Aradhna stood near the open bar on the wide lawn of her official ministerial bungalow, the fairy lights strung between the old neem trees casting a soft golden glow over the evening gathering. The air smelled of jasmine from the hedges and the smoky edge of tandoor fires where the catering staff kept the kebabs turning. More than a hundred men filled the grass and the stone paths, party workers in crumpled white kurtas, local strongmen with thick gold chains and louder voices, a few junior officials who laughed too readily at every joke. Whiskey and country liquor flowed without pause. Glasses clinked. Voices rose.

She had worn a simple cream silk sari with a dark blouse, the kind of understated elegance expected of a minister hosting her own men. Her hair was pinned up, a thin gold chain at her throat. She moved among them with practiced smiles, accepting namaste and the occasional lingering handshake, reminding herself that loyalty had to be watered like the lawn itself. The night was warm. The drinks kept coming.