Tere hone ki khushboo meri rooh mein bas gayi hai…
Tere bina main jeeta hoon, par zinda nahi.
Jo tera hai, wo sirf mera hai,
Chahe khuda bhi rukawat bane,
Main tujhe paane ke liye duniya jala dunga.”
(“The fragrance of your existence is etched into my soul…
I live without you, but I am not alive.
What belongs to you, belongs only to me.
Even if God Himself stands in my way,
I will burn the world to have you.”)
The village of Dhawalgarh always woke before the sun did. Cows bellowed from wooden stables, their bells clanging like reluctant music. Women bent over hand-pumps, bangles clinking as brass pots filled with the first water of the day. Somewhere, the temple bells rang in a hurried rhythm, the pujari’s chant spilling into the stillness like a demand for attention from gods who never truly listened.
And yet, for Noori, the mornings carried a different kind of silence.
She sat cross-legged on the floor of her mud-brick home, lighting the diya before a small wooden temple in the corner. The lamp’s glow flickered over the white dupatta covering her head. Always white. Always plain. A widow’s uniform stitched into her fate before she had even worn her bridal red.
Her fingers lingered on the flame longer than necessary. Maybe because in that one fragile flame lived her resistance—the fire she couldn’t let extinguish, no matter how suffocating the darkness outside.
Behind her, a coarse voice cut through the still air.
“Arrey Noori, kitni baje uth jaati hai tu? Din bhar school ke chhokron ko padha-padha ke thak jaati hai, aur phir bhi subah se lagi rehti hai.”
It was Sudha—her aunt, her only living family, the woman who had raised her after her parents had died too young, too suddenly. Sudha’s face was lined, not with age, but with years of swallowing bitterness.
Noori didn’t turn. She finished her prayer, touched the flame to her forehead, and then stood. Her white dupatta slipped slightly, and she adjusted it with absent fingers, her face serene but her eyes carrying storms.
“Maasi,” she said softly, her tone almost reverent, “main jo kar rahi hoon woh ibadat hai. Bachchon ko padhana… unki aankhon mein roshni bharna… yeh mera farz hai. Raizada se ladna pade, toh ladungi.”
Sudha gave a harsh laugh, spitting into the brass plate she was scrubbing.
“Raizada se ladna matlab maut ko bulana, chhori. Woh log insaan nahin, paapi hai. Samajh le, tu ek din bhasm ho jaayegi.”
Noori smiled faintly, but it wasn’t a smile of agreement. It was a smile of someone who had already died once, and so didn’t fear death anymore.
The path to the school was dusty, lined with neem trees whose shadows fell jagged on the cracked earth. Noori walked barefoot as always, her satchel of books bumping lightly against her hip.
Everywhere she went, eyes followed.
At the well, women in bright ghagras paused in their chatter to watch her pass. Their bangles stilled, their smiles hidden under veils, but their whispers floated anyway.
“Yehi hai woh vidwa jo safed dupatte mein ghoomti hai.”
“Arey, par himmat dekhi uski? Akele jee rahi hai bina kisi mard ke sahare.”
“Raizadaon ko bhadkaye gi toh bura hoga.”
Noori didn’t stop. She had learned long ago that the weight of eyes was nothing compared to the weight of silence.
At the chaupal, the men’s hukka smoke curled thick in the dry heat. They didn’t lower their voices for her.
“Arrey suni kya? Vishal toh sheher mein chhori chhadd ke baitha hai. Yeh Noori ab bhi uska naam liye baithe hai.”
“Chhori akalmand hai, par zidd bhi usse kam nahin. Ek din apne pairon pe kulhadi maar legi.”
Her pace was steady, unhurried. She carried herself like the whispers were air—suffocating, but survivable. Yet inside, every word cut, like glass ground into an open wound.
When she reached the broken arch that marked the school boundary, she paused. Children’s laughter echoed inside. And just like that, the heaviness of gossip fell away.
Because here, in these crumbling walls, she was not a widow. She was not an abandoned bride. She was simply—Masterji.
The government school of Dhawalgarh wasn’t more than four crumbling walls and a rusted tin roof. One side had already collapsed years ago during a monsoon, but the Raizada family never sanctioned repairs. The landlord’s children were sent to Jaipur or Delhi to study in English-medium schools; this broken-down space was only meant for the poor, so it never mattered.
But for Noori, it was a temple.
The moment she stepped into the courtyard, a rush of little feet ran toward her.
“Masterji! Masterji aa gayi!”
Children with uncombed hair, patched clothes, and bright eyes surrounded her, tugging at her dupatta, showing her the homework scribbled in broken letters. Their voices overlapped in a chaotic chorus.
“Masterji, dekho maine poore akshar likhe!”
“Masterji, main do do tables yaad kar ke aaya hoon!”
“Masterji, ek din main bhi Jaipur jaaunga padhne!”
Noori crouched to their level, gathering them close, her white dupatta falling like a halo around their eager faces. Her eyes softened, the hardness she carried outside dissolving into warmth.
