Soon Rudra and Ishviq left with the messenger, and the air around the courtyard seemed to settle into a quiet lull. The evening sky was painted in deep orange and fading gold, the sounds of laughter and chatter slowly thinning as one by one, the guests began taking their leave. The sacred fire from the earlier pooja was almost out, the smoke spiraling lazily into the darkening horizon.

I stepped out of the kitchen, brushing my palms against my skirt, and found myself standing near one of the old neem trees. Leaning lightly against its rough bark, I let my eyes wander over the dispersing crowd. Familiar faces bowed to one another, exchanged parting words, and disappeared down the winding paths of the village. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Everything appeared calm. Too calm.