In the dusty village of Rajpur, nestled amid rolling fields and ancient banyan trees, Manik Singh ruled as sarpanch with an iron fist wrapped in a velvet glove. At 35, he was a towering figure—broad-chested, with a thick mustache that curled at the ends and eyes that gleamed like a predator's in the dim light of his sprawling haveli. The villagers feared and respected him; his word was law, enforced by a cadre of loyal men armed with sticks and, rumor had it, more sinister tools. Manik's wealth came from land deals and shadowy dealings, but his appetites were darker still.