The following morning, the Haveli was alive with the rare, soft sunlight of a waning monsoon. Aravind Rathode descended the grand staircase with a heavy, rhythmic thud of his cane, his face still etched with the granite-like lines of a man who had spent years in a self-imposed prison.
He stepped outside, the iron gates creaking open to reveal not the battlefield he remembered, but a landscape transformed.




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