MANY MILLENNIA AGO...

DAKSHINAPATHA

On the left bank of river Gowthami, in Dandakaranya, sits a person in meditation. Trying to control his rage, he sees glimpses of an event that scarred his heart. With the force of a falling cascade, a tear emerges from his left eye. He wants the teardrop to wash away the weight of his heart. But does that happen so easily? The teardrop falls on his lap, quickly getting absorbed by his royal robe. He feels the rushing tear through the fabric while his heart keeps rushing through the layers of his past.

“JUSTICE WINS. Maybe not instantly, but inevitably.” This line rings through his ears while more teardrops keep falling from his eyes. He saw his army running for life, his friend dying in his arms, and the darkness came slowly, like a woman walking forward — NisaSathi, the Lady Darkness — swallowing the setting sun as it slid behind the twin ridges cradling the Gowthami’s flow, ridges that, seen from above, traced the very parting she drew through her hair.

Unable to find peace with his eyes closed, he slowly opens his eyes. In front of him is a Sivalinga, whose majesty can make devotees fall to their knees instantly. A few months ago, Sage Agasthya installed that Sivalinga and worshipped it. “AGASTHYA... the guru of Pandyan kings.” Thoughts keep rushing again. “We should have listened to Sage Agasthya. All of this turmoil could have been avoided...” His father’s voice, filled with regret, echoes in his head. He closes his ears hard. But he is sinking in the thoughts filling his head. He wants to shout as loudly as he can. But he does not, fearing that his anguish might escape before he takes revenge. He lowers his head in helplessness, his hands falling involuntarily, as if he has completely lost his control over anything, perhaps everything.

“Glory to Justice, my Prince.” A familiar voice pulls his attention. He looks back swiftly, as if he was waiting for someone to come and talk. “Surya,” he says, “what brings you here?” “The King wants you to come immediately,” the soldier speaks as softly as he can. “And what purpose is this immediate meeting?” asks the Prince. “A messenger came from the Kingdom of Mithila. It’s a marriage invitation,” says Surya.

The Prince enters the palace hall. Giant sculptures depicting war and valour stand on both sides of the way. He remembers how as a child, he admired them. He wanted to be one of them. Courageous and Victorious. He wanted his head to be held high just like those statues. But as he passes them now, he feels the weight of a mountain on his head. Neither can he raise his head, nor his voice. This is not due to external dissent. The people love him and he loves his people. The problem is he can’t love himself enough anymore. He needs an internal revival. And that seems to be far away somewhere.

“I need you to go to Mithila—” the King says, “—on my behalf. King Seeradhvaja sent an invitation welcoming us to his daughter’s marriage.”

What the Prince wished not to hear, he has now heard. “Father, you know that...” He tries to say something.

“Yes, I know—” the king interrupts, “—and that is why I want you to go. Your sister is going to get married to the Prince of Ayodhya. You must start immediately.”

And the Prince starts the journey reluctantly. If everything were normal, he would be the happiest person on earth to hear about his sister’s marriage. He would be running as fast as he could to be there at the wedding even before the rituals began. But something is different about him now. He fears his dullness might affect the happy mood of other invitees at the wedding. He has always been like that — a loner in sadness, and the warmest presence in any gathering in happiness. He hopes the marriage will change his mood a little.

Mithila is not new to him. He spent most of his childhood there. In most crucial times, he was there to support the city and King Seeradhvaja. Passing through the city walls, he remembers the battles he fought for Mithila. He was a hero then. His heart filled with pride, his head held high with dignity. He was just like one of those sculptures he used to admire. But now... NOW... he does not want to think about that here anymore. He is here for the wedding, and until his return journey, he thinks, he should keep a smile on his face.

With these thoughts in mind, the Prince travels through the forest surrounding the city wall. A distant cry catches his attention. It seems someone is in trouble nearby. The Prince goes around, looking. He is now able to hear it much more clearly. A girl is crying, and someone is shouting angrily. “How dare you imitate us, you stupid girl! I said not to follow me and not to imitate my recitation, you fool!” As the Prince moves further, he sees a person in ascetic attire, threatening a little girl with a whip. The girl looks no older than her early teens.

“Stop!” shouts the Prince in anger. The ascetic turns around. “Why are you trying to beat that girl mercilessly?” he asks. “And what business is that of yours? Go away,” the ascetic replies recklessly. “This girl tried to imitate our penance. She listened to the Vedas silently while we were reciting and tried repeating them. She must be punished.” He moves forward to beat the girl again. The Prince, unable to tolerate it any further, slaps the ascetic across the face. The man is shocked. “How dare you raise a hand on an ascetic. Here, have this.” The ascetic beats the Prince with his whip. The Prince does not try to stop him. Instead, he wants to be beaten even more, hoping the physical pain might make him forget his emotional pain for a while. As the ascetic keeps beating him, the girl keeps weeping in terror. Suddenly, someone catches the edge of the whip from behind. The Prince turns to see that person.

With a golden glow on his face, he shines like the Sun. His looks are as fierce as a lion’s, his eyes as attractive as the petals of a lotus. His body is like a mountain, whose strength can win over the mighty Poulastya. His face is divine. His presence is refreshing. He is spectacular. The Prince is spellbound. That person is of the same age as him, yet the Prince feels like a little star beside a glowing full moon. Although seeing him for the first time, the Prince feels so much attached to that person.

“Who are you?” the ascetic asks. The Prince can hear the fear in his voice.

“RAMA, of AYODHYA,” that person replies.

Hearing that name, something shifts in the Prince’s heart. He looks again at the person before him and sees more than a man. He looks like the embodiment of all scriptures. For the first time, the Prince thinks he is seeing the Supreme Power in human form. How good it would be, if time paused. How good it would be if the moment turned eternal. He looks like an ocean of great depth, in which all worries get drowned. He is like a cloud, upon whose arrival the peacocks dance in joy. He is like lightning, whose shine will blind the enemies.

The ascetic loses his grip and the whip falls. “My Lord... Prince Rama...” he searches for words. “What was the girl’s mistake? Why do you want to punish her?” asks Rama calmly. His calmness is like the silence of the sea before the cyclone. “My Lord! This girl tried to recite the Veda mantras without our knowledge, without approval or permission.” The ascetic searches for words to justify his inappropriate action. “Is her recitation erroneous? Were the swaras wrong? Or is she of unclean dressing or surroundings?” Rama’s question surprises him. He does not expect this.

“No, not exactly. But without permission...” he mumbles. Then Rama cuts sharply, “Whose permission? Yours? Are you her guru? I do not think so. Are you the caretaker of the Vedas? The protector of Religion? Who announced your name for passing judgments and punishing people? I never heard of you.” The ascetic shivers now, but his ego is still unbent. “Rama—” he says, “she is a girl. A girl or a woman cannot recite the Vedas, especially without Upanayana.”

“Are you living in the Stone Age? Where are you from? I don’t see the broad-mindedness of sages in you. You are neither a sage with a good heart nor a seer with a sound mind. Are you not aware of Ghosha, Apala, Maitreyi, and Lopamudra, who were not only Vedic scholars but Mantra Drashtas — seers? The knowledge of the Vedas is for everyone. It does not exist just for you and me. Neither the sharpness of the sword nor the decoration of its sheath brings results in war. It is the ability to wield the sword that brings victory in battle. If the sword is in the hands of a skilled person, it brings victory. If it is in the hands of a compassionate person, it brings happiness. Compassion is more valued than skill. Similarly, neither the sacred thread nor the Upanayana brings the worthiness of the Vedas’ knowledge. It is compassion and righteousness. You lack in both.”

The Prince watches Rama with great amazement while Rama continues, “Neither is woman inferior to man, nor man superior to any other being in this world. The diversity of nature should be its boon, not its burden. A real scholar sees everything as equal. A real scholar is above partiality and discrimination. Fighting in the name of caste and religion is outright foolishness, and the nation will pay the price for the agendas of a few. Even though I feel all are equal, I have more respect for that girl than you.”

“Rama—” the ascetic replies, his voice filled with jealousy, “—how can you compare her with me? She belongs to a lower caste, unworthy of the Vedas by her lowly birth.” These words make Rama’s eyes turn red like blood. “If another word comes from your mouth, I will cut out your tongue,” Rama’s voice sounds like thunder. “Your mere presence disappoints me. I am trained by the great Visvamithra. He was born into a Kshatriya family but became a Brahmarshi through penance and effort. Our Kula Guru is the great Vasishta, born to Urvasi and married to Arundhathi. Greatness comes from thoughts and actions, not merely from birth. People like you are responsible for the downfall of human nature and ethical standards. This kingdom belongs to Seeradhvaja, and he alone reserves the right to pass judgment and punish. That is why I am letting you go, even though you are a criminal in my eyes. Get out, and never dare come before me again with your wicked heart.”

Hearing Rama’s words, the ascetic leaves, cursing and vowing revenge. Rama lifts the little girl to her feet slowly, wipes her tears, and caresses her cheek. She stops crying and gives a small smile. Then she looks at the Prince, who was beaten for her. Rama looks at the Prince’s shoulder. It bleeds lightly. But the Prince does not seem to notice it. He is still looking at Rama in awe. He feels neither physical pain nor emotional pain. Neither his heart nor his thoughts wander. He stands still, like a statue, his eyes fixed on Rama.

“Won’t you introduce yourself to us?” Rama asks.

The Prince replies, “CHITRARATHA, of ANDHRA.”

Rama and Chitraratha enter the courtyard with the little girl. King Seeradhvaja is waiting at the entrance for Rama, who had gone for a little walk in the forest. There is something mystical in the forest environment which attracts Rama very much. He loses track of time while in the forest. Perhaps the memories of his journey with his brother and his guru Viswamithra are what make him go to the forest again and again. Or perhaps there is some other reason, more mystical and magical, which we do not know of. But one thing is for sure — Rama’s journeys with the forest are not yet over. The one unusual thing today is that Rama went to the forest alone. Generally, Rama is always seen with his brother at his side, but today Visvamithra insisted that Lakshmana stay with him, while Urmila, the daughter of Seeradhvaja, shows them both the Kingdom of Mithila. So Rama was alone in the forest when a little girl’s cry caught his attention. He noticed Chitraratha getting down from his chariot to help the girl, but was surprised and a little confused when Chitraratha did not counter the beating from the ascetic. So Rama himself went to stop the ascetic.

While returning from the forest, Chitraratha and Rama spoke to each other, but the majority of that conversation revolved around the girl. She introduced herself as Haimi. When asked about her parents, she said she was the sister of the Princess’s friend. “Where have you learned to recite the Vedas with swaras?” Rama asked Haimi. “I study under Princess Urmila’s guidance,” Haimi replied. “Here in Mithila, no person shall be discriminated against or restricted from gaining knowledge and wisdom based on caste, status, age, and gender. The fountain of knowledge is free for everyone to quench their thirst,” Chitraratha said to Rama. Rama felt happy on hearing Chitraratha’s words. He wished that the whole world would be like this one day.

King Seeradhvaja is expecting Rama, but he is surprised to see Chitraratha with him. Getting down from the chariot, both of them bow to Seeradhvaja. Seeradhvaja blesses them and hugs them both. “I am so happy to see you, my son!” Seeradhvaja says to Chitraratha. He asks about the well-being of Padma Kumara, the king of the Andhras. “Go and meet your sister, she will be so happy to see you,” Seeradhvaja says to Chitraratha. Chitraratha bows again to Seeradhvaja with a nod and walks away with Haimi. Haimi leads Chitraratha to her house. She invites him inside, but he wants to refuse, promising to return later. But he stops when the door opens.

Making the swans jealous, a woman slowly comes out of the house. When her eyes meet Chitraratha’s, a smile comes into her eyes — they shine like sparks of fire. She tries so hard to hide her joy, but she can’t. Chitraratha recognizes the person instantly. “She is my sister,” says Haimi, trying to introduce the woman to Chitraratha. “He saved me from a crazy ascetic in the forest,” Haimi adds. The woman instantly notices the wound on his shoulder — his uthariyam is stained with blood. “He’s always like that. Always looking out for people in trouble and rushing to save them, as if he has no other work to do,” she says sharply. Chitraratha is amazed by her words. “Do you know him already? He is from Dakshinapatha. His name is Chitraratha,” says Haimi. “Come inside, Prince Chitraratha. Let me apply some herbal paste to your wounds.” Her words sound as if she is ordering him. “No thanks. I am good. These are nothing to a warrior,” says Chitraratha. “But I’m no warrior, my Prince. I’m a girl with a tender heart. My heart bleeds at the slightest wound. Please come in,” she asks. Chitraratha does not know what to do next. Without waiting for his answer, she takes him by the hand and walks into the house. It all looks very confusing to Haimi.

“Not only is Chitraratha a great warrior, but also a good man. Unlike his father, he is very much selfless,” Seeradhvaja says to Rama while sauntering in the garden. “Our family legend says that Lord Shiva gave his bow to celestials, and one of those celestials, Varuna, gave it to Devaraatha, one of our ancestors. That bow was our prized possession for many centuries. When I started searching for a suitable groom for my daughter, I announced that the person who was powerful enough to lift the bow of Shiva would be worthy of marrying my daughter. Many kings tried, but all their efforts went in vain — forget about lifting the bow, they could not even move it by an inch. Then they all conspired against me and waged a war. I fought for a year relentlessly, surrounded by enemies around the city walls. We were trapped inside. All our supplies were running out. At that time, I prayed for the Gods to help me. One night, my enemies went a step further and tried to burn down the entire forest and the city walls. It was a death trap.”

Rama went still, his eyes fixed on Seeradhvaja.

“At that time, Chitraratha came with his army to help me and my kingdom. He fought by our side, and with his help, we won that battle. Mithila was saved by his valiant efforts.”

Rama gave a slow, appreciative nod — the kind he reserved for warriors who fought for others rather than for glory.

“His father is a friend to me, and I have known Chitraratha since his childhood. But I did not expect that he would stand by my side that day. My daughter treats him as her own brother. He is truly a reliable friend, Rama.” Hearing all this from King Seeradhvaja, Rama’s admiration and respect for Chitraratha deepen.

That fiery night in Mithila would have haunted her for her entire life if Chitraratha had not come to her rescue that day. She still remembers that frightful night in great detail. She was trying to get some food secretly from the forest for her people, but the enemy soldiers noticed her hiding in the bushes. Her mission was unsuccessful. She knew of the dangers she would face if caught. Yet she decided to come out for her people. They had been starving for many days.

Now she was caught. All she could do now was run, and she ran as fast as she could. Soldiers chased her, but she was too swift in that forest, knowing every nook and corner of it well. Finding it difficult to chase her for too long, the soldiers decided to shoot arrows at her instead. Then Chitraratha came suddenly, from nowhere. He stood in the middle, shielding the girl from the arrows of the enemies. As they shot arrows, Chitraratha took his sword to counter them. Like a lion hunting its prey, Chitraratha jumped on the enemies and wounded them heavily. The girl stood there watching while her fear slowly vanished. While the small fight was nearing its end, a soldier injured Chitraratha on his shoulder. With blood dripping over his feet, Chitraratha stood steadily, waiting for the correct moment to strike the enemy. With one blow from Chitraratha, the enemy fell lifeless. Knowing that their numbers were nearing zero, the enemies started to spread fire in the forest. Surrounded by fire on four sides, Chitraratha did not know how to save the girl. At that moment, Chitraratha’s horse jumped in. “Come, we have to go,” Chitraratha said to the girl. Chitraratha helped her mount the horse, and the horse galloped across the fire toward where his army was coming from. She turned back and saw Chitraratha still fighting with those enemies. The memory was so clear, as if it had happened yesterday.

Hot vapours rise from the water, but she is still staring into the fire. “Look at the water, not the fire,” says Haimi. “Remembering that night, right?” asks Chitraratha. “It must have been a fearful experience.” “No—” she replies, “—it was a painful one. I have you by my side that day. With you by my side, I have nothing to fear.” She takes some ointment, goes near him, and while applying it to his wounds, asks, “Do you remember that night?”

Yes, of course, he does. After sending her off on the horse, he continued to fight with the soldiers. After some time, his army arrived. They outnumbered the enemy soldiers and chased them away. Chitraratha’s horse came back with the woman on its back. He helped her down. Drenched in blood, with deep wounds, he was slowly losing consciousness. He was tripping and needed support. She went forward to hold him up as he said, “We have to stop the fire.” She said, “First you need to rest.” Suddenly the sky thundered, and heavy rain began. She took him to the shade of a nearby tree and placed his head on her lap. Looking into her eyes, he asked, “What is your name?” She said something, but he fell unconscious. When he opened his eyes the next morning, she was gone. He asked after her. No one knew who she was.

“My soldiers said that you nursed my wounds that night, just like today,” he says. “Yes, and I also worried about your well-being in that war,” she says slowly. “My soldiers also said that you led them inside the city that day. You too are a great warrior,” the prince says, smiling. “No, my prince. I do not wish to be a warrior. All a warrior can think about is war. A warrior does not look back and see his people who worry about him. All he can think about is waving his sword with his head high in the sky. I do not want to be that kind of warrior. Whatever I did that day, I did to protect my people. It was not about winning a war. It was about saving a life.” Her words surprise him.

“I too am a warrior, and I look out for my people. My people love me, and I love them,” the prince says proudly. “You never looked back for me, did you?” Her question leaves him speechless. “You never knew how much I worried for you — not only that day, but each day during your previous visit to Mithila. I searched for you. I asked for you. I wished for you. And I waited for you to return to Mithila after you left. But you are a war hero. A warrior. Why would you stop and look back for me?” Tears roll down her face as she speaks. The Prince cannot understand why she cares about him so much.

Not knowing what to say, he asks, “What is your name?” “I’ll tell you!” Haimi jumps in, excited. But she stops Haimi, turns towards the prince, and says, “So now, the great war hero Chitraratha does not even know my name. How lucky I am!” She smiles. “Tell me now,” Chitraratha asks. “What’s the hurry? Wait. If by chance we meet another time, I may tell you. For now, I have to go.” She quickly gives the prince herbal juice to drink and leaves the house immediately. “Is she always like that?” Chitraratha asks Haimi. She nods. “Where can I find her now?” he asks. “Try your luck in the Princess’s palace room,” Haimi says.

Chitraratha is welcomed warmly by the princess of Mithila. She is so happy to see him. She takes a sacred thread and ties it to Chitraratha’s hand as Raksha Bandhan. “I wish you find peace. I wish you find true happiness, my dear brother. May your fame shine like the sun, and may your heart be as pleasant as the moon. May your wisdom glow like a star in the darkest of nights,” she says, applying tilaka to his forehead. “Sita, my sweet sister. Your happiness is my happiness. I’ll be there for you.” As they are talking, the woman who nursed Chitraratha comes in. Sita smiles at her and says, “Hi, dear one, meet my brother Chitraratha.” Chitraratha instantly bends forward, kneeling on one leg before her. All the others there start laughing. The Prince asks, “Young lady! May I know your name?” She replies, “AARNA.”

“Sita lifted the bow so easily,” Urmila says to Lakshmana and Vishvamithra, who have been following her since their trip started that day to see Mithila. Lakshmana still cannot understand why Vishvamithra wanted to come without Rama. But he does not question his guru, as he knows Vishvamithra has a strong reason for everything he does. Lakshmana recalled that day when his father, King Dasaratha, called Rama to the palace and asked him to follow every word of Vishvamithra. Lakshmana also accompanied Rama to the jungle for the protection of Vishvamithra’s yagnya. After spending time with Vishvamithra, Lakshmana understood that Vishvamithra wanted to develop Rama’s skills. Both Rama and Lakshmana received guidance from Vishvamithra on handling different weapons. Even after the yagnya was complete, Vishvamithra brought Rama and Lakshmana to Mithila. At first, Lakshmana thought Vishvamithra had brought them only to see the yagnya. Only after seeing the bow of Shiva did Lakshmana understand that Vishvamithra wanted Rama’s marriage to Sita. The two were made for each other, and Vishvamithra had known this from the beginning. So Lakshmana never tried to question Vishvamithra. He trusted his guru with all his heart.

