"Batuk Da, tell me you're not serious?" Nakul's eyebrows furrowed in a mixture of concern and disbelief as his gaze swept across the sterile hospital room. Leaning closer to Batuk, he lowered his voice, his disbelief etched on his face. "Seriously? Her?"

Batuk nodded silently, a serene smile spreading across his face, as both pairs of eyes shifted towards the enigmatic figure in question. In the distance, Mira sat on the small hospital cot, her disheveled appearance mirroring the chaos within her. She absentmindedly chewed on the loose end of her white saree, her unkempt black waves cascading across her face. Lost and disoriented, her vacant expression betrayed the depth of her inner turmoil. Batuk's keen eyes couldn't help but notice the saree slipping off her shoulder, baring a vulnerable fragment of her skin.

With Nakul's support, Batuk rose from his seat and limped towards Mira, his heart heavy with empathy. "Are you hungry?" he asked tenderly, his voice a soothing balm in the midst of her detachment. But Mira remained oblivious, lost in a nameless abyss. Startled, she jolted as Batuk raised his voice slightly, causing not only him but also the surrounding patients to recoil in surprise.

"What happened, Mira?" Batuk's composure remained unshaken despite the sudden jolt of unease. He settled beside her on the cot, gently readjusting the saree to cover her bare shoulder.

"Is something troubling you? Are you hungry?" he inquired once more, to which Mira responded with a half-hearted nod, akin to a lost child seeking solace.

Batuk's smile radiated warmth and reassurance.
"We'll be leaving for home soon. Nakul has come to take us, and Bihari kaka is currently settling the bills," he reassured her, his touch tender as he caressed her head, seeking to provide comfort.

"Home?" Mira's gaze rose to meet Batuk's, her eyes brimming with confusion and a multitude of unspoken questions.

Batuk smiled, his eyes sparkling with affection.
"Yes, our home in Tulsipur. You're a Roy Choudhary now, remember?" He playfully tapped her nose.
"Mrs. Batakrishna Roy Choudhary."

"Ray Chou?" Mira's words caught in her throat, causing her to cough slightly. Batuk swiftly offered her a steel glass of water, gently guiding it to her parched lips.

"Stay here. I'll get you something delicious to eat once we're on the road. Let me talk to Nakul, alright?" Batuk rose slowly, clenching his teeth against the sharp pain coursing through his wounded limbs. His throbbing head added to his discomfort. "And please, don't chew on that saree," he playfully teased, his smile unwavering.

As twilight painted the sky with hues of fading daylight, Nakul and Bihari rushed into the cramped hospital room. Tears welled up in the elderly Bihari's eyes at the sight of his dear Choto Zamindar Babu, his skull fractured and his limbs bandaged. Swiftly, they initiated the discharge procedures, for those with wealth often faced no obstacles during such formalities. An account personnel counted the bills handed over by Bihari, confirming the ease of their departure.

Batuk was content, his belief in a brighter future rekindled after months of uncertainty.

"Batuk Da, she's a tribal widow, and from a backward hill tribe at that!" Nakul's hushed words carried a mix of shock and disbelief, his mind grappling with the unconventional match his beloved friend and mentor had chosen.
"And you're a Roy Choudhary Brahmin! Not to mention, a Zamindar!"

Fear etched itself onto Nakul's face, seeking solace from Batuk, who responded with nonchalance.
"So?" Batuk frowned.
"Since when did you start to worry about caste and creed?"

"But your uncle, Batuk Da... Do you really think he'll accept her?"

"He did accept Bondita boudi, didn't he?" Batuk interjected.

"Bon... Uff... Batuk Da you aren't really drawing a comparison between Boro Boudidimoni and her, are you?"

Nakul gestured towards Mira, and both of them turned to look at her at once, only to observe how she was nervously biting her nails, as a replacement of the fabric, and her hands kept fidgeted with her saree. Curled up on the cot, she swayed gently, a sight that appeared abnormal and unsettling to Nakul.
Batuk, however, thought her swaying to be rhythmic, heartwarming.

"She's clearly in shock!" Nakul exhaled deeply, his jaw slackened in awe of this peculiar lovesick side of his mentor that he had never witnessed before. Love is said to be blind, but in that moment, Nakul pondered if love had the power to steal one's senses, rendering them blissfully irrational.

Batuk was still gazing proudly at his lady love, and with a sigh, Nakul rose to prepare the car, still struggling to come to terms with the unfolding events.

.................................................

