The heavy stone walls of the haveli kitchen were thick with the scent of roasted cumin, dried chilies, and the lingering warmth of the evening hearth. It was well past midnight. Pankhudi, dressed in a simple cotton saree that clung to her matured curves, was hunched over the massive wooden counter, grinding spices for the next morning’s ritual meal. Her body still hummed from the morning’s encounter, her core sensitized by the herbs and the persistent weight of Nakul’s obsession.

The kitchen was lit only by a few flickering oil lamps and the glowing embers of the stove. The silence was absolute, until the heavy thud of leather boots echoed in the hallway.