Two years had bled into an unending cycle of despair and forced compliance. Pankhudi, now twenty-two, remained childless, a barren curse in the eyes of Savitri Devi and the unforgiving village. The joy that had once illuminated the haveli had been replaced by a chilling, oppressive atmosphere of disappointment.

Nakul, though he still took his pleasure with Pankhudi, his actions devoid of warmth, his words a torrent of harsh commands. He had lost hope. The pain of failing to produce an heir, a blow to his lineage, and the loss of the joy of his life had begun to harden his heart.