Arjun POV
When I first became Sarpanch at twenty-five, people called it luck—“Kismet ka chakkar hai, Arjun ke naseeb mein likha tha.” But I knew it wasn’t luck.
It was loss that shaped me. Losing my parents early, watching Dadaji carry this village on his shoulders, seeing children drop out of school to herd goats—it made me want to do something more than just hold meetings under the peepal tree.
The first thing I did was fix the handpumps.
What’s the point of fancy policies when your women walk two kilometers for water? Then came the small bridge near the canal—funded not by the government, but by collecting one rupee a week from every household.
People laughed at first, but when the bridge stood firm during monsoons, they began to believe.
I started evening lantern drives for kids, arranged grain loans for farmers without making them touch a moneylender's feet, and introduced the idea of a "village library"—though it's really just a wooden shelf in the panchayat room with dog-eared books.
Change here doesn’t come with big speeches. It comes in the form of trust. I never forced the elders to send their daughters to school.
But I supported the quiet mothers who wanted it.
I backed the anganwadi didis when they taught hygiene and health.
And I made it clear—if any girl wants to study, Gulmohar Gaon won’t stop her. Not on my watch. Small steps, slow steps. But even cracked mud drinks in the rain eventually.
Since the day I became Sarpanch, people started looking at me differently—not just as Arjun, Balwant Singh’s grandson, but as someone they could rely on.
I never chased power, but I carried it like one carries a pot of water on their head—steady, careful, never letting it spill.
Maybe that’s why the villagers started offering what they believed to be their most valuable gift—their daughters.
It started with subtle hints. A mother would brush past me at the haat and say,
Arjun Singh (ML)
"Aap jaise jamai mil jaaye toh meri Sita ka bhaag jag jaaye."
(“If only my Sita got a son-in-law like you, her destiny would shine.”)
I understood what they meant. To them, I was safe. Responsible. A man who didn’t raise his voice, who stopped drunks from shouting at their wives during panchayat, who ensured widows got ration without begging.
Still, I never entertained the idea. I wasn’t ready. I didn’t want to marry for the sake of duty
But when Vermaji came forward, he didn’t come with pride—he came with desperation masked as formality
FL Father
“Sarpanchji, meri Priya... susheel hai, sanskaari hai. Aapke pairon mein rahegi.”
(“Sarpanchji, my Priya… she’s well-behaved, respectful. She will stay at your feet.”)
That line twisted something in my chest.
Arjun Singh (ML)
Pairon mein nahi, saath chalegi, I wanted to say.
(Not at my feet—she will walk beside me.)
But I stayed quiet. Let the elders speak. Let the matchmaker set the date.
Because in a place where women are married off like rain-fed crops, I could at least promise one thing: I wouldn’t be the man who cut her down before she could bloom.
I didn’t plan on getting married—not like this, not so soon. But in a village like ours, some decisions are made in the silence between fathers and fate. It started when Bhola came back from the chai stall one evening, rubbing his hands together like he was holding a secret.
Bhola(ML Best friend)
"Sarpanchji, Vermaji ke ghar mein dikkat hai... karza zyada ho gaya. Ladki ki shaadi se kuch sambhal jaayega."
("Sarpanchji, there's trouble in Vermaji's house... the debt's too much. A daughter’s marriage might ease the burden.")
I knew Vermaji—hard man, proud, never asked for help. His eldest daughter, Priya, barely eighteen.
Quiet, kept her eyes lowered, but something about her posture… she wasn’t weak. Still, I hesitated. Marriage isn’t a solution to debt.
I said so. But Bhola just looked at me, all knowing, like he was seeing something I wasn’t.
That night, Dadaji sat me down.
ML Grandfather
"Zindagi mein ek waqt aata hai jab tu kisi ke bojh ka hissa ban ke uska saathi ban jaata hai,"
("There comes a time in life when you don’t just share someone’s burden—you become their companion.")
I didn’t ask for a bride. But maybe she needed more than just a husband—maybe she needed safety. A home. A man who wouldn’t snatch her dreams out of her hands.
So I agreed. Not because I pitied her. But because in a village where women are bartered for peace, I could offer her something else—respect. A name without chains.
And maybe, someday, if trust bloomed between us, even something gentler: love.
CuddlePuff114 (Author)
This is just Arjun POV
If you have read at watty then there might be a chance to miss POV's and some story because I'm adding it here
CuddlePuff114 (Author)
Hope you are liking the story
CuddlePuff114 (Author)
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