Chapter 3: Ananya’s Reputation

It seemed this marriage was unavoidable!

Lucknow had changed in the years I’d been gone—new flyovers, more noise, same old gossip. I didn’t know what kind of girl she was, so I sent my men to ask around in the bylanes and paan shops, the places where real stories live.

But when they returned, eyes darting, they hesitated outside my study: "Colonel saab, this girl... she..."

I narrowed my eyes, the army in me refusing to indulge useless suspense. "Bolo."

"She is called Ananya Lal. Not much good can be said—three times rejected for marriage, sir! She doesn’t know any music, chess, painting, or embroidery—she just follows her abba in carpentry. Even that, people say, is too bold for a girl."

"If she’s so unworthy, then why would anyone still want her hand?"

"Arrey, Colonel, because her family is rich!"

I hid a smile behind my hand. These men, always so quick to judge. At that, a laugh escaped me—a rusty, dry sound, surprising even myself. My old orderly fidgeted, scratching his balding head. "Colonel, you’re not even thinking of breaking off the engagement, yet you can still laugh?"

I coughed—my chest burning, the old war injury acting up. "It’s not that the girl is bad, it’s that people are endlessly greedy!"

Logon ki lalach ka toh koi hisaab hi nahi! They want everything—money, power, respect, all at once!

So be it. I thought, maybe she is a girl who can bear life’s burdens. If, after I am gone, she wants to live quietly, I’ll leave her the whole bungalow—she can fill it with her laughter, her father’s tools, whatever she wishes. She should be able to live as she likes, far from gossip and taunts. At least this much, I owe her.