“Not only while playing in childhood—” Urmila continues, “—Sita even lifted the bow recently. When Videha was surrounded by enemies, we ran out of supplies. Our father was worried about the people. At that time, Sita lifted the bow in anger, to fight those enemies. Our guru Sathananda stopped her and calmed her down. At that time, our brother Chitraratha from Andhra came to help us.” Lakshmana listens to her words with attention. “Is Chitraratha here?” Vishvamithra asks Urmila. “He must be here by today,” she says. Lakshmana asks, “Why is this kingdom called Videha?” “Because the emperors of Mithila are never interested in worldly pleasures. Instead, they always search for purpose in life. Their administration is centred around Dharma, and they treat their people like their own children. So all kings of Mithila are known by the name Janaka, and our kingdom is known as Videha, which means ‘without body’ — indicating that Dharma and gnyana are our priority, rather than our own body,” Urmila says to Lakshmana. Since their journey began that morning, Lakshmana has developed real admiration for Urmila’s knowledge. Her words are like the waves of the river Saraswati. But he wants to ask her a question, to put her in a moral dilemma.

“If a wife truly loves her husband, and if he truly loves his wife, they become attached to each other. Is this bonding a drawback?” Lakshmana asks. Vishvamithra waits eagerly for Urmila’s answer. “Husband and wife are not separate. They are one. So a man loving his wife, or a woman loving her husband, is no different from a sage who loves God and tries to become one with him. Like a wise person’s soul unites with God, a man unites with his wife and becomes one. That love falls under selfless duty.” Urmila’s answer surprises Lakshmana. “Well said!” Vishvamithra praises. “Not yet, Gurudeva! The Princess of Videha has to answer one more question,” Lakshmana says. “Go on, Prince. What is it?” Urmila asks. “Suppose the husband has to leave his wife for some other sacred and loyal duty, even though he loves her with all his heart — is he committing a mistake?” Lakshmana asks Urmila. “If I were in the wife’s position, I would support my husband’s decision with all my heart,” Urmila says. “What about the pain you’d feel? Would the husband not feel guilty?” Lakshmana asks. Urmila replies with a smile: “What you call pain, I call penance. What you call guilt, I call love.”

“Rama is perfect for you in every way,” Chitraratha says to Sita. “He is well versed in the Dharma Sastras. He has empathy towards all beings. His voice is like the roar of the ocean. His heart seems as pure as the Himalayas. Moreover, he holds great respect for women — he sees men and women as equals. The two of you are very lucky to have each other.” Sita, Aarna, and the others listen as Chitraratha narrates his meeting with Prince Rama. “But you missed the main moment—” Aarna says, “—it was amazing to see Shivadhanurbhanga.” Chitraratha wants to hear about how Rama lifted the bow of Shiva. As a child, Chitraratha had tried to lift the bow himself, but it was too heavy for him then. He had felt deeply disappointed, and distanced himself from bows and arrows, becoming passionate about sword-fighting instead. Later, when he grew up, he thought of that disappointment as silly — but he never thought of the bow of Shiva again. He had heard so many stories of people trying to lift it and failing miserably. So Chitraratha asks, “Then tell me how Rama lifted the bow of Shiva.”

Aarna begins to narrate:

~ Our King Janaka was performing a yagnya on the banks of the river Gandaki. When the yagnya was nearing completion, Sage Vishvamithra came to Mithila along with two princes. King Janaka went to welcome them with all his priests and ministers. Sage Vishvamithra introduced the princes as the sons of King Dasaratha of Ayodhya — Rama and Lakshmana. King Janaka informed them that the yagnya would be completed on the twelfth day, and welcomed them to witness the Purnahuthi. Then he asked why they had come to Mithila. Sage Vishvamithra replied that the princes of Ayodhya wished to see the bow of Shiva. The next day, King Janaka welcomed them to the palace where the bow was kept, and told them the legend of Devaraatha, who received the bow from Varuna. King Janaka also said that whoever could wield the bow of Shiva would be worthy of marrying his daughter, Sita. Vishvamithra told Rama to go and see the bow. Rama approached the casket in which it was kept — a casket with eight wheels, requiring many strong men to move it from place to place. Rama looked closely at the bow and said, “Gurudeva, I want to touch this bow. I want to lift it and string it.” Both King Janaka and Sage Vishvamithra gave their permission. Rama, who was very virtuous, lifted the bow with ease. He strung it with a twang. Then he drew the string — and suddenly, the bow broke into pieces. It produced a thunderous sound as it broke; we felt as though the earth beneath our feet trembled, and the Himalayas themselves had split apart. Many people there fell unconscious. King Janaka was overjoyed. He addressed Vishvamithra with folded hands and said, “Oh worshipful one! I have seen the power of Rama, son of Dasaratha. I never imagined I would witness such a marvellous feat. By having Rama as her husband, Sita will bring glory to both the dynasties of Videha and Ayodhya. Sita is more valuable to me than my own life, and now I will happily arrange her marriage to Rama.” But Rama replied that he could not marry without the presence of his parents. With Vishvamithra’s permission, King Janaka sent messengers to Ayodhya to inform King Dasaratha of the marriage, seek his blessing, and welcome him, along with his family, ministers, and army, to Mithila. King Dasaratha is expected here by tomorrow. ~

Chitraratha feels amazed. He still wonders at the strength of Rama. “I was not lucky enough to witness that,” he says. “If you had stayed a few more days, you would have seen it,” Aarna says. She is still feeling somewhat upset that Chitraratha did not stay longer in Mithila after the battle. “I wanted to see you, Aarna—” Chitraratha says in a low tone, “—I wanted to be with you. During the battle, I always thought of coming to you once it was over. But when it was finally over...” Chitraratha stops. Sita sees Chitraratha’s eyes turn red, a tear rolling down from his left eye. “What happened, Brother Chitraratha? What is troubling you?” Sita asks. Chitraratha stands and says, “I have to go.” He leaves hastily, without a glance at Aarna. Aarna thinks she has made a mistake, being rude to him without giving him a chance to explain. “Go after him,” Sita says to Aarna. Aarna nods and goes after him. “I’m sorry,” she says to Chitraratha. “Please leave me alone for today,” Chitraratha says to Aarna. Aarna feels sad — she thinks he simply needs some time. “Let me show you to your quarters to rest,” Aarna says, and shows him the way.

The next morning, King Janaka welcomes King Dasaratha, who has reached Mithila. “I am so blessed to welcome you, along with your guru Vasishta, King Dasaratha. I feel fortunate at your arrival. Your son Rama, who came here with Sage Vishvamithra, has shown great valour. Mithila is deeply honoured to become one family with Ayodhya,” says Janaka. “We too are very happy to have our Rama marrying your daughter Sita, the Princess of Videha,” Dasaratha replies. “Tomorrow, my yagnya will be complete. After the Purnahuthi, we can begin the marriage rituals,” says Janaka. “As you wish,” Dasaratha replies. After making proper arrangements for Dasaratha, Janaka leaves for his palace. Rama and Lakshmana, along with Vishvamithra, come to Dasaratha, and they are all happy to see each other. The next morning, Janaka sends an invitation to his brother Kusadhvaja, the king of Sankasya. After Kusadhvaja arrives, Janaka sends his minister Sudamana to welcome Dasaratha, along with his family, gurus, and ministers, to the palace. On receiving the invitation, Dasaratha arrives with his sons, gurus, and ministers. Most of the prominent people from both Ayodhya and Mithila are present. Chitraratha is also there, on Janaka’s side. “Oh, great king of Videha — you already know that Guru Vasishta is the kula guru of the Ikshvaku Dynasty. Now, with the permission of Vishvamithra and all the sages present here, I ask him to speak of our dynasty,” says Dasaratha. Sage Vasishta then speaks of the lineage of the Ikshvaku Dynasty, from Avyaktha-Parabrahma to Rama. He continues, “Oh wise King Janaka, I believe Lakshmana would be a fitting match for Urmila, as Rama is for Sita. If you wish, let us perform the marriage of Urmila and Lakshmana alongside that of Sita and Rama.” Hearing Sage Vasishta’s words, Janaka is overjoyed. With great excitement, he says, “Oh revered Guru Vasishta! Allow me to introduce my own lineage before all the prominent people gathered here.” Janaka then explains his lineage, from King Nimi onward.

After hearing the lineage of the Videha Dynasty, from King Nimi down to the brothers Seeradhvaja and Kusadhvaja, Sage Vishvamithra stands. “Both the Videha and Ikshvaku dynasties are great,” he says. “It will be wonderful to witness their union at this marriage ceremony. I have something to add — King Janaka, your brother Kusadhvaja has two daughters, Maandavi and Sruthakeerthi. I believe it would be fitting for both families if Maandavi married Bharatha, and Sruthakeerthi married Sathrughna.” On hearing these words, Janaka bows to both Vasishta and Vishvamithra. “Oh great sages, if this is your wish, I am most happy to follow your word. Let these marriages take place according to your will. Let us all join in the celebration of the princesses of Videha with the princes of Ayodhya. Day after tomorrow, when the moon rests on the star Uttharaphalguni, let us conduct these marriages,” he says. King Dasaratha says, “Janaka Maharaja, we are overjoyed. Let it be as you say. Now, give us leave — I will begin the marriage rituals under the guidance of my sages.” After the Purnahuthi of Janaka’s yagnya, Dasaratha leaves. Before departing, Rama calls Chitraratha and says, “Chitraratha, I want you to meet someone — my soul, BHARATHA.”

“Bharata is not only my brother, he is my soul. He values me more than his life,” says Rama, introducing Bharata to Chitraratha. Next, he turns towards Shatrughna and says, “Meet my pride — Shatrughna. He is a fierce warrior, yet so obedient. At all times, we find Shatrughna supporting Bharata.” Chitraratha is delighted to meet Rama’s brothers; he especially likes the way Rama introduces them. Now he waits eagerly for Lakshmana’s introduction. “He is my strength — Lakshmana. Just like Bharatha and Shatrughna, we are always together. Rama cannot exist without Lakshmana.” Aarna watches them from a distance. She wants to know the reason for Chitraratha’s sadness, but he is always with someone or another. She wants to speak with him alone.

While the sons of Dasaratha are having a pleasant talk with Chitraratha, a person arrives. He introduces himself as Varuna. He brings with him two great bows of ferocious craftsmanship, two impenetrable shields, two quivers with countless arrow capacity, and two powerful swords with golden handles. “Rama! Accept these gifts. They may be of great use to you in the future.” Rama thanks him and humbly accepts them. After a small exchange, the four brothers go with Vasishta. Chitraratha too withdraws to his room, his thoughts still on Aarna. He wants to tell her why he left Mithila so hastily that day.

Thoughts kept running through his mind, and he slid again into the past. ‘Accept your defeat—‘ he still remembered that cold voice, ‘—nothing is in your hands now.‘ And Chitraratha had accepted his defeat that day. His heart broke. He became a stone with life. Nothing was left. ‘We have won, Meghanaad. Even the mighty Indra cannot match your wits. From now on, you will be known as Indrajit.‘ Chitraratha had watched Meghnaad become Indrajit by defeating him. The battlefield was full of blood and sorrow. Chitraratha had wanted his enemy to kill him, but the enemy spared his life instead. ‘Live the rest of your life with your head down. I am setting you as an example, so that no man will ever dare to fight me.‘ Chitraratha’s life became a hell. Neither could he die peacefully, nor could he live peacefully. With a raging fire in his heart, Chitraratha slept that night.

That night, Yudhajit comes to Mithila to meet Dasaratha. “My king, Dasaratha! My father, the king of Kekaya, sends his greetings to you. He wishes for your well-being and happiness. I am here to see my nephew, Bharatha. I am very happy to be here for this wedding. After the ceremony, with your permission, I would like to take Bharata from Ayodhya to my kingdom for some days,” says Yudhajit, the brother-in-law of Dasaratha. “As you wish,” says Dasaratha. The next day, King Dasaratha wakes early and performs his daily rites. After that, he reaches the place where the marriage is to be conducted, with his ministers and purohits.

Rama, along with his brothers Bharatha, Lakshmana, and Shatrughna, adorned in jewellery befitting princes, complete the rites of Rakshabandhana in the auspicious hour. Then, with his brothers, he follows Vasishta to where Dasaratha is standing. Sage Vasishta goes to King Janaka and informs him of Dasaratha’s arrival. “Oh great sage Vasishta! No one is going to stop you here. You need not wait for anyone’s permission — feel free, as if you were in Ayodhya. Why think of formalities in your own place? All my daughters have completed their rites and reached the wedding ground, where the sacred fire awaits the princes of Ayodhya. I too am waiting for your arrival. Please take charge and perform all necessary rites,” says Janaka to Vasishta. At Janaka’s word, Dasaratha reaches the place with his sons and sages, where Janaka is waiting for them. Then Janaka says to Vasishta:

कारयस्व र्षे सर्वानृषिभिः सह धार्मिक – रामस्य लोकरामस्य क्रियां वैवाहिकीं प्रभो |
Kaarayasva rusheh sarvam, rushibhih saha dhaarmika, raamasya loka raamasya, kriyaam vaivaahikeem prabho.
“Oh knower of Dharma! Please perform the marriage ceremony of Rama, who is the happiness of the whole world.”

Then Vasishta, along with Vishvamithra and Sathananda, decorate the Vivaha Yagnya Vedika with flowers and sandalwood paste. They bring various well-decorated clay vessels containing sprouts of navadhaanyas — nine types of food grains. They place incense, along with vessels of water and other items necessary for the marriage. They place akshatas — rice grains mixed with turmeric — at the vedika, the place where the rites are performed. They lay darbha grass over the vedika while chanting the appropriate Veda mantras. Sage Vasishta begins the yagnya ceremony, offering havya into the sacrificial fire. Chitraratha stands at Rama’s side; Aarna stands at Sita’s. Both look at each other.

King Janaka brings Sita with him and seats her at the sacred fire before Rama. King Janaka says to Rama:

इयं सीता मम सुता सहधर्मचरी तव | प्रतीच्छ चैनां भद्रं ते पाणिं गृह्णीष्व पाणिना || पतिव्रता महाभागा छायेवानुगता सदा ||
“This is my daughter, Sita. From now on, she will be your companion in Dharma. May everything good happen to you. Take her hand with yours. Rama! Sita will follow you like your shadow.”

Saying these words, King Janaka performs the Kanyadana of Sita to Rama. Rama and Sita look into each other’s eyes as they hold hands. Chitraratha and Aarna witness the union of Sita and Rama.

Then Janaka calls Lakshmana and says, “Oh great Lakshmana! Here is my daughter Urmila. May her wisdom and selflessness bring glory to you. Take her hand.” Janaka performs the Kanyadana of Urmila to Lakshmana. With Kusadhvaja at his side, Janaka calls Bharatha and says, “Oh mighty Bharatha! Here is my daughter Mandavi. She will be your support for the rest of your life. Take her hand.” Kusadhvaja performs the Kanyadana of Mandavi to Bharatha. Then Janaka calls Shatrughna and says, “Oh fierce Shatrughna! Here is my daughter Shrutha Keerthi. May you both be one soul and one heart. Take her hand.” Kusadhvaja performs the Kanyadana of Shrutha Keerthi to Shatrughna.

In this way, the princes of Ayodhya and the princesses of Videha become couples. Holding hands, the newlywed couples circle the yagnya vedika, then their parents, then the sages present. Vasishta, along with Vishvamithra and Sathananda, perform the rest of the marriage rituals. King Janaka, in the presence of Dasaratha, presents an exquisite jewel to Sita. “This excellent jewel, born of sacred waters, was gifted to me by Lord Mahendra, king of the Celestials, during a yagnya,” Janaka says to Rama. It is then adorned on her head, making her look even more radiant. After the ceremony is complete, the couples take the blessings of the elders and go to their residences.

That evening, Chitraratha goes to the forest to spend some time alone. Sitting in the shade of a tree, he closes his eyes. He can still see the marriage before him — Sita holding hands with Rama, Rama whispering something in her ear — he sees it all as if it is happening now. Suddenly, Aarna’s eyes come to his sight; he can sense some disturbance in them. He wants to answer her unspoken questions, but what answer should he give? He is trying to escape those moments from the past. All these days, he has tried to run from those thoughts as far as possible, but they haunt him still. Chitraratha begins to see his enemy’s eyes — a glance like that of a dangerous snake. That gaze had been so blazing that Chitraratha’s eyes never again appreciated the colours of life. Unable to bear those visions, Chitraratha opens his eyes. With the sun setting, the forest slowly slides into darkness. Chitraratha feels that even the darkness of a thousand nights could not match the darkness of his fate. He feels destined to be a failure. Grief is his closest friend now.

Again he closes his eyes. The setting sun reminds him of the evening his army was so badly defeated in that battle. If everything had gone well, he would have been victorious — but Chitraratha had underestimated the viciousness of his enemies. They would go to any lengths to win a battle; Dharmayuddha was an alien concept to them. Indrajit’s cunning plans brought them victory, and Chitraratha was devastated that day. Chitraratha opens his eyes slowly. Aarna stands before him. He is shocked. He stands up.

“What are you doing here, Aarna?” Chitraratha asks. “I’m here to apologize to you, my Prince. I am sorry — hurting you was never my intention. All I ever wanted was to convey my concern and sadness to you,” says Aarna. “I know—” Chitraratha says, “—I’m not hurt by you, Aarna. There is something else that has been troubling me for a long time. I am struggling inside to run far from that thing, but it roars like a lion before my eyes every day.” “What is it? May I know the thing that troubles you, my Prince?” Aarna asks. Chitraratha is about to speak when someone suddenly shouts — “Prince, look out!” A dangerous serpent comes crawling towards Chitraratha and Aarna. A figure steps between Chitraratha and the serpent and catches its head swiftly with one hand — the grip so tight that the serpent struggles to break free. Going four steps away from Chitraratha and Aarna, the figure throws the serpent far away.

“Are you okay, Prince Chitraratha?” the figure asks. “I’m alright, thank you—” Chitraratha says, “—but how do you know me? Who are you?” “I too am from Dakshinapatha, Prince Chitraratha. But that is not the main reason I know you. You are the only person in all of Dakshinapatha who stood against the evil king of Trikuta — so not only I, but the whole of Dakshinapatha knows of you. I was there in your court with Sage Agasthya that day. That is how I recognize you,” the figure says. “Who are you?” Chitraratha asks again, curious.

“I am the son of Anjana, of the Vanara clan of Dandakaranya. My name is Hanuma,” Hanuma says to Chitraratha. “What brings you here, holy one?” Aarna asks. “I am one of the ministers of King Sugriva of Kishkinda,” Hanuma replies. “Sugriva had an elder brother named Vali. Vali once went to fight a demon in a cave. After a long time, Vali’s screams came from the cave, and blood flowed out. Assuming Vali had been killed, Sugriva sealed the entrance with a rock. On his return, the people of Kishkinda made Sugriva their king. But Vali had not died — he returned, believing Sugriva had conspired against him, and banished him from the kingdom. Not only that, he took Sugriva’s wife, Ruma, as his own, and tried to kill Sugriva. Sugriva has been running from place to place ever since, evading Vali and his men. So I changed my disguise and came in search of him. I have travelled to many places but could not find him anywhere. Hoping to find him here, I came in search.”

