The atmosphere in Chandanpur was electric. Two houses, separated by a few narrow lanes, were buzzing with the rhythmic beat of the dholak and the high-pitched singing of folk songs. At the Haveli, Vikram sat like a king on a decorated wooden pedestal, his broad chest bare as the village elders and his aunts smeared thick, fragrant turmeric paste over his muscular arms and torso. His eyes, however, were not on the festivities; they were fixed on the distant roof of Meera's house.

The moment the ceremony ended, Vikram dismissed the crowd with his usual authority. "Mujhe thoda aaraam chahiye, koi kamre mein nahi aayega," he commanded. But instead of resting, he quickly freshened up, his skin still glowing with the faint yellow tint of the haldi. He pulled on a crisp yellow silk kurta that hugged his physique and a traditional white dhoti, looking every bit the royal groom.