Twelve Years Ago

Ramgarh, Rajasthan

The air smelled of mangoes and marigolds. The whole village had gathered — not for a wedding, but something close.

It was called a “sagayi bachpan wali” — a childhood engagement.

A tradition some families still followed to secure power, unity, and legacies.

A red thread.

A few sweet ladoos.

And two confused children standing awkwardly under a huge neem tree.

Diya Chauhan, 6 years old, wore a lehenga two sizes bigger than her. She kept fidgeting with her bangles and whispering to her mother,

“Mujhe shaadi nahi karni, mujhe doodh peena hai.”

Raghav Singh Rathore, 8, looked equally lost. But he had that silent stubbornness in his eyes — even back then. He didn’t understand why everyone was staring, why they were making him hold a girl’s hand, or why they tied a red thread around both their wrists.

But when he looked at Diya — hair messy, nose scrunched up in protest, muttering about milk and ladoos — he smiled.

She looked like trouble. And he liked that.

“Tu mujhe ghoor kyu raha hai?” she snapped.

He shrugged. “Tera naam Diya hai, par tu toh chhoti si agni bomb lagti hai.”

She blinked.

And for the first time, she almost smiled.

---

Later that night, when everyone left, Raghav found her sitting alone under the neem tree, kicking stones.

“Diya,” he said quietly, sitting beside her.

“What?”

“When I grow up… I’ll marry you properly. Not with this red thread thing.”

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t act filmy. You’ll forget and go to London or Jupiter.”

“No. I won’t forget you. Ever.”

She looked at him for a moment… and then smacked his arm.

“Promise mat kar. Mujhe jhooth se nafrat hai.”

---

Present Day.

Raghav sat in the dark study of the guest haveli, sipping black coffee, fingers tracing the old red thread still folded in his wallet.

She forgot.

But he didn’t.

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End of chapter 2.