“I hope you find your king, Kapivara!” says Aarna. “Why do you search for a weak man who ran away? Why not stand with Vali instead, Hanuma?” Chitraratha asks. “Prince, however weak the side of Dharma seems, eventually it will win. Our paths are alike, my Prince — however mighty our enemy, whatever the outcome, we must stand on the side of Dharma, and fight,” Hanuma says with a smile. Those were Chitraratha’s own words, once — but he turns sombre on hearing them echoed back. “Don’t worry, my Prince. Your defeat was not your fault,” Hanuma says. “What happened, Kapivara? Please, tell me of this battle. Who defeated Chitraratha?” Aarna asks. Hanuma says, “Prince Chitraratha waged war against the one whom all of Bharata Khanda feared — RAVANA.”

A few weeks after his victory in the fiery siege of Mithila, Chitraratha stood before Surya. “I have to find that girl—” he said, “—I need to talk to her immediately.” “There is a much more important thing to do right now, my Prince,” said Surya. “What is that?” Chitraratha asked. “We have to go to our kingdom as soon as possible. Sage Agasthya is waiting for you. It concerns the future of our kingdom and our people.” Chitraratha met King Janaka and informed him of his return journey. “You must come back soon, my boy,” said Janaka. The people of Mithila gave Chitraratha a memorable farewell — they decorated the way and shouted slogans in praise of his bravery, grateful to him for saving them. He was a hero to them. But little did he know that this praise was temporary. He was going to face defeat and humiliation. He had received respect in a foreign place, but he was about to lose it in his own.

What happened next, Hanuma remembered more clearly than Chitraratha himself did — for he had stood in that court, beside Sage Agasthya, and seen it all with his own eyes.

~ “King Padma Kumara! Long, long ago, I arranged a peace treaty between the Pandyan kings and Ravana, king of Lanka. Because of that treaty, Ravana never attacked Dakshinapatha. At that time, the whole of Andhra, along with Nagapattanam, was part of the Pandyan Empire — but now it lies under your control. Recently, Sage Vishvamithra conducted a yagnya, and Ravana’s minister Mareecha tried to interrupt it, but the prince of Ayodhya defeated him. This angered Ravana greatly, and he has sent more of his ministers, cousins, and soldiers into Dandakaranya. Before he invades Dakshinapatha, we must act. If you permit me, I will try to arrange a peace treaty between your kingdom and Ravana.” Padma Kumara said, “Guru Agasthya, thank you for your effort to protect our kingdom from this threat. I will consider it.” ~

~ “There is nothing left to consider, Sage Agasthya,” Chitraratha said. “All we need now is to fight — a fight against that evil king, Ravana. Tell me, Sage Agasthya: has anyone ever defeated Ravana?” “Ravana has been defeated twice before,” said Agasthya. “Once by King Kaarthaveeryarjuna of Mahishmati, and recently by Vali, king of Kishkinda.” “Then why can’t we defeat him?” Chitraratha asked. “Why do we keep making pacts and treaties? Are we not kings of honour and valour?” “He is too powerful to defeat, Prince Chitraratha,” Agasthya said. “Moreover, his son Meghnaad is cunning, a master of illusion — you could never defeat them in a Dharma Yuddha. I believe it would be wiser for you to make peace with Ravana.” ~

~ Then Chitraratha spoke with such confidence that I remember every word of it still, and those words have never left me. He said, “However weak the side of Dharma seems, eventually it will win. However mighty our enemy may be, whatever the outcome, we should stand on the side of Dharma, and fight.” The people were doubtful, but they supported their prince all the same. When Ravana learned that a prince from Nagapattanam had refused his pact — and that the people celebrated the refusal — he sent his army, without delay, to capture Chitraratha. Chitraratha’s forces stood ready. ~

~ Sage Agasthya took Chitraratha with him and reached Dhavalagiri. There, Sage Agasthya installed a Shivalinga and worshipped it for Chitraratha’s victory, giving him his blessing. “Though I go against your counsel, you still wish for my victory. How can I ever thank you, Gurudeva?” Chitraratha asked. “Our duty is only to inform you of the consequences, Chitraratha. As teachers, we will never decide your choices — each person must have their own vision and opinion. I wish you every success in what lies ahead,” Sage Agasthya said. ~

~ At a place called Karyamapudi, Ravana’s army met Chitraratha’s. Chitraratha’s forces fought hard, and under his leadership, the Andhras won — a ray of hope for all of Dakshinapatha. “Ravana will attack us again. We do not have the troops to fight him a second time. I think we should make some pact with Ravana, one way or another. This battle must end, Chitraratha,” said Padma Kumara. The officials in the palace room nodded in agreement. ~

~ “We should end this battle — I agree,” Chitraratha said. “But it must end with the defeat of the Lord of Lanka. We should make a pact, but not with Ravana — with the other rulers of Dakshinapatha. If the armies of Dakshinapatha unite under one banner, Ravana can be defeated.” “And whose banner is that, Prince Chitraratha?” Sage Agasthya asked. “The people of Dakshinapatha do not accept your leadership. They will not unite as one army for your purpose,” said another. Chitraratha replied, “This is not my purpose, and I seek no position or authority. I wish for the welfare of the people, and my struggle is for everyone. I walk the path of love with a blazing torch of Dharma. Even if I am destined to lose, I will still fight. I would rather try than turn back without trying.” ~

~ With little help or support from the others, Chitraratha went ahead to battle. This time, Ravana and Meghanaada themselves came to the field to fight him. I do not know what happened after that — I was searching all across Andhra, hoping to find Sugriva, but I could not find him anywhere. So, after taking leave of Sage Agasthya, I departed. A couple of months later, I learned that Ravana had defeated Chitraratha. I felt great sorrow. ~

After Hanuma stopped narrating, Chitraratha said, “I underestimated the power of Meghanaada. On the battlefield, to crush the spirit of my army, he staged a fake death — a man with an exact resemblance to me, in the same armour, the same clothing. He killed that man and made my soldiers believe I had fallen. While I tried to calm the soldiers fleeing the field, my friend was killed by Ravana. Sage Agasthya reached us at that moment.” Thoughts came rushing back again. “We should have listened to Sage Agasthya. All of this turmoil could have been avoided...” His father’s voice, filled with regret, echoed in his head. Chitraratha continued, in a low voice, “He kept me from dying at Ravana’s hands. But I wish...”

Hanuma stopped him. “Calm yourself, my Prince. It was not a fair battle. We must wait. Defeating Ravana is no easy task, but it is possible — no one is invincible. King Kaarthaveeryarjuna once defeated Ravana, but was killed by Parasurama in turn. We must wait for someone as powerful as Parasurama to rise and defeat him.” Chitraratha nodded. Hanuma continued, “Grant me leave, my Prince. Sugriva is not in Mithila; I must continue my search elsewhere.” Chitraratha embraced Hanuma. “We shall meet again, my friend. Until then — goodbye.” Hanuma left that place.

“I am sorry. I failed to see the blazing fire in your heart,” said Aarna. Chitraratha smiled. “Because your love’s fire burns far brighter in yours, Aarna.” Aarna felt shy and lowered her head. Softly, she said, “I have loved you since our childhood. You did not know me — but I knew of you, all along. I cannot say when that feeling became love. But I can say a single second feels like a thousand aeons without your presence.” Chitraratha’s heart filled with joy; his happiness knew no bounds. “I am going to Ayodhya tomorrow with Princess Sita. I will spend a few days there, then return to Mithila,” said Aarna. “Then you should leave at once. There must be much work waiting for you there,” Chitraratha said. His response shocks Aarna — she had expected him to confess his feelings. “Yes, I am leaving,” she says in disappointment, turning to go.

“Abhisarika—” Chitraratha calls after her. Aarna stops. She turns back to him.

“I will walk the banks of the Sarayu before I ever walk the Godavari again.” He looks up. The moon has begun to rise over Mithila. “I wish to see this same moon there, on the banks of the Sarayu, and be in its presence.” Aarna’s eyes fill, but now she is smiling. She says nothing more. She only nods once, and leaves.

After Aarna leaves, Chitraratha thinks to himself: I too have much work ahead of me now. Raamaaaa! Only you can help me now.

The next morning, Chitraratha goes to Rama and says, “I am going to miss you, Rama! In such a short time, you have become so close to my heart.” “I too will surely miss you, Chitraratha,” Rama says with a smile. Sita watches the exchange in amusement — she knows Chitraratha wants to come to Ayodhya. Rama, having heard about Aarna and Chitraratha from Sita, wants to tease his friend a little longer. “I wish I had more time with you, Rama,” Chitraratha says, hoping to be invited. “Yes, but time waits for no one, Chitraratha. Now I must go to Ayodhya, and you must return to Andhra. You must be busy yourself, with the duties of your kingdom. But you made a great effort in coming here for the wedding — I do not wish to trouble you further. You may return to your kingdom now,” Rama says. The words strike Chitraratha like a shock. He had not expected this from Rama. “Who said I am busy, Rama? I am free for some days.” Sita bursts into laughter. “If you are free, and wish to see Ayodhya, you are always welcome, my friend. Feel Ayodhya as your own Andhra, and I will feel Andhra as my own Ayodhya,” Rama says. Chitraratha’s joy is complete. He embraces Rama. “I can wait no longer to see Ayodhya. Let us start at once. Take me to your Ayodhya, Rama. I have seen you as Sita Rama — now I wish to see you as Ayodhya Rama, and as Rajarama.”

And so the journey begins. After taking leave of Janaka, King Dasaratha sets out for Ayodhya with the newlywed princes and princesses, his family, and his army. They are all filled with joy. But an unexpected trouble crosses their path — strong winds rise, the air turns thick with dust, and the sun slips behind gathering clouds. Like thunder, Parasurama appears before Rama. “Rama! I have heard you are a great warrior, that you performed Shivadhanurbhanga — a remarkable feat. Hearing this, I have come with the bow of Vishnu. If you can loose an arrow from it, I will grant you a duel.” Rama stands silent, but Dasaratha trembles. “Oh great Parasurama! Rama is the life of Ayodhya. The world knows your strength, your victories — why call my boy to fight you? Please, spare my Rama.” But Parasurama pays no heed to Dasaratha’s words. Chitraratha has heard many times of Parasurama’s strength; he fears for Rama’s safety.

Parasurama speaks again. “Rama! If you are a true warrior, a true Kshatriya, accept this Vaishnava Dhanu and prove your strength. Otherwise, I will call you a weakling, and return to the Mahendragiri ranges.” Rama replies, “Oh Parasurama, I admire you — you have served justice through many battles. But you mistake my silence for weakness, and try to humiliate me for it. Now, see my power.” Rama takes the bow of Vishnu from Parasurama’s hand. Chitraratha falls into a trance at the sight of Rama holding the Vaishnava bow — he senses at once that Parasurama’s charm is fading before Rama’s presence. Rama’s very being seems to overshadow everyone there. Chitraratha remembers Hanuma’s words — that someone as powerful as Parasurama could defeat Ravana — and thinks: perhaps Rama could defeat Ravana. Perhaps Shivadhanurbhanga was only the first sign of what is to come.

Suddenly, Chitraratha feels Rama’s hand on his shoulder, and comes back to himself. Parasurama is nowhere to be seen. “Where is Parasurama?” he asks. “He has gone to do penance. Now, let us continue,” Rama says. The journey resumes. Seeing the city from a distance, Chitraratha thinks to himself: So this is the city no warrior can ever conquer.

‘AYODHYA.‘

JANASTHANA...

Blood dripped from the throne of bones. Torches burned with a strange blue flame. Around the hall stood silent Rakshasas, none daring to raise their eyes.

“What were you doing there in the first place, Akampana?” shouts the figure seated upon that throne, his clothes drenched in blood. “That too, in the disguise of an ascetic, reciting mantras.”

“I was following Sage Vishvamithra, my king!” says Akampana, still in his ascetic disguise. He continues, “Rama, prince of Ayodhya, and his brother Lakshmana, aided Vishvamithra in completing his yagnya. They killed Subahu and wounded Mareecha. So, thinking of them as a potential threat to Lanka, I followed them to Mithila. To avoid suspicion, I took this disguise and wandered the jungles near Mithila, reciting mantras whenever someone approached to speak with me. At that time, a little girl followed me and imitated my recitation. To be rid of her, I threatened her with a whip. Then Prince Rama came, and I escaped narrowly, without being caught.”

“So you are saying you ran away in fear of a boy? Are you not ashamed to be afraid of a worthless mortal?” the figure laughs at Akampana.

“He is not a worthless mortal — and certainly, he is no boy. That man killed our soldiers and protected the sages. Why can you not see the trouble coming our way, my king?” Akampana says impatiently.

“He is right, King Khara!” says Mareecha from behind him. “Do not underestimate Rama. He alone could uproot the kingdom of Lanka, with all its armies.”

Hearing the words of Mareecha and Akampana, Khara says, “Then let there be war. Gather our armies, and let us march towards Ayodhya.”

“No one can win over Ayodhya. The name itself says as much — the city which no warrior can conquer,” says Mareecha.

Then Khara roars, “Then I will drag Rama out of Ayodhya myself, and teach him such a lesson that no one will ever dare look upon us again. I will see to it that the majestic city of Ayodhya remains in ruins forever.”

——————

This is Ayodhya...

The city which no warrior can ever win over...

Here it lies...

with its King dead...

All its princes in exile...

its citizens in Sorrow

The title of the novelette is “The Broken Bow.” Shiva’s bow broke at the hands of Rama. It is a major event in the Ramayana, establishing Rama as the Supreme divine power in human form. It paved the way for the marriage of Sita to Rama. Apart from the bow of Shiva, there is also another broken bow in this story — Chitraratha. He broke after the battle with Ravana. Now Rama has to revive him. His journey with Rama on the Path to Ayodhya helps him find a new purpose in life.

Another significant thing we can find in this novelette is the representation of the Southern part of India — particularly the parts of Andhra Pradesh and Tamil Nadu, given their ancient names. On the banks of River Godavari, near the majestic city of Rajamahendravaram, is a village called Dhavaleswaram, which is mentioned as Dhavalagiri in this novelette. The present-day Agastyeswara Swamy temple in Dhavaleswaram has references in the Puranas, and local folklore says that Sage Agastya himself installed that Sivalinga there. We find that in the first and last chapters. Also, Sangam literature mentions the pact between the Pandyan kings and Ravana, which Sage Agastya carried out — Kalidasa refers to it too, in the Raghuvamsam.

Even the Andhras and Pandyas are mentioned in Valmiki Ramayana, Kishkinda Kanda, Sarga 41, Shlokas 11–12:

अन्वीक्ष्य दण्डक अरण्यम् स पर्वत नदी गुहम् || नदीम् गोदावरीम् चैव सर्वम् एव अनुपश्यत | तथैव आन्ध्रान् च पुण्ड्रान् च चोलान् पाण्ड्यान् केरलान्

Chitraratha’s portrayal is as the Prince of Andhras — the place where the author comes from. The place where Chitraratha’s army fought Ravana’s army, Karyamapudi, was famous for its legend, saying that Rama killed Khara at this place.

There are many instances in this novel directly aligned with the core story of Valmiki Ramayana. For example, the jewel that Janaka received from Indra and gave to Sita was the same jewel that was later given to Hanuma by Sita in Sundarakanda — Rama describes this jewel in the 66th sarga of Sundarakanda. Also, the weapons gifted by Varuna at the wedding are referenced in the Ayodhya Kanda of the Ramayana, where Rama asks Lakshmana to bring those weapons with them into exile. Like this, there are many links to the original Valmiki Ramayana. This trilogy attempts to add new layers to Valmiki Ramayana, while staying true to the original story without deviating from core details. If you wish to have an exciting adventure, read this trilogy alongside Valmiki Ramayana, to observe connecting plots and parallel timelines of events.

The world around Ananya felt unsteady. Her head was heavy, her vision blurred, and the sounds of the party seemed distant. A strange dizziness clouded her mind. And then—she pushed him.

Vinod lost his balance, stumbling backward. His back hit the edge of a table, and then his head slammed against the hard wooden surface. A sharp crack echoed through the banquet hall. He collapsed onto the floor, motionless.

For a moment, there was complete silence. Then came the murmurs.

“What just happened?” someone asked in shock.

A few staff members rushed forward and crouched beside Vinod. One of them patted his cheek. “Sir, can you hear me?”

No response. A man took out his phone and spoke urgently. “Call an ambulance. Fast!”

Ananya took a step back, her heart pounding. The room seemed to spin around her. She gripped a chair for support.

She tried to think. Vinod had touched her waist. She had pushed him away. It was self-defense. Then why did everyone seem so shocked?

The murmurs grew louder. The staff quickly lifted Vinod onto a stretcher. Within moments, an ambulance siren blared outside, and he was taken away. A faint bloodstain remained on the marble floor where he had fallen.

As the ambulance doors slammed shut and sped away, Ananya’s hands trembled. The crowd around her had begun whispering among themselves. Some threw questioning glances at her, others seemed too stunned to speak.

She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to steady herself.

She could still hear his voice.

“It’s a party, Ananya, not a battleground. Just be yourself.”

Her husband’s words echoed in her mind. She had spoken to him just before leaving home.

“I know,” she had said, adjusting her earrings in front of the mirror. “But I don’t feel like going.”

He had leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, smiling at her. “Then don’t. But if you do, go with confidence. Stay strong, and come back to me safe.”

“You sound like my bodyguard,” she had teased, rolling her eyes.

“And you sound like someone who doesn’t realize how much she means to me.” He had stepped forward, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re sharp, Ananya. Trust yourself. If something feels off, walk away. If someone crosses a line, don’t hesitate to stand your ground.”

She had laughed and given him a playful salute. “Understood, sir!”

Now, standing in the banquet hall, surrounded by murmuring guests, his words echoed differently. They weren’t a warning out of fear. They were a reminder—of her own strength, of the love that waited for her at home.

A commotion at the entrance broke her thoughts. Sub-Inspector Pradeep entered the banquet hall, his presence immediately shifting the atmosphere. A few constables followed him, scanning the crowd. The guests, still in a state of shock, turned their heads toward the officers.

A waiter whispered, “How did they get here so quickly?”

Another man muttered, “Vinod… He’s related to an MLA. The moment he was admitted to the hospital, the news reached the higher-ups.”

“Wait—so they already know?”

“Yes. And there’s more…” The man hesitated before lowering his voice further. “He’s dead.”

The murmurs in the room grew louder, but they hushed the moment Pradeep raised his voice.

“We received a call from the hospital,” Pradeep announced. “Mr. Vinod succumbed to his injuries.”

Gasps echoed through the hall. A few people instinctively took a step back, as if distancing themselves from the incident.

Pradeep’s sharp gaze moved across the room. “Who was involved in the altercation with him?”

Silence.

Then, hesitantly, a junior manager pointed at Ananya. “She pushed him.”

Pradeep turned to her. His eyes were unreadable. “Ms. Ananya?”

Ananya swallowed hard. “He… he touched me. I pushed him away.”

Pradeep frowned. “Touched you?” Ananya hesitated. People were staring at her with confusion and doubt. “No one saw that,” someone muttered.

Pradeep looked around the hall. “Did anyone see Mr. Vinod misbehaving with Ms. Ananya?”

Silence.

The guests exchanged uncertain glances, but no one spoke.

Pradeep’s eyes darkened. “Ms. Ananya, you’re saying Vinod held you inappropriately?”

“Yes,” she said firmly. “He held my waist. I pushed him away.”

Pradeep studied her carefully. “Are you feeling alright?”

Ananya blinked in confusion. “What?”

Someone from the crowd spoke hesitantly. “She looked a bit… drowsy earlier.”

“I noticed that too,” another guest added. “She seemed weak, almost like she would faint.” “She was quiet the whole evening,” someone else commented.

Pradeep’s expression hardened. He turned back to Ananya. “Did you have alcohol?”

Ananya shook her head immediately. “No. Just a soft drink.”

Pradeep’s gaze didn’t waver. “Which one?”

She frowned, trying to recall. “An orange mocktail, I think.”

