen."

I turned back to her, my ocean-blue eyes softening. "Now, forget them. Who told you to go to the well alone? I fetched the water this morning for a reason, Ishi."

She said vo tho mene nahne ke liye or head wash ke liye le liya tha

Isliye dubara bharna pada

I sighed, a mix of frustration and pure adoration swirling in my chest. "Janna, you and your long baths," I murmured, though I couldn't even be angry. If she wanted to use every drop of water I fetched just to feel like herself for twenty minutes, I’d fetch the whole river for her.

"Or chot lag gyi... (And I got hurt...)" she whispered, her voice small as she showed me her arms. Because of the dry February air and the friction of the rough hemp rope, the redness had spread up her forearms, looking irritated and itchy.

My jaw tightened. I didn't care who was watching anymore. I picked up the tiffin with one hand and wrapped my other arm firmly around her waist, guiding her toward the thick shade of a banyan tree at the edge of the field, away from the prying eyes of the village "butterflies."

I sat her down on a flat stone and immediately knelt before her. I grabbed my water bottle—the one filled with cool well water—and took a clean corner of my spare khadi cloth.

"It hurts, Ru," she complained, her bottom lip wobbling as she looked at her red arms.

"I know, love. I know," I said softly, my "Cold-Hearted" persona completely melting away. I poured the cool water over her palms and arms, watching her sigh in relief as the heat left the skin. I dabbed the water gently, my touch as light as a feather.

"I leave you alone for four hours and you come back looking like you fought a tiger," I teased gently, trying to distract her from the sting. I looked up, my ocean-blue eyes locking onto hers. "From tomorrow, you don't go to the well. If the water runs out, you wait for me. Understood?"

She pouted, her brown eyes softening. "But I wanted to be a good village wife. I wanted to have everything ready for you."

"You being safe *is* you being a good wife," I countered, leaning forward to press a lingering kiss to the center of her palm, right over the worst of the rope burn.

I opened the tiffin, the steam from the daal and rotis hitting my face. I didn't let her touch the food with her sore hands. Instead, I tore a piece of the roti—the one she said Kaki’s bahu taught her to make—and dipped it into the sabzi.

"Open up," I commanded playfully.

"Ru! You're the one who worked all morning, you should eat!" she protested.

"I'll eat. But only if you take every second bite," I insisted. "Consider it payment for the 'trauma' of the well."

I fed her a bite, then took one myself. The food was simple, but sitting here in the shade, with the sound of the wind through the crops and my wife leaning against my shoulder, it felt better than any five-star meal Akshat or Vardaan could ever invite me to.

As I chewed, I caught her staring at the girls under the neem tree again. I chuckled, reaching out to tweak her nose with my clean hand. "They're still there, Janna. And I'm still not looking. Satisfied?"