Chapter 5: Arjun’s Reckoning

After Arjun returned to his tent, his confidant reported that the spy outside Meera’s tent had left. The camp buzzed with whispers. Arjun’s aide, a wiry fellow from Gorakhpur, slipped in. “Saab, the man outside Meera’s tent—he’s gone. He was with the Lucknow officials.”

It was obvious he belonged to the MLA’s daughter’s people. Everyone knew Priya Sharma’s family didn’t trust easily. For a girl like Meera to draw such scrutiny meant her presence still cast a long shadow. Arjun’s jaw clenched, his fingers rolling his signet ring absent-mindedly.

The Chief Minister had only one sickly son; Priya was his youngest and only daughter, cherished since childhood. In Lucknow, her wedding was the talk of the city—horses, elephants, dowry enough to buy half of Hazratganj. For men like Arjun, marrying her meant power, legacy, a chance to rewrite one’s history.

If that sickly son died, Rajpur might set the precedent of a woman Chief Minister. Behind closed doors, the old men scoffed, but everyone knew: whoever married Priya would be king in all but name. Ambition and tradition danced their endless tug-of-war.

Back then, all the noble sons adored Meera, but Priya was the prize. Arjun was once a boy in love—reckless, sure he could bend the world. But after the Sharma family fell, he realised—why not have both? Meera, alone, could be kept as a secret solace, hidden away. "This is how things are done, beta," his uncle had said. "Don’t waste love—just hide it."

So, half a year ago, Arjun staged a hero’s rescue for Priya—goons on the mandir road, his lathi the answer. The city’s newspapers sang his praises. Priya’s eyes shone, her family’s doors swung open. The engagement was swift. Meera faded into shadow, her music softer, laughter fading.

But Priya, pampered since birth, resented rivals. She scoffed in private, but watched Arjun closely. He learned to mask his affection for Meera behind indifference. Meera’s pride was dangerous—a spark in a house full of kindling. Better to keep her away, let her learn humility. "Let her suffer a little," he told himself. "She’ll be grateful when I come for her."

The bungalow outside Lucknow was ready, furnished with rosewood, gulmohar trees, a music room waiting for her. He rehearsed her reaction in his mind—a rare softness crossing his face. Only tonight, Meera’s eyes unsettled him—a defiance he couldn’t bridge. He paced, frustrated, the bottle of whisky on his desk half-empty.

He summoned his aide. “After I leave, protect her. Sending her to the red-light area is just for show. If anyone harms her, bring your head to see me.”

“Her wound…”

Arjun shook his head helplessly. “Forget it. If we’re putting on a show, go all the way. Letting her suffer a bit is also for her own good.”

After arranging everything, Arjun returned to paperwork. Files thudded onto his desk, each contract a new fate. "Major, these are the marriage contracts between soldiers and camp girls. They need your approval."

Arjun glanced at them, inwardly sneering. Some people really would marry women who had been with so many men. Ridiculous. He wiped his hands on his kurta, as if the ink itself could stain his soul.

Arjun tossed his private seal over. "You stamp them," he said, voice flat. As the red seal came down, each thud echoed like a drumbeat in his chest. The world outside cheered, but inside, Arjun felt only silence and loss.