Pradeep exchanged a glance with one of his subordinates. “Call the medical team. Take a blood sample and check for alcohol traces.”

Ananya felt her stomach twist. “That’s not necessary,” she said firmly. “I haven’t had anything.”

“It’s just procedure,” Pradeep replied calmly.

A female officer approached her with a vial and syringe. “Ms. Ananya, please extend your arm.”

She hesitated, but knew resisting wouldn’t help. As the needle pierced her skin, the entire room seemed to watch in eerie silence.

A constable leaned in and whispered something in Pradeep’s ear. He nodded and looked back at Ananya. “Ms. Ananya, until we confirm all details, you are under arrest.”

The cold metal of the handcuffs clicked around her wrists. And for the second time that night, the banquet hall fell silent.

The cold walls of the interrogation room seemed to close in around Ananya as she sat across from SI Pradeep. His gaze was sharp, his voice firm.

“Traces of drugs were found in your system,” he said, sliding the report toward her.

Ananya’s stomach dropped. “No… that’s not possible!”

Pradeep leaned forward. “It’s right here. Low levels, but enough to affect your senses.”

She shook her head. “I swear, I didn’t take anything. I only had a soft drink. Someone must have spiked it.”

Pradeep studied her. “No one else reported being drugged.”

Her fingers clenched into fists. “I don’t know how it got into my system, but I didn’t take anything voluntarily. And I didn’t kill him.”

He tapped his fingers on the desk. “You were drowsy. You pushed Vinod. He fell, hit his head, and now he’s dead. You say he harassed you, but no one saw that.”

Ananya’s voice wavered, but she held her ground. “Because everyone was busy in their own conversations. It happened in seconds. I didn’t have time to scream—I just pushed him away.”

Pradeep sighed and motioned to the female officer standing beside him. “Take her to the holding cell.”

Ananya sat on the hard metal bench, her arms wrapped around herself. The night was dragging on, the weight of the accusations pressing down on her.

Then, the sudden roar of a car engine outside. Loud voices.

The station doors burst open, and a heavyset man in a crisp white kurta stormed in, his face red with anger. The MLA.

“Where is she?!” he bellowed. “She murdered my relative in cold blood, and you’re letting her sit here comfortably?!”

The officers tensed. Pradeep stepped forward. “Sir, we are handling the investigation.”

“Handling?!” the MLA spat. “This woman belongs behind bars for life! If justice isn’t served, I’ll make sure your entire department regrets it!”

The commotion escalated. The MLA’s aides joined in, hurling accusations. The officers scrambled to control the situation, trying to calm him down and prevent an incident.

As the shouting continued, Ananya flinched, curling into herself.

Then, amidst the chaos, a familiar voice.

“Ananya…”

Her head snapped up.

Vikram stood outside the cell, his face filled with concern.

She felt her chest tighten. “Vikram…”

He stepped closer, reaching through the bars to touch her hand. His warmth steadied her trembling fingers.

“Listen to me,” he said gently. “This is a mess, but we’ll fix it. I’m bringing a lawyer in the morning.”

Her eyes filled with tears. “They don’t believe me.”

“I do,” he said firmly. “That’s what matters right now.”

She took a shaky breath. “I don’t know how the drugs got in my system.”

“I know. We’ll figure it out.”

She nodded, feeling some of the tension ease. “Thank you for coming.”

“I’ll be back soon.” He squeezed her hand before stepping away.

By then, the officers had finally managed to escort the MLA and his men outside. The commotion faded as their vehicles sped off into the night.

Ananya watched as Vikram disappeared down the corridor.

For the first time that night, she felt like she could breathe.

The next morning, the clanking of keys jolted Ananya awake. The cell door opened, and an officer gestured for her to stand.

She blinked, rubbing her tired eyes. “Is my husband here?”

The officer frowned. “What?”

“Vikram. He came last night. He said he’d bring a lawyer this morning.”

The officer exchanged a confused glance with a colleague. “No one has come for you.”

Ananya stiffened. “That’s not possible. He was right here.”

SI Pradeep approached, flipping through a logbook. “There’s no visitor entry under ‘Vikram’ last night.”

Ananya’s heartbeat quickened. “I spoke to him. I touched his hand. He was here!”

The constable on night duty hesitated. “Sir… maybe he arrived during the MLA’s ruckus. We were all outside controlling the situation.”

Pradeep’s expression darkened. “So you’re saying there was a time when no one was monitoring the station?”

The constable nodded. “Yes, sir. For about 20-30 minutes, we were all dealing with the MLA.”

Ananya exhaled, relieved. “That’s when Vikram came.”

Pradeep still looked skeptical. “And yet, there’s no record. No one saw him enter or leave.”

“He was here,” Ananya insisted.

Pradeep’s jaw tightened. “Then where is he now?”

She didn’t know, but one thing was sure. Vikram had promised to come back.

So where was he?

SI Pradeep sat at his desk, drumming his fingers against the wood. Ananya’s insistence that her husband had visited her the previous night lingered in his mind. The constables’ claim that they were outside handling the MLA added a layer of plausibility—but still, something felt off.

If Vikram had truly been there, why hadn’t he returned in the morning? Why hadn’t he hired a lawyer?

There was only one way to get answers.

“Let’s go to her house,” Pradeep said, standing up. “We need to speak to her husband.”

The police jeep pulled up to a modest apartment complex in the city’s quieter lanes. The building was old but well-maintained, the kind that housed middle-class professionals who valued their privacy.

Pradeep and his team climbed up the stairs and knocked on the door. No response.

“Vikram sir?” one of the constables called out. Silence.

Pradeep gave a nod. One of the officers tried the handle—it was locked.

“Break it open,” Pradeep ordered.

A swift kick to the lock, and the door swung inward. The officers stepped in cautiously, scanning the living room. Everything was normal.

A neatly arranged sofa set, a dining table with two chairs, and a small temple in the corner with fresh flowers. Nothing seemed out of place.

Pradeep’s eyes moved to the framed photographs on the wall. Ananya and Vikram. Smiling at each other, on vacation, at their wedding—pictures of a happy couple.

The team split up, searching the rooms. In the bedroom, two separate wardrobes stood side by side. One held Ananya’s clothes, the other Vikram’s—formal shirts, trousers, shoes lined neatly at the bottom.

A shaving kit lay by the bathroom sink. His slippers were next to the bed.

It looked like Vikram had never left.

Yet, he was nowhere to be found.

Pradeep turned to one of the constables. “Go ask the neighbors when they last saw him.”

The constable hurried out. Meanwhile, Pradeep moved toward the bedside table. A book lay open, its pages slightly creased. Next to it was a wristwatch, carefully placed as if its owner had removed it before sleep.

Everything pointed to a man who lived here regularly.

A few minutes later, the constable returned. “Sir, the neighbors say they’ve never seen the husband.”

Pradeep’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“They’ve seen Ananya, but never Vikram. They assumed she lived alone.”

Pradeep exchanged glances with his team. The living conditions told one story. The neighbors told another.

Something wasn’t adding up.

Back at the station, Pradeep decided to question Ananya’s colleagues.

Two of her co-workers, a woman named Neha and a man named Sanjay, sat across from him.

“How well do you know Ananya?” he asked.

Neha sighed. “Not well. She’s always been very private. Comes to work, does her job, and leaves. Never socializes much.”

“What about her husband, Vikram?”

Sanjay hesitated. “We’ve never met him.”

Pradeep leaned forward. “But has she mentioned him?”

Neha nodded. “Yes, a few times. She told us she was married. She even mentioned him once while applying for leave. She’d say things like, ‘I need to take a few days off, my husband and I are planning something,’ or ‘Vikram and I are thinking of going out of town.’”

Sanjay added, “But apart from that, she never really talked about him. We assumed he was just a very private person.”

Pradeep tapped his pen on the table. She had mentioned Vikram, but no one had ever met him.

“What about her personal life?”

Neha hesitated. “She… often complained about men misbehaving with her. She said she felt unsafe around some clients.”

Sanjay exhaled. “But honestly, we never took it seriously.”

“Why?”

“She has a history of blackouts,” Neha admitted. “And panic episodes. Sometimes, she’d suddenly go quiet or act confused. We thought she was imagining things.”

Pradeep leaned back, absorbing the information. A private woman, an unseen husband, a history of panic episodes, and frequent complaints of harassment. There was definitely more to this case than self-defense.

SI Pradeep flipped through his notes, his brows furrowed. Ananya’s case was straightforward on the surface—she had pushed Vinod in self-defense, but no one had witnessed his misbehavior. The drug traces in her system further complicated things.

There was something missing, something buried in her past.

A constable knocked on the door. “Sir, her old schoolteacher has arrived.”

“Bring her in.”

A frail woman in her sixties walked in, her saree neatly draped. Her silver hair was tied in a bun, and her eyes carried the weight of decades of teaching—and perhaps, sorrow. She folded her hands in greeting.

“Please sit,” Pradeep offered.

“Thank you,” she said, settling in.

“You knew Ananya well?”

“Yes,” she nodded. “I taught her in high school. She was a brilliant girl, but she carried wounds no one could see.”

Pradeep leaned forward. “What kind of wounds?”

The teacher hesitated.

“She was abused,” she finally said.

Pradeep’s pen paused mid-air. “Abused?”

The teacher sighed. “Her mother’s brother—her uncle.”

Ananya was twelve when she first began to feel unsafe in her own home.

Her uncle had always been around—too much, in fact. At first, it was just his gaze. Whenever she played in the living room or sat with her mother, she would feel his eyes on her. He would stare at her face, her hands, her feet. Sometimes, when she turned toward him, he wouldn’t even blink—just kept watching.

Then came the words. One afternoon, while she was drinking water in the kitchen, he stood behind her and chuckled. “You’re growing up too fast, aren’t you?” Ananya froze. “You were a tiny thing just a year ago. Look at you now. Soon, boys will start noticing you.”

She didn’t understand why his voice made her stomach twist in knots.

Her mother laughed. “Oh, she’s still a kid!”

But her uncle smirked. “A kid? No, no. She’s becoming a woman.”

Ananya lost her appetite that day.

Then came the requests for photos. “Wear something nice,” he would say, holding his phone. “Come, let’s take a good picture.” At first, Ananya complied. She smiled awkwardly, standing stiff as he clicked pictures. But then, he started getting closer. He would adjust her dupatta or tilt her face toward the light. His fingers would linger on her cheek. “You should smile more,” he would say, his eyes traveling lower than they should.

One day, when she refused to pose, he grabbed her wrist. “Just one photo. Why are you acting like a stranger?”

She pulled away. That night, she deleted every picture he had ever taken of her.

It wasn’t long before he started waiting. Every time she took a bath, he would be standing outside when she opened the door. At first, she thought it was a coincidence. But then, it became a pattern. One day, wrapped in her towel, she stepped out and saw him there—leaning against the wall, smirking. “You take too long inside,” he said. “What are you doing in there for so long? Let me in also next time.”

Her heart pounded. She rushed past him, locking her room’s door behind her. That night, she told her mother.

Her mother sighed. “Oh, come on, Ananya. He’s just teasing you.”

It wasn’t just the stares or the words. He started asking her things that made her want to disappear. “You’ll be a woman soon,” he said one evening. “Has your body changed yet?” Ananya’s hands clenched into fists. “What?” “You know…” he smiled. “What's your size now? Just asking to buy a dress.”

She ran to her room and locked the door. That night, she cried into her pillow.

The next morning, he was at the breakfast table, talking as if nothing had happened.

As she grew older, she tried to avoid him. But he noticed. One day, when she ignored him, he leaned in and whispered, “You think you can escape me? You’re just a little girl. I can make your life hell.”

Ananya shivered.

“I’ll tell your parents you misbehaved. Let’s see who they believe.”

She knew the answer. They wouldn’t believe her. She was trapped.

By the time she was sixteen, she had stopped talking much.

But then she met Vikram. He was an NCC student who came to her school with a visiting unit to coach juniors in debating — barely older than she was, perhaps a year, no more.

When he noticed her nervousness around men, he asked why.

For the first time, she spoke about it.

Vikram didn’t say, “Forget it.”

He didn’t say, “You’re imagining things.”

Instead, he told her, “The next time he tries something, don’t stay quiet. Fight back.”

So, she did.

One evening, her uncle reached for her hair, brushing it between his fingers. “Such thick, black hair,” he murmured.

Ananya slapped his hand away. “Don’t touch me,” she snapped.

Her mother gasped. “Ananya! What is wrong with you?”

Her uncle smirked. “See? The city is ruining her.”

But Ananya stood her ground. “Tell me one good reason why you need to touch my hair.”

Her uncle’s smile faltered. Her mother scolded her, but after that day, he stopped touching her.

She had won. But the scars remained.

By the time she was eighteen, she had fallen in love with Vikram. Her parents disapproved. They wanted her to marry someone else.

Two years later, she ran away. She moved to the city, married Vikram, and left her past behind.

Or so she thought.

Pradeep listened in silence.

“She was strong,” the teacher said, her voice thick with emotion. “But something changed in the last few months.”

Pradeep looked up. “What do you mean?”

“She said, ‘Something is wrong, but I don’t know what.’”

“What was wrong?”

“She wouldn’t say,” the teacher whispered. “Just that Vikram was handling things.”

A chill ran through Pradeep. Handling what?

“Did she sound afraid?” he asked.

“No,” the teacher said. “Just… tired.”

Pradeep closed his notebook.

There was more to Vikram than met the eye.

The interrogation room was dimly lit, a cold silence hanging between Ananya and the officers. CI Rajasekhar had taken charge of the case under pressure from the MLA, and his approach was far more aggressive than SI Pradeep’s. The news of Vinod’s death had already caused a stir, and the higher-ups wanted a resolution—fast.

Rajasekhar leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers on the desk. “Your husband,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “Where is he?”

Ananya lifted her tired eyes. “I don’t know. He was supposed to come with a lawyer yesterday morning.”

Pradeep exchanged a look with Rajasekhar. The constables had already mentioned that Vikram might have slipped away during the MLA’s late-night visit, avoiding unnecessary trouble. That wasn’t their primary concern.

Rajasekhar sighed. “Fine. Let’s say he ran off to avoid the MLA’s wrath. That’s understandable. But Ananya…” He paused, watching her closely. “What I don’t understand is why he never confronts the people who trouble you.”

Ananya frowned. “What do you mean?”

Rajasekhar crossed his arms. “You’ve filed complaints before. Harassment at work. Stalking. Molestation. But each time, it’s just you fighting the battle. No support from your husband. He never intervenes. He never stands up for you. He never helps.”

Pradeep stepped in, his voice softer. “Ananya, look at this from our perspective. You have a pattern—everywhere you go, you face problems. People mistreat you, harass you, and yet… no one else sees it.”

“I see it.” Her voice was sharp.

Pradeep nodded. “I understand that. But when we talk to others, no one has ever seen these incidents happen. It makes us wonder… is it possible that you’re misinterpreting situations?”

Her heart pounded. “Misinterpreting?”

Rajasekhar leaned forward. “What if you are… imagining threats where none exist?”

Ananya’s nails dug into her palms.

“This isn’t imagination.”

Rajasekhar tilted his head. “Let’s talk about your office complaints. Tell us about them.”

Ananya took a deep breath. “My manager, Sharad. He came to my house for lunch once.”

Rajasekhar nodded. “And?”

She exhaled sharply. “After eating, in the absence of Vikram, he stood behind me and suddenly ran his fingers down my arm.”

The officers remained silent.

“I moved away, but he cornered me near the fridge.”

“What did you do?”

“I shouted, I told him to leave.”

“Did he?”

She nodded. “After making some disgusting remarks.”

Rajasekhar raised a brow. “What remarks?”

Ananya’s voice was low, bitter. “That I should smile more. That I should learn how to treat men well. That he could teach me.”

The room was silent for a moment.

“And your husband?” Rajasekhar asked.

Ananya clenched her jaw. “Why should he have done anything?”

Rajasekhar smirked. “So you never even told him?”

Her nostrils flared. “I didn’t need to. I handled it myself.”

Pradeep watched her carefully. “Ananya, I want to believe you. But can you understand why it’s difficult?”

She let out a hollow laugh. “Because I don’t have proof?”

Rajasekhar sighed. “Because there’s a pattern. Your school, your office, and now this party. Every time, it’s only your word. No one sees it. No one supports you.”

Her fingers trembled.

“Are you trying to say that I make this up?”

Pradeep shook his head. “Not intentionally. But maybe… because of past trauma, you see things differently. Maybe you feel threatened more often than you should.”

She stared at him, eyes burning.

“If you have a daughter or sister at home, go ask her. Listen to her heart, then decide.”

The officers fell silent.

For the first time, Pradeep saw something beyond suspicion. He saw pain. And the possibility that, just maybe, they were wrong.

The day after the investigation, both Pradeep and Rajasekhar couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that something deeply troubling was at the heart of Ananya’s complaints. They had heard the details of her experiences, but they still didn’t fully understand the scope of the pain she had endured. It was only when they went home and asked their own families about any potential problems that the magnitude of the issue became all too clear.

When Pradeep returned home that evening, he found Deepa sitting on the couch, her brow furrowed in thought. He could see that something was weighing on her, just as it was weighing on him. The day had been emotionally draining, and he knew there was something he needed to ask, something that had been left unspoken for too long.

“Deepa,” Pradeep began, his voice cautious. “I need to ask you something. And I hope you’ll be honest with me.”

Deepa looked up from her book, her eyes searching his face. “What is it, Pradeep?”

He took a deep breath, uncertain how to phrase his next words. “Is there any problem? Something we’ve missed with Priya? I don’t know… has she been facing anything troubling? I just… I feel like we’re missing something.”

Deepa looked at him, unsure whether to say anything. She had always trusted that they were aware of everything their daughter was going through, but now, seeing the burden on Pradeep’s face, she could tell that this question wasn’t just about curiosity—it was about concern.

She motioned for Priya to come over.

“Priya,” Deepa said, her voice gentle but serious. “Your father and I were talking. Is there anything you want to share with us? Anything that’s been bothering you?”

Priya, who had been playing on her phone in the other room, looked up in confusion. She was used to the normal family questions—school, friends, her health—but this felt different. Her heart raced, and she knew this wasn’t a casual conversation.

“Is everything okay?” Priya asked, her voice nervous.

Pradeep hesitated before speaking again. “We just want to make sure there’s nothing you’re going through that we might not know about. Is there any problem? Anything you need to tell us?”

Priya froze, her fingers tightening around her phone. She swallowed hard. The question was simple, but the truth she had been hiding for months felt suffocating. She stared at her parents, her mind torn between speaking up and keeping the painful truth to herself.

Deepa stepped closer, her eyes soft with concern. “You don’t have to carry anything alone, sweetheart. If something’s wrong, we need to know.”

Priya finally looked up, her eyes filled with tears. “When I went to Auntie’s house, my cousin… he dragged me against a wall and kissed me on my lips, forcibly. And then he started following me on social media. He wouldn’t stop messaging. I didn’t know how to tell you both. I didn’t want to make a big deal of it.”

The room fell silent. Deepa reached for her daughter, pulling her into a hug as Pradeep’s heart sank. He had missed the signs, had been blind to the truth that had been right in front of him. His anger and guilt welled up, but he held them in check, focusing on Priya.

“We’re going to make sure he never hurts you again,” Pradeep said, his voice trembling with emotion. “I promise you.”

Meanwhile, Rajasekhar had returned home late, his mind consumed by the conversation with Ananya. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right in his own family, but he had never asked Meera directly about any past troubles. Today, after speaking with Ananya, Rajasekhar knew that if he didn’t ask, the silence would never break.

“Meera,” he began, his tone tentative as he walked into the living room where she was sitting. “I need to ask you something.”

Meera looked up from her book, her gaze steady but confused. “What is it, Papa?”

