Chapter 4: The Dance and the Knife

Ever since news came that the camp girls would be disbanded, Arjun knew many had come to ask for me. He never asked, nor declared his ownership. He simply assumed I would stay, as if my loyalty was a given. He bit my ear, but I turned away. "Still so moody," he whispered, his lips twisted in a half-smile that never reached his eyes.

"After I marry the MLA’s daughter, nothing between us will change. I’ve bought a bungalow outside Lucknow. That will be our home." His words were gifts he thought I should treasure. But he seemed to have forgotten the gulmohar he once left on my windowsill. Forgotten how, after finding me again, he promised, "Meera, when the war is over, I’ll marry you and take you home."

But what he truly wanted was the brilliant daughter of the Sharma family. In his eyes, I was already just a camp girl. Everyone else could give up on me, but I couldn’t give up on myself. I smiled, leaning obediently into his arms, but inside I made my own vows.

Arjun didn’t know, before seeing him, I’d sent word to Kabir Singh: "Haan." On the day Arjun marries the MLA’s daughter, I will marry Kabir Singh and return to Rajpur. Escaping this hell—this is my only way.

With the great victory, taking away a favoured camp girl was a reward. Kabir Singh wanted to take me, and he was not a bad man. The court sent officials to announce the decree; the officers would soon return to the capital for rewards.

That night, Arjun hosted a banquet. The main tent glowed with lantern light, the heavy scent of mutton biryani and spilled Old Monk mixing with sweat and sandalwood. “I heard Meera is here with you?” a colonel slurred. The men’s gazes flicked to me at the edge of the gathering.

“I’ve long heard of Kaveripur’s pride—skilled in music, chess, painting, and dance. Why not ask her to dance?” The request was both invitation and command. My heart thudded, my hands trembling. The memory of old performances twisted inside me, tainted now.

Just dancing—they were being considerate. In another world, I would have danced for joy. Here, it was a test, a display. My pride warred with fear.

Arjun had no reason to refuse. He signaled for a costume. I was in my tent, applying antiseptic to a bruise, when a young orderly thrust a bundle into my hands. “Arjun Saab says get ready. The officers are waiting.”

The costume was nearly transparent, barely covering my bruises. As I unfolded it, the cloth was so sheer I could see the faded red of my old rakhi through it—a small piece of home and dignity now on display. The humiliation felt complete.

I held the clothes in silence, the tent suddenly small, air thick. Outside, music and laughter grew louder. The orderly grew impatient: "What’s wrong? Can’t put it on? Want bhaiya to help you?"

"I can’t dance," I said, voice steady. I clutched my dupatta, meeting his gaze. The silence stretched.

He froze, then strode in. "Major Arjun ordered you to perform. You dare refuse?"

"Yes."

I drew the short knife Arjun once gave me and stabbed it into my thigh. Pain shot through me, blood blooming bright. The orderly’s face went white.

"I said, I can’t dance." The words rang final. The man rushed out to report.

When Arjun returned, he was cold. He looked at my wound, silent, then said, “Things are different now, Meera. It’s just a dance. With your status, what right do you have to refuse?”

I looked up, pride in my voice: "In your eyes, what is my status?"

He glanced outside, lips curled. "Seems I’ve spoiled you too much. We’re returning to Lucknow tomorrow. Except for those who’ve signed marriage contracts, all other camp girls will be sent to the red-light areas. Go there, learn some humility. I’ll come for you after my debriefing."

I met his eyes, unflinching. He stared, then turned to leave.

He wanted to send me to the red-light areas? The thought twisted inside me, but defiance flared. I knew Kabir Singh had already drawn up the marriage contract. After Arjun leaves, Kabir will take me to Rajpur. He will marry his princess. I will marry my man.

Perhaps, this is the last time we’ll meet. I pressed my palm to my heart, whispering a silent farewell. The past would not follow me. "Major Arjun," I called softly. He paused. I bowed, hands together, thanking him for protecting me. “Safe journey. Meera won’t see you off.”

As the muezzin’s call echoed through the night, I folded my hands—this time, not in prayer, but in promise.