CHAPTER ONE: THE THAKUR ON THE HILL

Chapter one: The Thakur on the Hill

They called him Thakur Viren Pratap Singh, but most people didn't say his name. Not in full. Not in daylight. In the village of Ranipur, people referred to him with just a glance, a lowered voice, a shift of the eyes. "Woh sun rahe hain," they'd whisper. He's listening.

No one needed to explain who he was.

He owned more land than any man in three districts. Farms, ponds, temples, schools—his name was etched into the foundation stone of half the town, though he hadn't stepped into most of those places in years. What mattered to him wasn't the buildings. It was who owed him.

And almost everyone owed him.

He gave loans. Fast ones. No banks, no signatures. A verbal promise, a nod, a folded bundle of rupees—and your life was no longer yours. It was his. You needed fertilizer? He'd provide it. Your daughter's wedding? He'd sponsor it. Medicine for your dying mother? He'd cover it. And when the time came to repay him, you did it however he wanted.

And he always wanted something.

His haveli stood on the high ridge beyond the river, shaded by peepal trees and guarded by silence. No one lived nearby. The road leading up to it was clean, smooth, and always empty. Everyone knew that once you crossed the red gate with the brass lion's head, you belonged to Thakur Viren. Maybe not forever. But definitely until he was finished.

Rumors said the haveli had twenty-eight rooms. Some said more. Nobody had counted. Some of those rooms were locked. Some had been sealed with cement. And some—some were for the women.

He took them like one picks flowers from a garden. Delicate. With care. A schoolteacher, an anganwadi worker, a widow. He never forced anyone publicly. No drama. No struggle. Just a slow, crushing charm. A visit with groceries. A kind word. A promise of safety, of comfort, of respect.

And then she'd vanish.

Their homes would fall silent. Their families—if poor—would suddenly get land, or a new tractor. If they protested, they'd suffer. If they cooperated, they were left alone. Either way, their daughter, sister, wife—was now his. Dressed in silk. Hidden in stone.

The women were his companions, he said. Saathis. Some even smiled during the rare public festivals when he brought them out like living trophies. Eyes lined in kohl, bangles shining—but always something empty behind the smile. No one dared meet their gaze for too long.

No one asked them anything.

Viren Pratap Singh was tall. Wide-shouldered. The kind of man who didn't need to raise his voice or his hand; his presence was enough. He wore crisp white kurta-pajamas every day, but they never stayed clean for long. Dust seemed afraid to touch him, but blood didn't mind.

He was strong—physically. Not gym-strong, but the kind of strength that came from years of wrestling in mud pits, breaking bones, and controlling angry bulls and angry men. He still sparred every morning with his guards. Just to remind them who the real beast was.

And then there were the loyal ones—men who would slit throats, burn houses, or deliver a woman in silence for him. Some were paid. Most weren't. They followed him out of fear. Or admiration. Or the simple, primitive belief that some men are made to rule and others to obey.

The police? On his payroll. The MLA? His cousin. The villagers? His shadows. Even the temple pujari offered extra aarti for his health every Tuesday. Nobody challenged Thakur Viren. Not anymore. Not after what happened to those who tried.

Like Raghu Mehta, the journalist from Lucknow. Came asking questions about missing girls and land scams. Found three days later in the Gomti river, with his tongue cut out. Or the local SHO who tried to investigate. Transferred the next morning. Never seen again.

And yet, despite everything, the town kept going.

The fields still needed sowing. The shops opened every morning. The school rang its bell. Ranipur moved like a town with a ghost sitting on its chest—quiet, slow, and careful not to breathe too loudly.

But something was shifting.

Because that morning, Thakur Viren did something he hadn't done in a while—he left the haveli.

Not just to inspect crops or show face at a wedding. No. He walked into the village square, surrounded by four of his men, in broad daylight, and stared at the crowd with eyes that never blinked.

He was looking for someone.

And everyone knew what that meant.