“I don’t want to assume anything,” Rajasekhar continued, his voice careful, “but I need to ask if there’s anything troubling you. Anything that you might not have told me. Has there been something... something happening that we’ve missed?”

Meera blinked, caught off guard by the sudden question. She looked down at her hands, unsure how to respond. She had never felt the need to bring up the past—especially not with her father, who had always been so focused on the family’s well-being.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Meera said softly. “Why would anything be wrong?”

Rajasekhar’s gaze softened. “I just need to know if there’s something you’re not telling us. We can’t help you if we don’t know. If something is bothering you, we’re here to listen.”

Meera felt her heart race. The years of silence, of burying the truth, came crashing down. She had never told anyone about the incident with her uncle. It wasn’t something she had ever planned to reveal. But now, with her father looking at her with such care, she knew that it wasn’t just about her anymore.

“I… I don’t know if I can say it,” Meera whispered, her voice shaking. “But yes… something did happen. When you were in the hospital during a heart stroke, I was on my way in the car to see you, with our uncle. He scolded me about why I am on the phone always. He assumed it was boys I was talking to and said, ‘Control your lust, and pleasure yourself. Do you know how?’ Saying this, he touched me on my breasts, squeezing them. I felt terrified and I froze. It wasn’t right. I didn’t know what to do. It felt wrong, but I didn’t think anyone would believe me.”

Rajasekhar froze. His mind reeled as he processed the words. His brother—his own flesh and blood—had done this to his daughter. He had been too blind, too preoccupied with his own work to notice the signs.

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” Rajasekhar asked, his voice quiet but thick with emotion.

Meera shook her head, tears beginning to fall. “I thought you wouldn’t believe me. I thought you’d think I was making it up. I was afraid of how you’d react.”

Rajasekhar’s heart shattered. His daughter had been living with this pain alone, too scared to share it. He stepped forward and took her hand, his grip firm with resolve.

“You were never supposed to feel like this, Meera. I’m so sorry I didn’t see it earlier,” Rajasekhar said, his voice steady with a newfound determination.

“We’ll make sure he never harms you again. No one should go through this. Not you, not anyone.”

Sitting across from the police, Vinod’s wife, Meenal, seemed like a woman on the edge, her eyes filled with pain and confusion. It had been days since her husband’s death, but she was still haunted by his memory. The officers sat in silence, waiting for her to speak.

Meenal stared at the table, her hands trembling slightly. She wasn’t ready for the flood of emotions that would pour out with the truth.

“Meenal, we need you to help us understand,” Pradeep said gently. “Your husband’s death… was it all that it seemed? What kind of man was he?”

Her head dropped, her voice barely a whisper. “Vinod was... not what he appeared to be. He was a womanizer. He treated me poorly, and worse, he hurt others too. He had a record of misbehavior, more than I care to admit. But I loved him.”

Pradeep’s stomach churned. Meenal’s confession confirmed what they had feared: Vinod was not innocent.

“But… Ananya said she was abused by him,” Rajasekhar pressed. “Do you think she might be telling the truth?”

Meenal’s face tightened. “I don’t know. He had a way of misbehaving with people. It could very well be true.”

The officers exchanged grim glances. If Ananya had been telling the truth all along, they were now one step closer to unraveling the full extent of the trauma she had suffered.

Determined to dig deeper, Pradeep and Rajasekhar decided to shift their focus. They turned their attention to Vikram, Ananya’s husband, whose mysterious absence had become more than just an oddity.

They returned to Ananya’s home, searching for any clue that might shed light on the truth.

Their eyes scanned the familiar spaces of the house: the living room, the dining table, and the closets.

It was in the bedroom, under a pile of old clothes, that they found it: a marriage certificate, carefully tucked away in an envelope.

The officers carefully examined the document. It was dated four years ago. With new urgency, they traced the date back to the marriage registrar’s office and pulled the original entry from the records.

Pradeep called one of the witnesses listed there, the one who had stood for Vikram. The screen resolved the number before the first ring finished — a single word beneath the digits.

Professor

It rang for a long time. Then a woman answered.

“Hello, am I speaking to Professor—”

“He’s not here.” The reply cut across him. “Who is this calling?”

“Sub-Inspector Pradeep. City police.” He let that settle. “I’m calling about Ananya.”

The silence on the other end lasted long enough that he checked the call was still connected.

“I’m Sia,” she said finally. “His wife.” Another pause. “What has happened to her?”

“Nothing,” Pradeep said carefully. “But I need to understand something first. Her husband. Vikram.”

“Vikram died a year ago.”

Then only Pradeep discovered that Vikram had died in a car accident a year ago—on the same day Ananya had been last seen in public with him. She had never mentioned the accident, only speaking of Vikram in the present tense, as if he were still there, still part of her life.

“She never accepted it,” Sia said. “When she was told he had passed away, it broke her. She couldn’t understand it. She couldn’t process the fact that he was gone. And so she refused to believe it.”

Rajasekhar leaned toward the phone. “Did anyone try to get her help?”

“We tried. My husband tried — he knows people, he offered to bring someone to her. She refused. Every time. She wouldn’t discuss Vikram at all. Not the accident, not the hospital, nothing. If you said his name in the past tense she would simply change the subject, as though she hadn’t heard you.”

“And after that?”

“She stopped calling. Both of us. She relocated within weeks — new area, new flat, nobody who knew her.” Her voice thinned. “So we started going to her instead. Once in a month or two, just turning up at the door to see that she was eating, that she was working, that she was alright. We never brought him up. That was the arrangement, though nobody ever said it aloud. If we didn’t mention Vikram, she would let us in.”

Sia was quiet for a moment. “Two wardrobes. His shaving things by the sink. His slippers beside the bed. In a flat he had never once set foot in.” She exhaled. “She destroyed his death certificate. She sets out his clothes in the mornings, just as if he would come home. She books two tickets for a film every week, for both of them. She speaks to him as though he were alive.”

Her voice caught. “It’s like she is living in a different world. She has full conversations with him, like he is right there. People thought she was just grieving. But it’s more than that. She’s been living in a life where Vikram is real, even though he isn’t.”

Pradeep looked across the table at Rajasekhar, then back at the phone.

“Come to this city,” he said. “As soon as you can. Both of you.”

“Is she in trouble?”

“She’s in a case that isn’t her fault, and she has no one sitting behind her in that courtroom.” He paused. “Ananya can use some help.”

The officers ended the call and sat with the weight of it hanging in the air like a dense fog. They had thought she was fabricating her complaints, that her mind had created a world of abuse where none existed. But now, they understood: the abuse had been real, but so had Vikram’s death. It was the loss of him that had warped her perception of the world, pulling her into a spiral of confusion and denial.

Ananya’s complaints of abuse were no hallucination. Her ability to fight the torment she had faced had come from the lessons she had learned from Vikram, the one person who had stood by her. But without him, without his guidance, she had been lost, alone in a world that had denied her the closure she so desperately needed. She had been fighting all along — not only against the men who had hurt her, but against the world she had built around the memory of the man she loved.

The investigation was closing in, but there were still too many questions surrounding Vinod’s death. Pradeep and Rajasekhar were determined to uncover the truth. They decided to take a closer look at the security footage from the hospital and the surrounding area. As they combed through the tapes, they made a chilling discovery—Sharad, the company manager, had accompanied the ambulance to the hospital.

Until now, this detail had been overlooked. It seemed like a simple act of concern at first, but after reviewing the footage, it became clear that Sharad’s presence wasn’t as innocent as it appeared. Something was wrong, and the officers knew it.

“Why didn’t we catch this earlier? Sharad, the manager who was accused of misbehaving with Ananya.” Pradeep muttered under his breath, frustrated. Rajasekhar looked grim. “We missed something vital. Time to revisit the crew.”

The officers arranged to meet with the two ambulance attendants who had been on duty that night. When they arrived at the small clinic where the attendants were staying, Pradeep wasted no time with pleasantries.

“Why was he in the ambulance?” Pradeep’s voice was cold, his eyes narrowing with suspicion.

The attendants exchanged uneasy glances, visibly uncomfortable under the pressure of the officers’ scrutiny. The first attendant spoke up, his voice hesitant. “We didn’t know he was going to be in the ambulance with us. When we were called to pick up Vinod, everything seemed normal. We were just doing our job. Sharad insisted on coming with us.”

Rajasekhar leaned forward, his gaze intense. “Did he have authority over you? Why did you let him accompany you?”

The second attendant hesitated for a moment before responding. “He was the manager, sir. And a friend of Vinod’s too. We didn’t question him. He seemed to know everyone, and when he said he was going to be with Vinod, we didn’t think it was unusual. We were just following orders.”

Pradeep shot them both a sharp look. “And then what happened inside the ambulance?”

The attendants shifted uncomfortably in their seats, guilt etched on their faces. The first attendant finally spoke. “Once we were on the road, Sharad was acting… strange. He was fixated on Vinod, who was barely conscious, and kept muttering to himself. We thought he was just worried, but then he pulled out a handkerchief and pressed it to Vinod’s face. Vinod stopped breathing.”

The second attendant added, his voice shaking, “Sharad… he looked so calm, like he knew exactly what he was doing. He was suffocating him.”

Pradeep’s jaw tightened, and he exchanged a look with Rajasekhar. The officers knew now what had transpired inside that ambulance.

“You’re telling me that Sharad killed Vinod in front of you?” Pradeep’s voice was low and dangerous.

The first attendant nodded reluctantly, his eyes downcast. “Yes, sir. He just kept pressing that handkerchief on Vinod’s face, and when Vinod stopped moving, Sharad told us to keep quiet. He said it would be for the best. Promised us money to stay silent, and we… we didn’t know what to do.”

The second attendant added, his voice barely above a whisper, “He threatened us that if we reveal this we’d lose our jobs. We were scared, sir. He paid us well and told us everything would be fine if we kept quiet.”

Rajasekhar’s eyes blazed with anger. “So, Sharad bribed you and threatened you to cover up a murder. And you just went along with it?”

The attendants nodded in shame. They had been intimidated, manipulated, and bribed. They had allowed a man to die in front of them because they feared the consequences of defying Sharad.

Pradeep exhaled slowly, his fists clenched. “This is not over. You will testify against Sharad, and we’ll make sure he pays for what he’s done.”

The officers left the clinic, taking both attendants into custody, their resolve stronger than ever. The pieces were finally falling into place. Sharad’s involvement in Vinod’s death was to frame Ananya. The ambulance attendants had witnessed it firsthand, and now they were ready to testify.

At the police station, the investigation reached a devastating turning point. As the officers sifted through the evidence, Ananya’s fragile grip on reality began to unravel. Pradeep and Rajasekhar sat across from her, watching her closely, knowing the storm of truth was about to hit her. She had been living under the illusion of her husband’s presence for so long that this moment felt almost unbearable.

“Ananya,” Pradeep said gently, his voice laced with empathy. “We know it’s hard, but Vikram… he’s not here anymore. He’s been gone for a year.”

Her hands trembled as she looked down at the floor, unwilling to meet their eyes. The weight of his words seemed to crush her, but she couldn’t bring herself to accept the truth. She had spent the last year speaking to him, pretending that he was still by her side, and now, she was being told it had all been a lie.

“No,” Ananya whispered, shaking her head. “No, you’re wrong. He’s here. He… he talks to me. He visits me. He’s still with me.”

Her voice quivered, and the officers could see the deep pain she was in, the raw grief that had kept her clinging to the illusion. Rajasekhar leaned forward, trying to make her understand.

“Ananya, we’re not trying to hurt you. We’re trying to help you see the truth. Vikram’s been gone for a long time. What you’ve been experiencing isn’t real—it’s part of the trauma, the grief you’ve been carrying.”

But Ananya refused to listen. Tears streamed down her face as she curled inward, her sobs becoming uncontrollable. She clutched her head, as though the very thought of Vikram’s absence would shatter her entire existence.

“I don’t believe you,” she cried out, her voice breaking. “He’s here. He’s still here. I can feel him. I talk to him every day! He’s not gone! He can’t be gone!”

Her distress intensified, and Pradeep knew there was no breaking through to her at that moment. As she continued to cry, her body weakened from the emotional strain, and before anyone could react, she fainted, collapsing onto the chair.

Rajasekhar immediately moved to her side, checking for signs of distress. “She’s in shock. We need to give her space, but we have to keep going with the investigation.”

They called for help, and the officers gently moved Ananya to a bed in the nearby room to allow her to rest. But the deeper truth remained—she had been living in a world of her own grief, unable to let go of the man she loved, unable to face the loss.

Later that day, the officers once again interrogated Sharad, determined to get to the bottom of his role in the web of manipulation he had spun around Ananya. They knew he was the key to unlocking the full extent of the abuse.

Sharad entered the room, his demeanor much different now that the investigation had closed in on him. He was no longer confident; the reality of the situation was beginning to set in. The police wasted no time.

“Sharad, we know what you did,” Pradeep said, his voice calm but unwavering. “We know you’ve been manipulating Ananya, using her grief to cover your tracks. Now, you’ll face the consequences.”

Sharad shifted nervously in his seat. His initial bravado was gone, and the weight of his actions seemed to finally sink in. He exhaled sharply before speaking.

“Ananya... she once got caught talking on the phone during an important work meeting. She said it was her husband, but when I took the phone to speak with him, there was no one on the line. She was pretending to talk to him,” Sharad admitted, his voice tinged with disdain. “She was still acting like he was alive, and that gave me an idea. I used Vikram’s name to invite myself to lunch with her. That’s when I… took advantage of her.”

The room grew tense as Sharad continued, his confession coming in painful drips.

“I knew she was vulnerable. She was so lost in the idea that he was still there with her, and I exploited that weakness. After the company complaint, I waited for the perfect time to discredit her completely. I drugged her that night, at a staff and clients party, so if she ever tried to report me again, she’d be seen as unreliable.”

Rajasekhar clenched his fists. “You used her grief and trauma to manipulate her. And when Vinod was injured, you saw the opportunity to frame Ananya for his murder, didn’t you? But a murder, just to frame an employee? I think there’s more to it. You’d better tell us the truth.”

Sharad’s face twisted. “Vinod and I were friends for a long time. But we had our fair share of quarrels over business matters. That night, knowing Vinod’s reputation with women, I prompted him to misbehave with Ananya, who was already drowsy. I wanted to tarnish her character in front of everyone. But when she pushed him, I saw an opportunity. Two birds in a single shot. I killed Vinod for my business purposes, and framed Ananya. I made sure she’d be blamed for his death.”

The pieces fell into place, and Sharad was arrested on charges of molestation and murder. His smugness faded quickly as the weight of his crimes hit him.

Sharad’s trial was swift, and he was sentenced to a lengthy prison term. Yet, for Ananya, the battle was far from over. Although justice had been served, her tragedy would not end.

Throughout the court proceedings, Pradeep ensured that Ananya would not have to confront the painful reality of Vikram’s absence. In private hearings, she gave her testimony, but the case was framed around Vinod’s death, keeping Vikram’s name out of the courtroom. Pradeep had made sure the trial would focus on Sharad’s crimes, sparing Ananya from having to relive her traumatic past.

The Professor and his wife came, as they had been asked to, and stayed. They sat at the back of the corridor on hearing days, always there when she came out, never once in the way. Ananya was glad of them and unsettled by them in the same breath — comforted that someone from before had come, wary of what they might say if they stayed too long. They understood that better than she did. They kept their presence exactly as wide as her comfort allowed and not an inch wider: enough to be care, never enough to become a question about Vikram she would have to answer.

In the end, justice was served, but for Ananya, there was no true closure. Her mind had created a world in which her husband was still alive.

The case had ended. The investigation was complete, and justice had been served—Sharad was behind bars. But for Ananya, the real battle was far from over. The world had spun on without her, but she felt trapped in the whirlwind of her own mind, still fighting a war no one could see. The trauma, the guilt, the ghosts of her past—it all followed her, and it would not let her go.

She returned home, her steps heavy with exhaustion, but also with the strange comfort that comes after something important has been resolved. As she opened the door, an eerie stillness met her—her home, familiar and empty, was waiting for her return.

She paused in the doorway for a moment, the weight of everything that had transpired pressing down on her. But then, she heard it. The soft rustle of fabric. The sound of footsteps. It was the unmistakable sound of someone moving through her home.

Her heart skipped a beat.

Ananya stepped further into the room, and there, standing by the window, was a figure she knew all too well. Vikram.

Her breath caught in her throat. She froze for a moment, as the world seemed to stop around her.

The man she had thought she had lost forever was standing in front of her, as if nothing had ever changed.

“Vikram?” she whispered, barely able to get the words out.

He turned, his familiar smile lighting up his face, and her heart surged with relief. His eyes, those eyes that had always made her feel safe, locked with hers, and for a moment, the whole world felt as it should.

Without thinking, she rushed toward him. Her legs moved on their own, her body instinctively seeking the only source of comfort and love she had ever known. She flung herself into his arms, sobbing, desperate to feel his presence, to prove to herself that he was truly here.

“I was terrified,” she cried, clinging to him as though the act of holding him would anchor her to reality. “But I didn’t panic in front of them. I remained strong, just like you always told me. They argued that you’re not here, but I felt you. I feel you every day... You’re here. I never stopped feeling you, Vikram. I never let you go.”

Her voice trembled with emotion as she buried her face in his chest, the tears flowing freely now. She didn’t care—there was no need to hide her vulnerability when she was in his arms. She had always been strong, but in this moment, all her strength had drained away, leaving only the rawness of her grief and the overwhelming relief of his presence.

Vikram’s arms tightened around her, pulling her closer, his touch gentle and reassuring. “Don’t worry,” he whispered softly, his voice filled with warmth. “I’m here. I’ve always been here. You don’t have to fight alone.”

Ananya wept harder, but this time, it was different. It was no longer the deep, crushing grief she had carried with her for so long. It was the relief of having him back. It was the comfort of knowing that, in this moment, everything she had feared was just a distant memory.

“You’re here. You’re really here...” she sobbed, her voice barely audible through her tears.

“Of course I am,” Vikram reassured her, his hand gently stroking her hair. “I’ll always be here. Always.”

Ananya didn’t doubt him for a second. There was no part of her that questioned his presence, no lingering hesitation. She felt him—his warmth, his heartbeat, his very essence—and in that moment, nothing else mattered. The world outside her home could be falling apart, but as long as Vikram was with her, she felt invincible.

For the first time in a long while, Ananya let herself be vulnerable. She let the weight of everything she had carried—the fear, the loss, the pain—wash over her, knowing that Vikram was here, and everything was going to be okay.

“I’m here,” Vikram repeated, his voice calm and steady. “Don’t be afraid.”

And Ananya, in the safety of his arms, felt the darkness that had haunted her for so long begin to fade. It was not gone, not completely, but for this moment, the illusion felt real. For this moment, she could breathe again.

She held onto him tighter, her sobs softening, knowing that, in this world, there was no place for doubt. Vikram was here, and that was all that mattered.

“I’m here,” Vikram whispered again, as if to seal the truth in her heart. “You’re not alone anymore.”

And Ananya, lost in the warmth of his embrace, closed her eyes, surrendering to the comforting illusion that Vikram was still with her. The haunting, the grief, the confusion—all of it slipped away as she let herself believe, wholeheartedly, that she had finally found peace.

And in that moment, she did.

In The Dormant Wail, suppressed pain finally finds its voice — a reminder that the wounds of abuse are not relics of the past, but silent cries still asking to be heard. The characters in this book stand in for the countless people whose experiences go unseen and unheard. Their journey to reclaim their voice is a call to each of us: we must listen, and we must act.

If you or someone you know is suffering in silence, you are not alone. There is help available, and there are people who care. Reach out to a trusted friend, a family member, or a professional — speaking up is the first step toward reclaiming your power.

Speak out. Share stories, raise awareness, and create space where survivors can safely express themselves.