“Bahut accha kiya tum sabne,” she said, her hand brushing over a girl’s tangled braid. “Aur yaad raho—tumhara sapna sirf Jaipur nahin… tum chaho toh duniya tak jaa sakte ho.”
One of the boys frowned, scratching his dusty cheek.
“Lekin Masterji… hum toh gareeb hai. To fir hum kaise duniya me kahin bhi ja sakte hain?”
For a moment, the courtyard quieted. The question hung heavy, raw in its innocence.
Noori’s chest tightened, but her voice was firm when she answered.
“Beta, gareebi paap nahin hoti. Paap hota hai haar maan lena. Tum seekho, mehnat karo… aur ek din sabse aage nikal jao. Fir dekhna, jo tumhe neecha dikhate hain, wahi tumhare aage sir jhukaenge.”
The boy’s eyes widened. Around them, the other children cheered, banging their slates together like drums. The sound echoed through the broken school walls, louder than any temple bell.
Noori’s heart swelled. Here, at least, she wasn’t a widow. She wasn’t a shadow. She was hope.
The day unfolded in lessons. Chalk scraping against the blackboard, children repeating after her in broken unison, their laughter spilling even into mistakes. By noon, the courtyard buzzed with stories as they shared rotis wrapped in torn cloth. Noori moved among them, checking slates, correcting numbers, telling them tales of heroes who rose from nothing.
But as the sun dipped lower, a different kind of noise reached the school gates. The heavy roar of jeep engines.
The children stiffened. Laughter died.
Noori straightened slowly, her chalk poised mid-word. She didn’t need to look out to know who it was.
The Raizadas.
Dust billowed as two black jeeps screeched to a halt. Men spilled out—thick arms, cheap sunglasses, gold chains glinting on sweaty necks. Their boots stomped against the ground as though each step was a claim of ownership.
The leader smirked as he approached the gate, swinging a thick stick in his hand.
“Arrey o, Masterji! Bahut bade neta banni hai kya? Bachchon ko padha rahi hai Raizada ki marzi ke bina?”
The children shrank back, clutching their slates. Noori’s aunt’s warnings rang in her ears, but she didn’t move. She stepped forward, planting herself between the men and her students.
Her voice was steady.
“Yeh school sarkari hai. Aur yeh bachche desh ke hain. Raizada ki zameen ho sakti hai, lekin unki roshni nahin.”
The men laughed, their voices crude and mocking.
“Arrey suni kya? Vidwa Masterji humein kanoon samjha rahi hai.”
“Samjha de gaon walon ko ki Raizada ka naam sunte hi kaanp jaayein.”
The leader slammed his stick against the wall, a chunk of plaster breaking loose. Children gasped.
“Band kar de yeh nautanki. Aaj ke baad school mein taala lagega. Jo padhaai likhai karni hai na, woh jaake Raizada ke hukum se karo.”
The villagers had gathered outside the gates by now. Men from the chaupal, women from the well—all watching silently. No one stepped forward. No one ever did.
Noori’s blood boiled. She turned to them, her voice rising.
“Aaj chup rahe, toh kal tumhare bachchon ke sapne jal jaayenge! Kya tum yeh bardasht karoge?”
But the villagers only lowered their eyes. Some muttered under their breath,
“Arrey chhori paagal hai. Raizada se takra rahi hai.”
“Koi bacha bhi nahin paayega ise.”
Noori’s fists clenched. Fear tried to claw at her, but she stood straighter. She took one step forward, her voice sharp like a blade.
“Raizadaon ko keh do—Noori jhukti nahin. Main apne bachchon ke sapne ke liye jaan bhi de doongi.”
The courtyard fell silent. Even the men faltered for a second, surprised at the steel in her tone.
The leader recovered quickly, sneering. He took two menacing steps toward her, swinging his stick dangerously close.
“Bachchi, zubaan bahut chalti hai teri. Ek thappad mein seedhi kar denge.”
Noori didn’t flinch. She raised her chin, eyes burning.
And when his hand reached out, ready to grab her dupatta, her palm snapped across his cheek.
CRACK.
The sound echoed louder than temple bells, louder than jeeps, louder than whispers.
The man staggered, stunned. His goons froze. The children gasped. The villagers gawked, their mouths falling open in disbelief.
And in that moment, Noori Vishal Sehrawat—the widow in white—looked less like a victim and more like a flame that refused to be extinguished.
Her voice cut through the stunned silence.
“Mere bachchon ko chhune ki himmat mat karna. Warna yeh vidwa tumhari kabr khod degi.”
The goons stumbled back to their jeeps, humiliation etched across their faces. One muttered as he wiped blood from his lip:
“Iske liye Zahir Bhai ko aana padega.”
And just like that, a name rippled through the villagers. Fear spread like fire.
Zahir Singh Raizada.
Noori didn’t move. She stood tall in the courtyard, the sting of her slap still trembling in her hand. But deep inside, something shifted.
Because she had heard the name too. And even though she refused to show it, her heart had begun to race.
To be continued...
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