Chapter 3: The Butcher’s Daughter

I’m a butcher’s daughter. With a swing of my knife, a life is gone. The men of Rajpur keep their distance.

Sometimes I remember my hands as a child, stained with goat’s blood, Amma’s sari wrapped tight around her waist. "Beta," she’d whisper, rinsing my knuckles at the pump, "don’t show fear, or they’ll never respect you."

That day at the weekly bazaar, I saw a broker selling men as servants. On a whim, I thought: if men can buy wives to serve them, why can’t I buy a husband to serve me?

Kabir was a mess—covered in blood and filth, no contract, slumped against an iron cage, collar at his neck, eyes closed, lips pale. Only his lashes trembled, a hint of life. His profile was sharp, proud—like a champa flower blooming in the dust.

All the healthy, documented men were lined up, but I picked him out at a glance.

Lucky for me, he was half-dead. No one wanted him. Got him dirt cheap.

I spent two thousand rupees, then used up all my savings to nurse him back to health.

Those days blur together: running to the hakim for medicine, boiling neem leaves, making haldi pastes. The air stank of Dettol and turmeric. My hands turned rough from tending his wounds, turning his feverish body through sticky summer nights. Neighbours would peep in, muttering, “A butcher girl bringing home strange men, what will become of her?” But I kept my chin up, just as Amma taught me.

He’s tall. Even recovering, he was stubborn—never took the collar off, just in case. When he healed, he grew even more defiant. Out of spite, I locked him up.

But he’s beautiful, like the bright moon shrouded in mist, fallen to the mortal world.

I guessed he wasn’t ordinary. His spirit was proud, his bones unyielding. Always stony-faced, always "sarkar" this, "sarkar" that. I used to joke he must’ve been a rooster in his past life, always going "kukdukoo."

Never imagined he’d be the MLA’s son from the capital.

The day I overheard market women gossiping about a missing MLA’s son, everything clicked. No wonder he looked at everyone with that cold contempt, even when begging for water.