For a fleeting moment, Raimoti stood outside the door, inhaling deeply, preparing herself for the pivotal confrontation. Summoning her inner strength, she pushed the door open with both hands, revealing a partially-conscious, intoxicated figure. Shashi Chandra, the middle-aged excuse of a man, sat bare-chested upon a plush armchair, a wine glass slipping from his loose grasp. Smashed petals of rose and Rajanigandha were scattered all over the floor, and strings of half welted flowers hung from the wall. The bedchamber was a two roomed space, and the bed resided in the interior, away from Raimoti's sight, partitioned by a decorative arch from which hung white jasmine strings.

'Fulsojja!' Raimoti thought.

"Who?" Shashi Chandra's voice slurred, half-conscious, and Raimoti cautiously advanced toward him, her presence enveloping the room with an air of mystery and ethereal beauty.

"Me!" Raimoti hushed, her voice a nasal whisper that danced upon the air.

The wine glass slipped from his grasp, surrendering its precious contents to the unforgiving floor. Crimson liquid erupted, like the unleashed fury of a scarlet river, as if the very essence of the wine sought to stain the pristine surroundings. But the carpet, a loyal sentinel beneath the feet, absorbed the commotion with silent grace, drinking in every drop of sound and liquor. It cradled the chaos, its fibers becoming a receptacle for the shattered fragments of noise and inebriation.

Shashi Chandra's eyes widened, his pupils dilating like startled moons, while his quivering lips fought to find stability. He gazed upon the ethereal presence before him, a specter draped in enchantment and purpose.

"You... uuu...!" His voice faltered, as if attempting to navigate treacherous waters with trembling vocal chords. His hands instinctively found solace upon his chest, desperately seeking reassurance in the face of this unforeseen encounter.

"Yes... It's Me... Swami Thakur!"
She paused for a brief dramatic effect, and then burst out into whispered sinister laughter...

Shashi Chandra gazed upward, and there, amidst the shadows, he saw her silhouette. Yet, everything about her seemed to emanate an unsettling, eerie aura – her hair, the crimson-tinted fingertips, and the enigmatic ghumta she wore. A sensation of fear washed over him, evolving into a visceral terror that gripped his very soul.

"Swami Thakur? Don't you recognize me anymore?"
Raimoti's nasal voice sent shivers down Shashi's spine, causing his breath to quicken. Despite his intoxicated state, his trembling lips managed to utter just one word, a name that echoed through the air, "Mukto... Muktomala!!"

A sinister feminine laughter echoed.

Drawing near, Raimoti extended her hand toward his neck, though not pressing too hard. In response, Shashi's hand instinctively found its way to his chest, clutching at his racing heart.

"Why, my dearest? Didn't you heartlessly kill me? It's my turn now!"
Raimoti whispered sinisterly into his ear, and Shashi couldn't help but shudder. Her intentions were clear – she aimed to scare him, dissuade him from taking the young bride. She aimed to scare him to death, if not literally.

"You... You... " She gulped like a petrified dead fish.

Almost at that very moment, in the adjacent bed chamber meant for Shashi's wedding night, a faint groan emanated from within. Raimoti's senses heightened instinctively. Leaving Shashi to his horrid ending, she rushed inside, only to be met with a harrowing sight. A small, bundled figure laying on the bed, surrounded by bloodstains – a tragic testament to brutality itself.

"Scoundrel!" Raimoti clenched her teeth and let out a suppressed scream. Her anger knew no bounds as she hastened to the girl's side, cradling her injured form. The girl's barely-breathing body was a pitiful sight – her hair disheveled, vermilion smeared on her face, kolh smudged beyond recognition, and her lips stained with dried blood.

Desperately, Raimoti sought water and attempted to revive the child, but her efforts were in vain. The water only streamed down the girl's lifeless face, and the hope of resuscitation dwindled.

In that moment of desperation, she knew whom to call for aid.
"Satya!" she murmured, her eyes reflecting a mix of madness and purpose. Yet, deep down, she hesitated, aware of what Satya might be occupied with at that very moment.
"No... No... I can't call him... I can't... But..." Raimoti tore her gaze away from the girl and rose to her feet. Her eyes fixated on the bruises on the child's thighs and chest, igniting another surge of anger coursing through her veins.

"Shashi Chandra..." she gritted her teeth and growled, but as if in retort, her own name rang out in a hoarse, disoriented voice.

"Raimoti Mukherjee!"

Startled, she turned, only to find a pistol aimed directly at her face. Shashi Chandra's grin was strained, his eyes struggling to remain wide.
"You bitch... Finally!" he sneered menacingly at her.