Support. Volunteer with organizations that provide resources, counseling, and protection for survivors. Donate, educate, advocate.

Be vigilant. Learn to recognize the signs of abuse, and act on them — whether it's a child, a friend, or a colleague who needs help.

Empower. Teach children their rights, their boundaries, and their right to speak without fear.

Let this book be a rallying cry: silence only lets abuse thrive. Together, we can build a world where no one has to suffer in it again.

Breaking the Silence — questions to sit with, alone or in conversation:

1. What does it feel like to carry a secret so heavy that it silences you?
2. Why do so many victims of abuse stay silent for so long — and what stops them from coming forward, even when they want to?
3. How can you recognize the signs of abuse in someone who is too afraid to speak?
4. What does it mean to be a true ally to a survivor — someone who listens, believes, and helps them rebuild?
5. What can you do, in your own home and community, to make silence less necessary — for a child, a friend, or a colleague?
6. How has this story changed the way you see the hidden pain of the people around you?

The college auditorium buzzed with quiet excitement.

Rows of students adjusted their blazers, rehearsed their speeches under their breath, and glanced nervously at the stage where a wooden podium stood beneath a banner that read:

District Inter-Collegiate Oratory Competition

Faculty members moved between the aisles with attendance sheets and clipboards. The judges had already taken their seats. The microphone was being tested.

“One... two... testing...”

A shrill burst of feedback echoed across the hall.

Standing beside the stage, Dev looked at his wristwatch.

9:28 AM.

The programme was scheduled to begin in two minutes.

His eyes instinctively searched the entrance.

Nothing.

He frowned.

“Chetan hasn’t arrived yet?”

A fellow lecturer, Ramesh, walked over with a smile.

“Still waiting for your star student?”

Dev nodded without taking his eyes off the entrance.

“He’ll come.”

Ramesh chuckled.

“He has another two minutes. Maybe he’s preparing a dramatic entry.”

Dev smiled faintly.

“Chetan doesn’t do dramatic entries.”

“You trust him that much?”

“I know him.”

There was certainty in Dev’s voice.

Chetan was not merely one of his brightest students.

He was disciplined.

Respectful.

The kind of student who apologised for arriving even thirty seconds late.

For him to miss an event without informing anyone...

Something felt wrong.

Dev dialled Chetan’s number.

“The number you are trying to reach is currently switched off.”

He tried again.

The same response.

His heartbeat slowed.

Not from calmness...

From uneasiness.

The host walked onto the stage.

“Ladies and gentlemen...”

Before the welcome speech could continue, Dev’s phone vibrated.

An unknown number.

He answered immediately.

“Hello?”

A hurried voice spoke from the other end.

“Sir... are you Professor Dev?”

“Yes.”

“I’m calling from Government General Hospital.”

Dev’s grip tightened around the phone.

“Chetan... has met with a serious road accident.”

For a moment, every sound inside the auditorium disappeared.

The applause...

The microphone...

The conversations...

Everything faded into silence.

“Is he...”

“He is alive, sir.”

The pause that followed felt endless.

“But he’s in the Intensive Care Unit.”

Dev didn’t ask another question.

“I’ll be there.”

He disconnected.

Without a word to anyone, he picked up his bag and hurried out of the auditorium.

…

The emergency ward smelled of antiseptic and fear.

Relatives waited outside with folded hands and anxious faces.

Stretchers rolled past.

Nurses hurried through swinging doors.

Near the ICU entrance, Dev saw them.

Chetan’s parents.

His mother sat on a steel bench, weeping uncontrollably.

His father stood beside her, staring blankly at the floor.

“Chetan’s father...”

The man looked up.

“Sir...”

The moment he saw Dev, he broke down.

“He was coming to your programme...”

Dev held his shoulder.

“How is he?”

“The doctors...”

His voice trembled.

“They say the next twenty-four hours are critical.”

Dev looked through the small glass panel of the ICU.

Machines surrounded the boy.

His head was heavily bandaged.

His chest rose and fell with mechanical rhythm.

The sight shattered him.

A doctor stepped outside.

“Family?”

“I am his teacher,” Dev said.

The doctor nodded.

“There is something else you should know.”

“What happened?”

“We conducted routine toxicology screening.”

Dev frowned.

“The patient had narcotic substances in his bloodstream.”

The words didn’t register immediately.

“I’m sorry?”

“There were drugs in his system.”

Dev stared at him.

“No.”

The doctor looked at him quietly.

“The reports are clear.”

“No.”

“Chetan wasn’t under the influence voluntarily, perhaps. We don’t know yet. But chemically... he had consumed narcotic substances before the accident.”

Dev felt as though the ground beneath him had shifted.

Chetan?

Impossible.

The boy who lectured juniors about discipline...

Who refused cigarettes when offered...

Who once organised an anti-drug awareness campaign...

How?

His father wiped away his tears.

“Sir...”

“My son doesn’t even drink coffee.”

His mother looked at Dev with desperate eyes.

“Someone did this to him.”

Dev didn’t know what to say.

He simply nodded.

“I’ll find out.”

…

The next afternoon, Dev entered the classroom.

No textbooks.

No attendance register.

The room fell silent.

The students immediately sensed something was different.

He placed both palms on the table.

“I need the truth.”

No one spoke.

“Chetan is fighting for his life.”

Silence.

“I know someone here knows what happened.”

Eyes lowered.

Hands trembled.

Nobody answered.

Dev waited.

Nearly a minute passed.

Finally...

A boy in the third row slowly stood up.

“Sir...”

His voice shook.

“It wasn’t an accident.”

Every student turned towards him.

“What do you mean?”

He swallowed hard.

“Karan...”

The name hung in the room.

“He brings drugs to college.”

Dev remained expressionless.

“Where does he get them?”

The boy hesitated.

“His father...”

“...Rajan.”

“They say Rajan runs illegal businesses outside the city.”

“Sometimes...”

“Karan steals small packets from there.”

Another student gathered the courage to speak.

“He first gives them free.”

“Then everyone becomes dependent.”

A third voice joined.

“Chetan always refused.”

“So yesterday...”

“They surrounded him.”

Dev’s fingers tightened.

“What happened?”

The room became unbearably quiet.

One student finally whispered,

“They laughed at him.”

“They said...”

“’What kind of man are you if you’re scared of one dose?’”

Another continued.

“They held him.”

“One of them covered his mouth.”

“Karan forced the drugs into him.”

Someone at the back began crying.

“They recorded everything on their phones.”

“They kept laughing.”

“They thought it was just a prank.”

Dev closed his eyes.

“And then?”

“Chetan somehow escaped.”

“He took his bike.”

“He wanted to reach the auditorium.”

“He rode away...”

“...but he wasn’t in his senses anymore.”

No one spoke after that.

The silence inside the classroom was heavier than any noise.

Dev slowly turned towards the last bench.

Empty.

Karan’s seat.

For the first time since becoming a teacher, he did not see an absent student.

He saw a young man standing at the edge of a cliff...

Dragging others down with him.

Outside, the college bell rang.

Inside, Dev had already made a decision.

Whatever it took...

Karan had to be stopped.

The image of Chetan lying motionless in the Intensive Care Unit refused to leave Dev’s mind.

Even after returning to college the next morning, every corridor reminded him of the promise he had made outside the hospital.

“I’ll find out.”

His lecture notes remained untouched on his desk.

Instead, he walked through the campus, his eyes scanning every corner.

The library.

The canteen.

The basketball court.

Nothing.

As he approached the old botanical garden behind the science block, faint laughter reached his ears.

It wasn’t ordinary laughter.

It was the laughter of boys enjoying someone else’s discomfort.

Dev slowed his steps.

Behind a cluster of neem trees, six students stood in a circle.

In the middle...

Karan.

A frightened first-year student stood before him.

His hands trembled.

“I... I don’t want it.”

Karan casually twirled a tiny plastic packet between his fingers.

“You’ll thank me later.”

“No...”

“I said take it.”

The boy stepped back.

Karan grabbed his collar.

“You think you’re too good for this?”

The other boys laughed.

One of them pulled out a mobile phone.

“Record this.”

Another shouted,

“Let’s see how long our saint survives.”

The frightened boy shook his head.

“Please...”

Without warning, Karan tore open the packet.

He grabbed the boy’s jaw.

“Open your mouth.”

“I said no!”

Karan laughed.

“Exactly why you need it.”

“That’s enough.”

Every head turned.

Dev walked toward them.

His face showed neither anger nor fear.

Only disappointment.

The boys slowly moved aside.

Karan looked at him without surprise.

“So...”

“The teacher finally came.”

Dev ignored the sarcasm.

Instead, he looked at the junior student.

“Go.”

The boy hesitated.

“Go.”

He ran.

Silence settled between the remaining students.

Dev looked directly into Karan’s eyes.

“You still have time.”

Karan smirked.

“For what?”

“To stop becoming someone you’ll never escape.”

The smile disappeared.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I do.”

Dev took a slow step forward.

“I’ve seen boys like you before.”

“They think they’re leading.”

“They’re actually destroying everyone who trusts them.”

Karan folded his arms.

“They came willingly.”

“No.”

Dev shook his head.

“They came because they believed you.”

“They think strength is forcing others to become weak.”

Karan’s jaw tightened.

“You don’t know me.”

“I know enough.”

“You are eighteen.”

“You still have a chance to become a man your mother can be proud of.”

One of the boys quietly slipped away.

Neither Dev nor Karan noticed.

“You think you’re my father now?”

“No.”

Dev answered softly.

“I wish your father had been.”

The words struck harder than a slap.

For the first time...

Hatred flashed across Karan’s face.

“You know nothing about my father.”

“I know one thing.”

Dev’s voice remained calm.

“You don’t have to become him.”

Silence.

Then...

Karan burst into laughter.

The other boys joined him.

“My father...”

“...is exactly why nobody here dares touch me.”

He reached into his bag and pulled out several small packets.

“There.”

“You wanted proof.”

“Take it.”

Dev quietly collected every packet and placed them into a transparent evidence pouch from his satchel.

“I wasn’t looking for proof.”

“I was looking for you.”

He removed his phone.

“I’ve already informed the police.”

The laughter stopped.

Karan stared at him.

“You called...”

“...the police?”

“I did.”

“You ruined your own life.”

“No.”

Dev looked at him steadily.

“I may have saved yours.”

Far beyond the college gate, the roar of engines echoed across the campus.

Three black SUVs screeched to a halt.

Students rushed toward the windows.

“What happened?”

“Rajan has come!”

Doors slammed open.

Nearly a dozen men stepped out.

At their centre walked Rajan.

Broad-shouldered.

Heavy-bearded.

Gold chains hanging across his chest.

His eyes burned with fury.

“Where is my son?”

He marched toward the entrance.

Before he could cross it, two armed constables blocked the gate.

“You cannot enter.”

Rajan laughed.

“You know who I am?”

“We do.”

“Move.”

“No.”

One of Rajan’s men stepped forward.

The constable immediately rested a hand on his rifle.

“No further.”

For a tense moment...

Nobody moved.

Another police vehicle entered the campus.

A woman stepped out.

Her uniform was immaculate.

Her expression unreadable.

Inspector Bhumi.

She walked straight past Rajan without acknowledging him.

Only when she reached the courtyard did she stop.

“Who is Professor Dev?”

“I am.”

Their eyes met for the first time.

“I’m Inspector Bhumi.”

“You filed the complaint?”

“Yes.”

“Where is the accused?”

Dev silently pointed.

Bhumi looked toward Karan.

“Karan Rajan.”

“You are under arrest under the Narcotic Drugs and Psychotropic Substances Act.”

She nodded to her constables.

They approached.

Students watched from every balcony.

The campus had fallen completely silent.

As the handcuffs clicked shut around Karan’s wrists...

he turned.

His eyes fixed on Dev.

Every trace of arrogance had vanished.

Only rage remained.

“You think you’ve won?”

Dev slowly walked closer.

“No.”

“I think today is the first day you can still change.”

Karan smiled.

It wasn’t the smile of a student.

It wasn’t even the smile of a criminal.

It was the smile of someone who had just decided something irreversible.

With terrifying force he rammed his shoulder into the nearest constable.

The officer lost balance.

Karan twisted free.

Before anyone reacted, he snatched a jagged stone from the flowerbed.

“Professor!”

Bhumi shouted.

Dev turned.

For a fraction of a second...

their eyes met.

Then the stone came crashing down.

A sickening crack echoed across the courtyard.

Blood streamed down Dev’s forehead.

The world spun violently.

Bhumi lunged forward and caught him before he struck the ground.

“Professor!”

She pulled a white handkerchief from her pocket and pressed it firmly against the wound.

Within seconds, the cloth turned crimson.

“Karan!”

The constables tackled him again.

He struggled wildly.

“I’ll kill him!”

“I swear I’ll kill him!”

Beyond the gates, Rajan roared his son’s name.

Inside the campus...

students screamed.

Bhumi never looked away from Dev.

Holding the blood-soaked handkerchief against his head, she spoke into her wireless with unwavering calm.

“Control, this is Inspector Bhumi.”

“We need an ambulance immediately.”

“Male.”

“Head trauma.”

“Unconscious.”

“Hurry.”

Dev’s vision faded.

The screams became distant.

The sunlight dissolved into darkness.

Darkness.

Not the darkness of night.

The darkness of nothingness.

There were no dreams.

No memories.

Only silence.

…

A distant sound echoed somewhere beyond the void.

Tick...

Tick...

Tick...

Dev slowly opened his eyes.

For a moment he couldn’t remember where he was.

The room was almost entirely dark.

A pale beam of moonlight slipped through half-open curtains, stretching across the floor like silver water.

The air carried the faint smell of antiseptic.

Machines hummed softly somewhere nearby.

His head felt unbearably heavy.

He tried to sit up.

Pain shot through the back of his skull.

He winced.

A wall clock hung opposite the bed.

Its hands pointed exactly to one o’clock.

1:00 AM.

Outside...

Everything was silent.

No footsteps.

No voices.

Not even the distant sound of traffic.

Only the steady ticking of the clock.

Tick...

Tick...

Tick...

Dev looked around.

Nobody.

The room appeared empty.

He exhaled slowly.

“What happened...”

His own voice sounded unfamiliar.

Hoarse.

Weak.

Fragments returned.

Karan.

The courtyard.

Blood.

Then...

Nothing.

His fingers instinctively touched the bandage wrapped around his head.

“So I survived...”

“You did.”

The voice came from the darkest corner of the room.

Dev froze.

Someone was sitting there.

Perfectly still.

A wooden chair faced the window.

Moonlight outlined the silhouette of a man.

His face remained hidden.

Only his hands rested quietly upon a walking stick.

Dev stared.

“Who’s there?”

The man did not answer immediately.

Instead...

He slowly stood.

His footsteps were almost soundless.

One.

Two.

Three.

Until he stopped beside the bed.

The moonlight revealed just enough.

Grey hair.

A neatly pressed black suit.

Calm eyes.

An ordinary face.

The kind of face one could forget moments after seeing it.

“I asked who you are.”

The stranger looked at him.

“I have been called many things.”

Dev frowned.

“I didn’t ask what people call you.”

The man nodded.

“Then call me...”

He paused.

“...the Task Giver.”

Silence.

Dev almost laughed.

“What kind of name is that?”

“It isn’t.”

“It’s a purpose.”

Dev studied him carefully.

Hospital visitor?

Psychiatrist?

Police officer?

Nothing about him seemed unusual.

Except...

No one should have been inside the room.

The Task Giver looked toward the window.

“You met Karan today.”

Dev’s expression hardened.

“Who are you?”

“You already know the answer.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

Another silence.

Finally Dev sighed.

“If you’re a doctor, stop speaking in riddles.”

“I’m not.”

“A police officer?”

“No.”

“What do you want?”

The Task Giver turned back toward him.

“To give you a task.”

Dev frowned.

“What task?”

The man spoke as calmly as though discussing tomorrow’s weather.

“Kill Karan.”

The words settled into the room.

Dev blinked.

“What?”

“Kill him.”

“No.”

“Listen first.”

“I’m not listening.”

“You should.”

“I said no.”

The Task Giver showed no disappointment.

“He will destroy lives.”

Dev looked away.

“He’s just a boy.”

“He won’t remain one.”

“He can change.”

“He won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

Dev’s breathing became heavier.

“He’s eighteen.”

“He deserves punishment.”

“He deserves prison.”

“He deserves another chance.”

“But not death.”

The Task Giver’s eyes never left him.

“One death...”

“...or many.”

Dev slowly shook his head.

“You expect me to murder one of my own students?”

“I expect you to prevent what comes next.”

“I am a teacher.”

“Exactly.”

“My duty is to save them.”

“And if saving one destroys hundreds?”

Dev remained silent.

The Task Giver continued.

“You have already seen what he is capable of.”

“No.”

“I’ve seen what his father made him.”

The Task Giver’s voice remained unchanged.

“You still believe he can become someone else.”

“I do.”

The Task Giver adjusted his coat.

“I cannot force you.”

“I never could.”

“I only give the task.”

“The choice...”

“...has always been yours.”

He turned and began walking toward the door.

The handle turned.

Before opening the door, the Task Giver spoke without looking back.

“Every future begins as a choice someone refused to make.”

The door opened.

He stepped outside.

Dev immediately pulled himself upright despite the pain.

“Hey!”

The corridor was empty.

No footsteps.

No nurses.

No visitors.

Nothing.

His heart pounded.

He looked back at the clock.

It still ticked softly.

He closed his eyes.

Just for a moment.

Trying to steady his breathing.

When he opened them again...

The room looked exactly the same.

Moonlight.

Curtains.

Machines.

Silence.

Only one thing had changed.

The wall clock now read...

1:15 AM.

Morning sunlight slowly replaced the pale moonlight that had filled the room.

Dev opened his eyes.

This time...

the room was alive.

Nurses moved through the corridor.

Monitors beeped rhythmically.

Voices drifted in from outside.

Everything felt painfully ordinary.

A young nurse noticed him awake.

She hurried to his bedside.

“You’re awake.”

Dev tried to sit up.

Pain flared behind his eyes.

He winced.

“Slowly, Professor.”

She adjusted the pillow behind him.

Dev looked around the room.

The chair near the window stood empty.

He stared at it a moment longer than he meant to.

He looked at the clock.

9:40 AM.

The events of the previous night rushed back into his mind.

The Task Giver.

The conversation.

The task.

“Kill Karan.”

He closed his eyes.

The nurse adjusted the IV line.

“How are you feeling?”

“My head hurts.”

“That’s expected. You lost consciousness after severe trauma.”

He remained silent.

“You’ve been asleep since you were admitted.”

The nurse checked the monitor beside him.

“Blood pressure is stable. The doctor will examine you shortly.”

She smiled gently.

“You should get some rest.”

She left.

Dev lay still.

Staring at the ceiling.

The bandage.

The pain.

Those were real.

He turned his head toward the window.

Sunlight poured through the glass now, nothing like the pale moonlight from before.

Ordinary.

Warm.

A tray of food arrived.

He didn’t touch it.

His mind kept circling back to that one task.

Kill Karan.

He shut his eyes and tried to push the thought away.

It didn’t move.

A few minutes later, the door opened again.

Inspector Bhumi entered.

Still in uniform.

She carried a file under one arm.

“You look better.”

Dev recognised her immediately.

“Inspector...”

“Bhumi.”

She pulled a chair beside the bed.

“I came to record your statement if you are okay.”

He nodded.

“What happened to Karan?”

“He has been remanded to judicial custody.”

“And the others?”

“We’re questioning everyone involved.”

“Two of them have already given statements against him.”

“Fear does that to boys his age.”

Dev remained quiet.

Bhumi opened the file.

“You’ve probably saved several students.”

He slowly shook his head.

“I hope I’ve saved Karan too.”

Bhumi looked at him.

“He attacked you with a stone.”

“He could have killed you.”

