The news of my supposed demise spread like wildfire, carried on the tongues of the robbers who sought my blood. Their arrival in Chandanpur was marked by tension, their faces etched with the anticipation of confrontation. With a deceptive calmness, they approached Baba Pratap Singh, their leader, armed with suspicion and a thirst for vengeance.
Baba Pratap Singh, ever the diplomat, presented them with a peace contract, a futile attempt to quell the brewing storm of hostility. But peace was not what the robbers sought; their eyes burned with a fervent desire to see me meet my end. It was an old robber, weathered by years of lawlessness, who voiced their collective inquiry, his voice dripping with malice. "Where is our enemy? Rajpot," he demanded, his words laced with venom.