He looked at her, a young woman from a remote village, steeped in tradition, her life shaped by the expectations of a bygone era.
He saw the orphan, longing for a sense of belonging, seeking solace in the promise of marriage. He would marry her.
He would give her the security Daivik calculated he needed to be given. He would take responsibility for the consequences of his actions, and he would begin to build a life in this strange, new world, with Kajal by his side.
After making up his mind, Varun looked at kajal with a tenderness that belied his formidable strength,
Varun lifted Kajal into his arms, cradling her against his chest.
Her body, still weak from her near-drowning, felt light and fragile in his embrace.
He began the journey back to the village, retracing the path they had taken earlier that day.
The dense jungle, usually alive with the sounds of the wild, fell into an unnerving silence.
The animals, sensing the shift in the balance of power, watched them pass with wide, fearful eyes.
They had witnessed the raw, terrifying power Varun had unleashed in the village and heard the birds sing his valor shown at bazaar.
The casual brutality with which he had dispatched the miya and the Tehsildar.
They had seen the fleeing tiger, its eyes filled with a primal terror that mirrored their own.
They knew that this man, this stranger, was not to be trifled with.
They dared not attack, dared not even approach, their instincts screaming at them to stay away.
Varun carried Kajal, a princess in a kingdom of fear, a symbol of his power and his Determination.
As they entered the village, the inhabitants emerged from their huts, drawn by the unusual sight of Varun carrying Kajal in his arms.
The women, their faces flushed with a mixture of curiosity and knowing smiles, whispered amongst themselves, their eyes filled with a blend of sympathy and unspoken questions.
The men, their expressions ranging from disapproval to outright hostility, muttered amongst themselves, their voices laced with judgment.
But Chaukidaar, the village elder, approached them directly, his expression stern and unreadable.
"What is the meaning of this?" he asked, his voice sharp and demanding, cutting through the murmurs of the crowd.
"What are you doing in broad daylight?" His question was not merely a query about their actions,
but a challenge to their defiance of social norms, a demand for explanation in a world where tradition and propriety held sway.
Varun, his voice calm and resolute, addressed the crowd, his words cutting through the tension like a sharpened blade. "I have decided to marry Kajal,"
he announced, his gaze sweeping over the villagers' faces. "We will be married here, in this village, and I will live here, with her, in the future."
His declaration was not a plea for acceptance, but a statement of intent, a promise of protection and belonging.
He would take responsibility for his actions, for the shame he had inadvertently brought upon Kajal, and he would build a life in this village, a life that would encompass both his past and his future.
His words, spoken with unwavering conviction, silenced the murmurs and drew the villagers' full attention, forcing them to confront the reality of his decision.
A wave of whispers rippled through the crowd, a mix of surprise, speculation, and reluctant acceptance.
They had witnessed Varun's power, his strength, and his unwavering resolve.
They had seen his compassion for Kajal, his determination to protect her.
Chaukidaar, however, silenced them with a raised hand, his expression softening as he turned to Kajal. "Is this your wish?" he asked, his voice gentle.
Kajal, her cheeks flushed with a mixture of shame and hope, nodded shyly.
"Yes," she whispered, her voice barely audible. Chaukidaar smiled, a genuine warmth spreading across his face.
"Then congratulations to you both," he said, his voice booming with approval.
The village buzzed with activity, preparations for the wedding celebration beginning immediately.
They would embrace this union, this marriage between an outsider and one of their own, for they had seen the good in Varun,
the protector, the provider, the man who had brought them both fear and a new, strange hope.
The villagers, despite Varun's status as an outsider, readily accepted his decision.
He had proven himself to be a protector, a provider, and a man of his word.
They felt no malice from him, only a quiet strength and a deep respect.
And they saw the affection he held for Kajal. The day of the wedding arrived, a vibrant celebration steeped in Bengali Hindu traditions.
Varun and Kajal, their faces radiant, participated in the rituals.
The gaye holud, the turmeric ceremony, painted them in a golden hue.
The subho drishti, the auspicious first glance, brought tears to their eyes.
The sindoor daan, the application of vermilion, sealed their union.
Varun and Kajal circled the sacred fire, their hands joined, their vows echoing through the village.
The air was filled with the scent of incense, the sound of chanting, and the joyous celebration of their union.
They both felt a happiness they had never felt before, a sense of belonging that transcended their individual circumstances.
The village, too, felt a sense of unity, a shared joy in the forging of this new bond.
The wedding ceremony, a tapestry of vibrant colors and sacred rituals, transitioned seamlessly into a joyous feast.
The air, thick with the aroma of spices and celebratory sweets, buzzed with the happy chatter of the villagers.
Tables laden with traditional Bengali delicacies were set out under the starlit sky, and the villagers, their faces beaming, partook in the communal meal.
Laughter echoed through the village, a sound that had been absent for far too long.
Meanwhile, far from the joyous celebration in the village, in the bustling heart of Kolkata,
a tense and ominous meeting unfolded within the confines of a high-command theater.
The air crackled with barely contained rage and a thirst for vengeance.