“I know.”

“And you’re worried about him?”

Dev looked through the window.

“He wasn’t born carrying drugs.”

“He wasn’t born violent.”

“Someone taught him.”

“He still deserves a chance to become someone else.”

Bhumi closed the file without writing anything.

For a long moment...

she simply observed him.

“Most people in your place would be asking how long he’ll stay in prison.”

Dev smiled faintly.

“I became a teacher because I believed every student could become better.”

He looked down at the bandage around his head.

“I refuse to stop believing that because one of them forgot how.”

Bhumi studied him a moment longer.

“That’s a dangerous kind of faith, Professor.”

“Faith usually is.”

“For what it’s worth,” she said, “Chetan’s condition has stabilised.”

Dev’s head turned sharply.

“He’s...”

“Out of the critical window. Still unconscious. But stable.”

Something in Dev’s chest loosened.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. Thank the doctors.”

She rose halfway, then paused.

“There’s something else. Rajan has hired lawyers. He’s already trying to frame this as a prank gone wrong.”

“That’s absurd.”

“It’s effective, if witnesses get frightened enough to change their statements.”

Dev’s jaw tightened.

“Will they?”

“Some already are wavering.”

Silence settled between them.

Bhumi finally stood.

She walked toward the door.

“The court proceedings begin in a few weeks. If you’re medically fit, you’ll have to testify.”

“I will.”

She nodded once, and left.

The door closed.

The room became quiet once more.

Later that afternoon, Ramesh visited.

He knocked lightly, as though the room itself might be fragile.

“You look terrible,” he said, forcing a smile.

“Thank you.”

He sat.

“The whole college is talking about you.”

“Some are calling you a hero. Others say you should have minded your own business.”

Dev almost laughed.

“That sounds about right.”

“Chetan’s parents came looking for you this morning. They wanted to thank you.”

Dev’s throat tightened.

“Thank me? I couldn’t even protect him.”

“You found out who did it. You stopped it from happening to someone else.”

“That’s not nothing, Dev.”

Ramesh didn’t stay long.

Then he left.

Evening came slowly.

The hospital dimmed its corridor lights.

Dev lay awake, listening to the quiet clatter of trolleys and distant footsteps.

His eyes drifted, again, to the chair.

Empty.

He almost smiled at himself.

Yet his gaze slowly shifted toward the wall clock.

It continued ticking with quiet indifference.

9:58 PM.

Three years passed.

Time had a peculiar way of burying unfinished stories beneath ordinary days.

Dev had resumed teaching within a few months of the incident.

A year later, he accepted a transfer to the City Government Degree College.

The change of campus had brought distance.

Distance from memories.

Distance from Karan.

And, perhaps, the illusion that life had finally settled.

Chetan had recovered.

Slowly.

Painfully.

He walked with a slight limp now, one the doctors said would never fully go.

But he had finished his degree.

He wrote to Dev sometimes.

Short letters.

Nothing dramatic.

Just a boy telling his teacher that he was still standing.

Dev kept every one of them in a drawer he rarely opened.

Not because he wanted to forget.

Because some things are better kept than displayed.

Somewhere along that journey...

Inspector Bhumi became Bhumi.

Then became his wife.

…

Sunday mornings had their own rhythm.

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee drifted through the apartment.

Soft devotional music played from the kitchen radio.

Sunlight spilled across the dining table.

Dev sat by the window correcting answer scripts while absent-mindedly sipping coffee.

Bhumi emerged from the bedroom in a neatly pressed police uniform, fastening the final button of her sleeve.

“You’ve been checking the same answer sheet for ten minutes.”

Dev smiled.

“The handwriting declared war on the English language.”

She laughed.

“You teachers really do judge handwriting.”

“We judge everything.”

She rolled her eyes.

“I know.”

She picked up her service cap from the table, then paused by his chair long enough to press a kiss to the top of his head.

“Don’t correct papers all day. Take Chetan’s letter out and read it properly for once, instead of just filing it away.”

“I read it.”

“You read it once. Standing. In the kitchen.”

Dev didn’t argue.

She was rarely wrong about these things.

She reached for her cap again.

Just then...

A brown investigation file slipped from beneath it.

It struck the floor.

Several photographs scattered across the room.

Bhumi sighed.

“There goes an hour of paperwork.”

Dev bent down to help.

He gathered the photographs one by one.

The last photograph froze him.

A familiar face.

Older.

Sharper.

A trimmed beard.

Cold eyes.

Yet unmistakable.

Karan.

Dev stared at it.

Bhumi noticed.

Bhumi sat opposite him.

“He got bail.”

“The witnesses kept changing their statements.”

“The charges weakened.”

Dev remained silent.

“He never returned to college.”

“He disappeared for almost a year.”

“When he resurfaced...”

“...he was working with Rajan.”

Dev’s fingers tightened around the photograph.

“So...”

“...he chose.”

Bhumi shook her head.

“I don’t think it was ever that simple.”

“He grew up inside it.”

“Eventually...”

“...he stopped trying to leave.”

The room fell quiet.

Dev looked once more at the photograph.

The boy he had met beneath the neem trees was gone.

The young man looking back carried none of that hesitation.

Only certainty.

Dev remembered a hospital room.

The Task Giver by the window.

Words he had never repeated to anyone, not even Bhumi.

Kill Karan.

He had refused.

He had believed, with everything in him, that refusal was the right choice.

Looking at the photograph now, that belief felt thinner than it once had.

“What is this file?”

Bhumi leaned back.

“A narcotics investigation.”

“We’ve been watching several distribution networks operating across the city.”

She pointed toward the photograph.

“Karan’s name surfaced again two weeks ago.”

“Nothing concrete.”

“No arrests.”

“No evidence strong enough.”

“But...”

“...we believe he’s involved.”

Dev placed the photograph gently upon the table.

“What exactly does he do?”

“We don’t know.”

“He never touches the drugs himself.”

“He never carries money.”

“He never stays at one place.”

“He learned from Rajan.”

“He lets other people take the risks.”

Dev leaned back in his chair.

Outside, children played cricket in the apartment courtyard.

Someone argued over a run.

Another laughed.

Life moved as though nothing had changed.

Bhumi closed the file.

“I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to reopen old wounds.”

“I thought that chapter of your life had ended.”

Dev looked at the photograph again.

“No...”

he said quietly.

“I think it has just returned.”

Neither of them spoke after that.

Only the ticking of the wall clock filled the room.

Steady.

Unhurried.

As though time had merely paused...

waiting for Karan to find his way back into their lives.

10:08.

The apartment lay wrapped in silence.

Outside, the city slept beneath a cloud-covered sky.

Only the occasional bark of a distant stray dog disturbed the stillness.

Dev’s eyes opened.

No dream had woken him.

No sound.

Just...

wakefulness.

He turned toward the wall clock.

3:00 AM.

For a few moments he remained still, listening.

Beside him, Bhumi slept peacefully, her breathing slow and steady.

A loose strand of hair rested across her face.

Without thinking, Dev gently brushed it aside.

She stirred slightly.

Then settled once more.

He smiled.

Careful not to wake her, he reached toward the bedside table.

His fingers found the water bottle.

He unscrewed the cap.

The quiet click echoed through the room.

He took a long drink.

The water was strangely cold.

“So...”

The voice came from behind him.

“...you still believe.”

Dev closed his eyes.

Not again.

He slowly turned.

The chair beside the window was occupied.

The same black suit.

The same walking stick.

The same calm face.

The Task Giver.

Moonlight traced a silver outline around him.

Dev sighed.

“I told you my answer.”

“You gave me an answer.”

The Task Giver corrected softly.

“You have not yet lived with it.”

Dev tightened the bottle in his hand.

“This isn’t real.”

Silence settled between them.

The clock continued its steady rhythm.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

The Task Giver rested both hands upon the walking stick.

“You still think Karan can change.”

“I do.”

“Why?”

“Because I refuse to believe anyone is born evil.”

The Task Giver nodded.

“A comforting belief.”

“It is also true.”

“Is it?”

Dev didn’t answer.

The Task Giver slowly stood.

His footsteps made no sound.

He stopped beside the bed.

Bhumi slept peacefully between them.

She didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe differently.

Didn’t even seem aware that another man stood only inches away.

The Task Giver looked down at her.

“You love her.”

Dev’s expression hardened.

“Don’t.”

“I merely stated a fact.”

“Stay away from her.”

The Task Giver ignored the warning.

“You believe every life deserves another chance.”

“I do.”

“Even if that chance costs another?”

Dev said nothing.

The Task Giver sighed almost sympathetically.

“I have shown you words.”

“Tonight...”

“...allow me to show you consequence.”

He raised one hand.

Then...

snapped his fingers.

The sound was impossibly loud.

Everything vanished.

The bed.

The walls.

The ceiling.

The apartment.

Even the night itself.

Dev stood alone beneath an open sky.

The air smelled of smoke.

Ash drifted lazily upon the evening wind.

The sky burned deep orange as the sun rested against the horizon.

Before him...

a funeral pyre blazed fiercely.

Wood cracked.

Flames twisted upward.

No voices.

No mourners.

No prayers.

Only fire.

Dev stared.

“What is this?”

The Task Giver appeared beside him.

Neither arriving...

nor walking.

Simply...

there.

“A possibility.”

Dev looked toward the burning pyre.

“Whose funeral is this?”

“I don’t know.”

“You brought me here.”

“I brought you to a future.”

“Not an answer.”

Dev slowly approached the flames.

Heat struck his face.

The fire consumed everything beneath it.

No features remained.

No identity.

Only burning wood.

The Task Giver spoke quietly.

“It may be yours.”

The flames crackled.

“It may be Bhumi’s.”

A beam collapsed into glowing embers.

“It may belong to someone whose name you have never heard.”

The fire roared higher.

“But whoever lies there...”

“...Karan helped build this pyre.”

Dev turned sharply.

“You don’t know that.”

“Neither do you.”

The words lingered in the smoke.

Dev looked back at the fire.

For one terrible moment...

he imagined Bhumi lying there.

Then Chetan.

Then himself.

The images came uninvited.

He clenched his fists.

“Stop.”

Dev’s breathing became uneven.

The Task Giver looked toward the dying sun.

“You fear becoming a murderer.”

“Good.”

“You should.”

“But tell me...”

He looked directly into Dev’s eyes.

“...what do you call the man who could have prevented a death...”

“...and chose not to?”

Dev stepped backwards.

The Task Giver raised his hand once more.

Another snap.

Darkness swallowed the flames.

The apartment returned.

The bed.

The curtains.

The half-empty bottle of water still resting in Dev’s hand.

Bhumi slept exactly as before.

One arm now rested lightly across his chest.

Completely unaware.

Dev looked wildly around the room.

Nothing.

No smoke.

No fire.

No Task Giver.

Only silence.

His breathing slowly steadied.

He turned toward the clock.

3:11 AM.

Dev looked at Bhumi.

Carefully...

he placed his hand over hers.

As though reassuring himself...

that she was still there.

A week passed.

Life resumed its familiar rhythm.

Dev taught classes.

Bhumi left every morning in uniform and returned long after sunset.

Neither of them spoke much about Karan.

Yet his name lingered in the spaces between conversations.

Sometimes Dev caught Bhumi watching the street from the balcony a moment too long before coming back inside.

Sometimes he caught himself doing the same.

Neither mentioned it to the other.

…

The sound of keys turning in the front door broke the evening silence.

Dev looked up from the dining table.

“Bhumi?”

No answer.

He walked into the living room.

Bhumi stepped inside.

Her uniform was streaked with dust.

A bruise darkened the side of her forehead.

Another marked her forearm.

Her left sleeve had been torn near the shoulder.

She closed the door carefully before leaning against it for a brief moment.

Dev crossed the room immediately.

“What happened?”

She smiled.

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

“It’s nothing.”

“It isn’t nothing.”

She finally let out a tired sigh.

“There was a raid.”

Dev waited.

“We’ve been watching one of Rajan’s warehouses.”

“This afternoon we moved in.”

“And?”

“We were late.”

“By less than a minute.”

She removed her service cap and placed it on the table.

“Karan was inside.”

Dev’s expression changed.

“You saw him?”

She nodded.

“He escaped through the rear exit.”

“There was a chase.”

“Six of us went after him.”

“He knew the ground better than we did.”

“He jumped across an unfinished building.”

“I followed.”

“You what?”

She laughed weakly.

“Occupational hazard.”

“And these?”

She glanced at the bruises.

“I wasn’t the only one who fell.”

“The scaffolding wasn’t finished. None of us saw the gap until it was too late.”

Dev frowned.

“Karan?”

“He hit the edge of a concrete slab.”

“His arm was bleeding.”

“He kept running.”

“By the time we reached the road, he was gone. A bike was waiting. Someone had it ready for him.”

She walked slowly toward the sofa and sat down.

“For a second...”

“I thought we had him.”

Silence filled the room.

Dev brought the first-aid box.

Without asking, he began cleaning the cuts on her arm.

Neither of them spoke.

The antiseptic stung.

Bhumi didn’t flinch.

After several minutes she finally smiled.

“You always become quieter when you’re worried.”

“I know.”

“You also press the bandage too tightly.”

Dev loosened it immediately.

“Sorry.”

She looked at him gently.

“You’d make a terrible nurse.”

“I’ll stay a teacher.”

“I hope so.”

She rested her head against the back of the sofa.

Within minutes...

she had fallen asleep.

…

The apartment was silent once again.

The wall clock ticked steadily.

Dev opened his eyes.

Sleep refused to come.

He turned toward the clock.

2:13 AM.

Beside him, Bhumi slept peacefully.

The bruises looked darker beneath the moonlight.

Dev stared at the ceiling.

His thoughts drifted toward Karan.

Bleeding.

Escaping.

Still running.

Still beyond reach.

A bike waiting exactly where he needed it.

Someone had known his route before he ran it.

That wasn’t panic.

That was planning.

Dev thought of the boy beneath the neem trees again, the one who had once flinched at the sight of handcuffs.

That boy would not have known to keep an escape route ready before the raid even began.

Someone else had taught him that.

A sudden glow illuminated the bedside table.

Bhumi’s phone.

No ringtone.

No vibration.

Only the soft white light of the screen.

Their photograph appeared on the wallpaper.

Both of them smiling.

Taken months ago at the beach.

Across that smiling image...

a notification appeared.

Unknown Number.

"I’ll kill you.

Count your days."

Dev stared.

His heartbeat quickened.

He glanced at the digits.

Ten of them, unfamiliar, no name attached.

The kind of number that existed only long enough to send one message and vanish.

Carefully...

he reached for the phone.

He hesitated before touching the screen, as though it might wake something rather than something merely open.

He unlocked it.

His thumb hovered above the notification.

For several long seconds...

he considered opening it.

He considered waking her.

He considered calling it in himself.

Instead...

he deleted the message.

No reply.

No screenshot.

No report.

Nothing.

He told himself there would be a right moment to tell her.

Just not tonight.

Not with the bruises still fresh on her arm.

He placed the phone exactly where it had been, the way she always left it.

Bhumi turned in her sleep.

One hand found his arm instinctively.

She never woke.

Dev looked at her for a long time.

Then...

he slowly turned toward the wall clock.

2:16 AM.

Morning arrived with little sleep.

Bhumi noticed it immediately.

“You didn’t sleep again.”

Dev looked up from his coffee.

“I’m fine.”

“You’ve said that three times since yesterday.”

He smiled weakly.

“It’ll pass.”

She walked over and took the cup from his hand.

“No.”

“It won’t.”

She sat opposite him.

“Dev...”

“This is my job.”

“I knew what I was signing up for long before I wore this uniform.”

He remained silent.

She continued gently.

“Karan isn’t the first criminal I’ve investigated.”

“He won’t be the last.”

“I can’t carry every case back home.”

“You shouldn’t either.”

Dev stared into the table.

“I know.”

“But knowing isn’t always enough.”

Bhumi reached across the table and squeezed his hand.

“Then let’s stop thinking about work today.”

He looked up.

“We’re going out.”

“Where?”

“I’ve already booked movie tickets.”

“And afterwards...”

“...we’re going shopping.”

“You need a day away from all this.”

…

By afternoon...

they found themselves inside the city’s largest shopping mall.

Families wandered between stores.

Children ran laughing through the corridors.

Music drifted from hidden speakers.

A large digital display above the food court blinked the time in soft red numbers.

2:13 PM.

For the first time in days...

Dev almost felt normal.

The movie began.

For an hour...

he forgot Karan.

Forgot Rajan.

Forgot anonymous messages.

When the interval arrived, Bhumi stood.

“Popcorn?”

“And coke.”

Dev nodded.

“I’ll carry them.”

A few minutes later they were returning to the hall.

Dev balanced two drinks, popcorn and snacks carefully in his hands.

Bhumi walked a few steps ahead.

As they reached the entrance...

someone emerged from the opposite corridor.

A man.

Dark shirt.

Baseball cap.

He carried a large shopping cover, transparent.

Inside...

gleaming stainless-steel kitchen utensils.

Among them...

Dev caught sight of several unopened knife boxes.

The man never looked at him.

He simply walked away.

Something...

felt familiar.

Dev stopped.

“Bhumi...”

She had already disappeared inside the hall.

The man turned the corner.

Dev hurried after him, not stopping to set down the drinks or the popcorn still balanced in his hands.

By the time he reached it...

the corridor was empty.

Only shoppers.

Children.

Music.

Nothing.

He looked left.

Right.

No trace.

A theatre employee walked past carrying a broom.

He returned.

The lights inside the hall had already dimmed.

He climbed the steps toward their seats.

His eyes searched every row.

Every face.

Every silhouette.

The drinks shook slightly in his hands.

A little cola spilled over the lid.

Popcorn scattered across the carpeted steps.

“You okay?”

Bhumi whispered as he reached his seat.

“I...”

He looked around once more.

“...thought I recognised someone.”

She followed his gaze.

“I don’t see anyone.”

Neither did he.

The remainder of the film unfolded across the screen.

People laughed.

Applauded.

Whispered.

Dev couldn’t remember a single scene.

…

When the movie ended...

they walked into the shopping complex.

Bhumi’s mood had brightened.

She disappeared into a clothing store.

“Come.”

“I need your opinion.”

Dev followed.

She picked up a tiny black shirt.

“What do you think?”

He smiled.

“For whom?”

She looked at him as though the answer were obvious.

“For someone who isn’t here yet.”

He laughed softly.

“You’ve started already?”

“I’ve always planned ahead.”

She held the shirt against herself.

“If we ever have a son...”

“...I want him to wear this.”

Dev looked toward another shelf.

There hung a small blue frock.

He picked it up.

“And if we have a daughter?”

Bhumi smiled.

“Then buy it.”

“We don’t know.”

“Exactly.”

She placed the black shirt into the basket.

Dev added the blue dress.

She laughed.

“Then we’re buying both.”

They continued browsing.

Tiny socks.

Small shoes.

Woollen caps no larger than Dev’s palm.

For a few precious minutes...

life felt beautifully ordinary.

As they turned into the next aisle, another young couple stood nearby.

The man held two different dresses.

“Ananya...”

he said with exaggerated patience,

“...take both if you want.”

“Stop making yourself choose.”

The woman laughed.

“Vikram...”

“If I take both...”

“...you have to carry matching pairs for everything else.”

“And you never agree to that.”

He pretended to sigh.

“I agreed last time.”

“You complained the whole day.”

Their laughter echoed softly through the aisle.

Dev smiled despite himself.

Yet the smile faded almost as quickly as it appeared.

His eyes wandered again.

Across the aisle.

Past the mannequins.

Toward every passing stranger.

Searching.

Always searching.

Bhumi noticed.

She didn’t say anything.

She simply reached for his hand.

He held it tightly.

Perhaps too tightly.

…

Several shopping bags rested beside them as they reached the billing counter.

