The rain that evening was soft, like a whisper over the fields of Tulsipur. It washed the dust from the mango trees, filled the air with the earthy scent of wet mud, and drummed a quiet rhythm against the tiled roofs of the Roy Choudhary haveli.
Bondita sat on the veranda, a notebook open on her lap, her pen tapping thoughtfully against her chin. The events of the village gathering still played in her mind—the acceptance, the resistance, the moment she had stood before society not as a broken woman, but as a symbol of hope.
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