The cashier scanned each item.

A soft electronic beep followed every barcode.

Dev absent-mindedly watched people entering and leaving the store.

Then...

Bhumi’s phone rang.

She looked at the screen.

Inspector Pradeep.

Without a word...

she answered the call.

Bhumi answered immediately.

“Pradeep?”

His voice came fast.

“Ma’am, where are you?”

“City Central Mall.”

A brief silence.

“We’ve just received information.”

“Karan is inside the mall.”

Bhumi’s face changed.

“Are you certain?”

“We have visual confirmation.”

“We’re moving in.”

“Don’t engage him.”

“Stay inside if you’re in a public area.”

“If possible...”

“...leave immediately.”

“I’m dispatching additional units.”

The call ended.

Dev had already understood.

“We’re leaving.”

Bhumi nodded.

She quickly collected the shopping bags.

The cashier handed over the bill.

Neither of them checked it.

Within moments they were walking briskly toward the basement parking.

…

The underground parking lot stretched endlessly beneath rows of concrete pillars.

Most of the vehicles had already left.

Only scattered cars remained.

The fluorescent lights flickered softly overhead.

Their footsteps echoed unnaturally loudly.

Dev pressed the remote key.

Their car blinked twice.

“There.”

They began walking toward it.

Halfway there—

Something moved.

A figure emerged from behind a pillar.

Before either of them reacted—

A heavy object slammed into Bhumi’s shoulder.

She crashed against the side of a parked car before collapsing to one knee.

“Bhumi!”

Dev rushed forward.

The attacker stepped into the light.

Karan.

A fresh bandage wrapped around his left forearm.

His eyes burned with quiet hatred.

“So...”

he said.

“...you finally came.”

Dev instinctively stepped between him and Bhumi.

“Karan.”

“You don’t have to do this.”

Karan smiled.

“You still speak like a teacher.”

He dropped the shopping cover onto the floor.

Steel utensils scattered across the concrete.

Several unopened kitchen knife boxes slid free.

He calmly tore one open.

The blade reflected the white parking lights.

“Karan.”

“Listen to me.”

“You’ve already spoken.”

“I’m done listening.”

He lunged.

Dev barely avoided the first strike.

The knife scraped across the side mirror of a nearby car.

Metal screamed.

Bhumi forced herself upright.

“Karan!”

She reached for him.

He swung again.

The blade caught her forearm.

A thin line of blood appeared.

She ignored it.

Together...

she and Dev forced his wrist downward.

The knife clattered across the floor.

For one brief second...

it seemed over.

Karan’s face twisted with fury.

He seized a loose iron rod lying beside construction material stacked near a maintenance wall.

Without hesitation...

he charged again.

“Run!”

Bhumi shouted.

They sprinted between parked vehicles.

The rod crashed against bonnets and doors behind them.

Alarms exploded to life.

Lights flashed wildly throughout the basement.

They ducked behind a white SUV.

Its rear windshield carried two names in elegant lettering.

Vikram ♥ Ananya

Dev recognised them immediately.

The couple from the clothing store.

Bhumi pulled out her phone.

Her hands shook.

She opened the emergency group.

5:13 PM.

She shared her live location.

Karan is in Basement B2.

Need immediate backup.

Armed.

The message left.

At that exact moment...

a shadow stretched across the concrete beside them.

Karan.

He had found them.

Karan closed the distance fast, the rod already swinging.

Dev pulled Bhumi sideways.

The blow meant for her shoulder went wide and cracked instead into the SUV’s rear wheel well, denting the liner inward.

Karan didn’t seem to notice, or didn’t care.

He swung again.

They scrambled around the bonnet, putting the vehicle’s full length between themselves and him.

Karan followed, the rod dragging along the SUV’s flank, gouging a long scratch through the paint.

At the rear axle, he swung low this time, aiming for Dev’s legs as he ducked past.

He missed Dev entirely.

The rod struck the underside of the car instead, hard enough that the sound rang off the concrete pillars.

Something gave, quietly, beneath the vehicle.

Neither of them noticed.

Neither did he.

Dev shoved Bhumi ahead of him and they broke for the next row of cars.

Behind them, the SUV sat exactly as it had a minute earlier.

Nothing about it looked wrong.

Dev and Bhumi reached another row of parked vehicles.

Their breathing had become ragged.

Bhumi turned.

“Karan!”

“This ends now!”

He answered with another swing.

Dev pulled her aside.

The rod missed her by inches.

Then—

It changed direction.

Toward him.

The iron bar struck Dev across the side of his head.

Pain exploded through his skull.

The world lurched violently.

His knees buckled.

The last thing he saw...

was Bhumi throwing herself toward Karan.

Then...

darkness.

…

A sound.

Metal scraping concrete.

Voices.

Breathing.

Dev’s eyelids fluttered.

Everything blurred.

He could barely lift his head.

A crimson stain spread slowly across the floor.

Bhumi struggled to push herself backward.

Karan stood over her.

One hand gripped the iron rod.

The other...

held the knife.

Blood pooled silently between them.

Darkness.

It refused to end.

Somewhere beyond it...

metal scraped against concrete.

A voice cried out.

Then another.

Everything echoed as though it belonged to someone else’s life.

Dev’s fingers twitched.

Pain exploded through his skull.

His eyelids fluttered.

The world returned in fragments.

A fluorescent light.

A concrete pillar.

The smell of petrol.

Blood.

He tried to move.

His body answered with agony.

Slowly...

his vision cleared.

Bhumi lay several feet away.

She was on one knee, one hand pressed against the concrete, trying to rise.

Blood ran down her forearm where the knife had already found her once.

Karan stood before her.

The iron rod lay discarded nearby.

In his hand...

the knife gleamed beneath the parking lights.

“Bhumi...”

Dev’s voice was barely audible.

She turned.

Their eyes met.

For a fleeting moment, relief crossed her face.

She knew he was alive.

She tried to smile.

Then Karan rushed forward.

The knife flashed.

Bhumi instinctively raised her arm.

The blade slipped past her defence and found her side, just below the ribs, sinking in at an angle before Karan yanked it free.

For a fraction of a second, there was no pain at all — only pressure, a strange dull shove, as though she’d been struck rather than cut.

Then it arrived all at once.

A burning that spread outward from the wound like something alive, stealing the breath out of her before she could even cry out.

She staggered backwards, one hand flying to her side.

Dark red already bloomed through the fabric of her dress, spreading fast, the way water spreads through cloth.

For a brief instant...

she remained standing.

Almost as though her body refused to believe what had happened.

Her breathing became uneven, shallow, each inhale catching somewhere it shouldn’t.

One trembling hand pressed instinctively against the wound.

Warmth spread beneath her palm, faster than she expected, faster than felt possible.

Blood slowly seeped between her fingers, thin lines of it tracking down the back of her hand and dripping off her knuckles onto the concrete.

She looked down at her own hand as though it belonged to someone else.

Her knees buckled first.

Then her back met the side of a parked car, and she slid down it, leaving a dark smear on the paint behind her.

Karan stood frozen.

His own breath came in short, uneven bursts.

Dev forced himself upright.

Every movement sent waves of pain through his body.

Still...

he walked.

“Bhumi...”

She looked toward him.

Not with fear.

Not with regret.

Only with the quiet sadness of someone whose time had become too short.

She tried to take another step.

Her knees failed.

She sank gently onto the cold concrete.

Her fingers searched blindly until they found Dev’s hand.

He dropped beside her.

“No...”

His voice trembled.

“No... Bhumi...”

She looked into his eyes.

Neither of them spoke.

They didn’t need to.

Morning coffee.

Long conversations after work.

Shared laughter over badly cooked dinners.

Arguments that never lasted longer than an hour.

A tiny blue dress.

A little black shirt.

Dreams folded neatly into shopping bags.

An entire future...

passed silently between them.

She tried to smile.

It never reached her lips.

Her grip weakened.

Then...

her hand slipped from his.

It struck the concrete softly.

Her eyes remained fixed upon him.

But the light within them slowly disappeared.

Dev stared.

His mind refused to accept what his eyes already knew.

“Bhumi...”

Nothing.

No answer.

No movement.

Only silence.

Something shattered inside him.

Not anger.

Not hatred.

Something deeper.

He slowly stood.

Tears streamed unchecked down his face.

Karan took an uncertain step backwards.

For the first time since the parking lot attack began...

fear appeared on his face.

“Stay away...”

he muttered.

Dev didn’t answer.

He simply walked forward.

Karan lunged.

The knife sliced across Dev’s shoulder.

Blood spread instantly through his shirt.

Dev kept walking.

Another strike caught his arm.

Another grazed his side.

The pain never reached him.

Karan grabbed the iron rod and swung wildly.

It crashed against Dev’s ribs.

Something inside gave way with a sound Dev felt more than heard.

He didn’t stop.

The rod caught him across the back next, and his legs buckled for a moment before straightening again, as though his body had simply refused the instruction to fall.

A third blow landed on his shoulder.

The pain never reached him.

It arrived somewhere and stopped, unable to find the part of him that still cared.

Karan’s confidence disappeared.

He struck faster now.

Harder.

Desperately.

The knife flashed again.

Dev caught his wrist, both hands locked around Karan’s forearm.

Both struggled violently.

The blade twisted between their hands, catching Dev’s palm, opening a shallow line across it that neither of them registered.

Karan drove his shoulder into Dev.

Dev staggered, boots skidding on the wet concrete.

Recovered.

The knife slipped free.

Into Dev’s hand.

For a heartbeat...

neither of them moved.

Karan’s eyes went to the blade, then to Dev’s face, and whatever he saw there made him let go of everything and simply raise both hands.

Dev’s hand opened.

The knife dropped between them, forgotten before it hit the ground.

The first blow caught Karan across the jaw with the flat of Dev’s fist, snapping his head sideways and sending a fine spray of blood across the white paint of the SUV beside them.

Karan tried to retreat.

His foot slipped on the blood-covered concrete.

He fell backward, catching himself on his elbows.

Dev followed him down, dropping to his knees over him.

Still Karan fought.

He kicked.

He grabbed at Dev’s arms, fingers scrabbling for purchase on blood-slick sleeves.

He swung blindly, connecting with nothing.

Dev never spoke.

His grief had become movement.

Every memory of Bhumi.

Every laugh.

Every promise.

Every dream.

Every ordinary morning.

Every ordinary evening.

Everything he had lost...

pushed him forward.

The second blow split skin above Karan’s eyebrow, and blood ran immediately into his eye, forcing it half shut.

The third caught him across the mouth and silenced whatever he had been trying to say.

By the fourth, Karan’s raised arms had dropped to the concrete on either side of him, palms open, no longer blocking anything.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Each strike arrived a little slower than the last, and a little harder — Dev’s knuckles opening, his own blood mixing with Karan’s across both their hands — as though something in him understood, even through the grief, that this could still be stopped, and chose, each time, to continue anyway.

There was a point, somewhere in that stretch of concrete, where stopping was still possible.

That point passed unnoticed.

Until Karan’s resistance weakened.

Until his hands, still open on the concrete, could no longer fight.

Until movement slowly faded.

Silence returned.

The knife slipped from Dev’s trembling fingers.

It struck the concrete with a dull metallic sound.

He looked down.

Karan’s lifeless eyes stared into the ceiling above.

The same boy who had once stood beneath the neem trees.

The same student he had believed could still become someone better.

Now...

there was no future left to save.

His legs gave way.

He collapsed between the two bodies.

One to his left.

One to his right.

The student he could not save.

The wife he could not protect.

A cry escaped him.

It was neither a scream nor a word.

It was grief stripped of language.

He crawled toward Bhumi.

Rested his forehead against hers.

His shoulders shook uncontrollably.

“I failed...”

he whispered.

“I failed you...”

His voice broke.

“I should have protected you...”

The empty parking lot offered no answer.

Only the distant echo of car alarms fading into silence.

Minutes seemed to lose their meaning.

Dev remained there...

broken.

Motionless.

Then...

something changed.

The air before him shimmered.

Almost imperceptibly.

A walking stick appeared first.

Standing upright.

Unsupported.

Then...

a hand rested upon it.

A sleeve.

A shoulder.

The outline of a man slowly emerged from the empty air itself.

Piece by piece.

As though reality had begun remembering someone it had forgotten.

Dev never looked up.

He continued weeping beside Bhumi.

The figure finished taking shape.

Calm.

Silent.

Patient.

The Task Giver had returned.

This time, he held something in his palm.

A small hand clock, its dial catching the fluorescent light.

He looked down at it.

6:00 PM.

Dev remained where he was.

His forehead rested against Bhumi’s.

His tears soaked into her bloodstained clothes.

The parking lot had become unnaturally quiet.

The alarms had stopped.

The echoes had faded.

Even the fluorescent lights seemed to hum more softly.

Then...

a voice.

Calm.

Measured.

“When we first met...”

“...I asked for one death.”

Dev didn’t move.

“You refused.”

Silence.

“I believed...”

Dev whispered through broken breaths,

“...he could change.”

“I know.”

The Task Giver stood beside him.

Perfectly still.

The small hand clock rested upon his palm.

Its needle pointed exactly at 6:00 PM.

“You wished to save your student.”

His eyes shifted toward Karan’s lifeless body.

“You could not.”

Then toward Bhumi.

“You wished to protect your wife.”

“You could not.”

Dev’s shoulders shook violently.

“I know...”

“I know...”

The Task Giver’s voice remained cold.

“If you had accepted my task...”

“...one life would have ended.”

He looked quietly at Bhumi.

“Instead...”

“...two lives have ended.”

A long pause followed.

Then...

he added,

“One of them...”

“...was innocent.”

Dev buried his face against Bhumi once more.

A cry escaped him.

Raw.

Broken.

“I failed...”

“I failed her...”

The Task Giver neither comforted him nor interrupted.

He simply waited.

Finally...

he spoke again.

“I can give you another opportunity.”

Dev slowly lifted his head.

His eyes were swollen.

“What...”

“...did you say?”

“I can send you back.”

Dev stared.

“No.”

“Nobody can.”

“The dead do not return.”

“The past cannot change.”

The Task Giver said nothing.

Instead...

he turned toward the white SUV.

Its rear windshield still carried two names.

Vikram ♥ Ananya

He slowly raised one hand.

Then...

with a single smooth motion...

he traced a circle through the air.

Anti-clockwise.

Reality obeyed.

The blood upon the floor trembled.

Then...

it began flowing backwards.

Every crimson trail retreated across the concrete.

Every droplet lifted from the ground.

The knife slid backwards through the expanding pool.

Returning to Dev’s hand.

Then...

into Karan’s.

Dev watched in disbelief.

His own tears rose from Bhumi’s clothes.

Returning silently to his eyes.

Bhumi’s fallen hand lifted from the concrete.

Her fingers closed once more around his.

The light slowly returned to her eyes.

The wound at her side closed.

Blood disappeared beneath her dress.

The cut on her forearm sealed itself too, the bruise on her forehead fading last of all, as though the last hour of her life were being carefully folded back into her.

She stood.

Walking backwards.

Every step undoing itself.

Karan retreated.

Each blow Dev had landed lifted away from him, bruises fading, cuts closing, until nothing remained on his skin at all.

Karan rose from the floor.

His fear disappeared.

The iron rod rolled backwards across the concrete.

Leaping neatly into Karan’s waiting hand.

Dev’s own body moved backwards.

Every cut sealed itself.

Every drop of blood vanished.

The entire parking lot breathed in reverse.

Until...

the final moment.

Bhumi stood whole before Karan once more, the knife still sheathed in his raised hand, a heartbeat before it would ever fall.

Frozen.

The world stopped.

Complete silence.

The Task Giver lowered his hand.

“You see now,” he said quietly, “that undoing is not the same as changing.”

Then...

he snapped his fingers.

Time moved forward.

Again.

The knife fell.

Everything unfolded exactly as before.

Bhumi fought.

She bled.

She fell.

Dev screamed.

“GET AWAY FROM HER!”

His voice vanished into emptiness.

He stood only a few metres away, beside the SUV, exactly where he had stood a moment ago.

Powerless.

Watching his own life collapse.

Again.

Bhumi reached for him.

Again.

She smiled faintly.

Again.

Her hand slipped away.

Again.

She died.

“No!”

Dev’s cry echoed through the endless parking lot.

He watched himself fight.

Every wound.

Every strike.

Every desperate movement.

He watched Karan fall.

He watched himself continue long after the fight had already ended.

He watched the knife slip from trembling fingers.

He watched himself collapse between two bodies.

His own voice...

crying without restraint.

Then...

everything stopped.

Absolute stillness.

Even the suspended tears in the air refused to fall.

The other Dev remained frozen there, forever reaching toward Bhumi, forever kneeling between the two bodies he could not save.

Two men.

One life.

The Task Giver walked slowly toward the frozen Dev kneeling between the bodies.

He stood beside him for several seconds.

Then looked back toward the Dev standing near the SUV.

“That man...”

he said quietly,

“...has already made his choice.”

“He will kneel there, in that grief, for the rest of his life.”

Finally...

his eyes settled upon the Dev standing before him.

“But you...”

“...have not yet decided anything.”

Dev could barely breathe.

The Task Giver rested both hands upon the walking stick.

“I cannot change what has happened to him.”

He paused.

“But I can return you...”

“...years into your own past.”

“Back to the hospital.”

“Back to the night we first spoke.”

“Back to the moment before your first choice.”

Silence filled the frozen world.

The Task Giver stepped closer.

“If I send you back...”

“...will you complete the task you refused?”

His voice remained calm.

Almost gentle.

“Will you kill Karan...”

“...before he destroys every future that still remains?”

The frozen parking lot waited.

Bhumi lay still.

Karan lay still.

The kneeling Dev remained frozen in his grief.

Only one answer separated fate from choice.

The parking lot remained frozen.

Not even the drifting dust moved.

The Task Giver looked toward Dev.

“You have chosen.”

Dev looked once more at Bhumi.

Then at Karan.

Then nodded.

“I don’t want to go back to the hospital.”

The Task Giver remained silent.

“I want to go back further.”

“How far?”

“The beginning.”

“The morning of the presentation.”

“Before Chetan reached the drugs.”

“Before Karan ruined another life.”

“If I have one chance...”

“...I want to save them all.”

For the first time...

something changed upon the Task Giver’s face.

Not quite a smile.

Not quite approval.

Only the faintest acknowledgement.

“So be it.”

He slowly lifted the walking stick.

Its tip rested lightly upon the concrete.

A single tap.

A thin, clear cling rang out into the stillness and did not fade.

Then...

a thin crack appeared in the air itself.

Not upon the floor.

Not upon the walls.

Upon reality.

It spread silently.

Another joined it.

Then another.

Like sunlight breaking through frozen glass.

The entire parking lot fractured into countless translucent shards suspended around Dev.

Each shard shimmered with a different moment.

Dev reached toward one instinctively.

Inside it...

Bhumi laughed as sea waves chased her feet along the shore.

Another.

Their wedding beneath the sacred canopy at Bhadrachalam.

Another.

The two of them climbing among the ancient stones of Hampi, sunlight falling across forgotten temples.

Another.

Bhumi resting her head against his shoulder as they rode through evening traffic on his motorcycle before they were married.

Another.

Her teasing him over burnt tea.

Another.

Himself cradling a stray kitten they had found soaked in the rain, while Bhumi carried home a scruffy, tail-wagging dog no one else had wanted.

Another.

The tiny blue dress.

The little black shirt.

Another.

The shopping mall, only hours before any of this.

Himself, standing frozen mid-aisle, watching a stranger and his wife argue happily over two dresses.

Vikram.

Ananya.

His eyes moving over their faces the way they had moved over every face that day, searching for a threat that wasn’t there.

Bhumi’s hand finding his, gently, though he had barely noticed.

Another.

The white SUV waiting patiently below.

Another.

The parking lot.

Blood.

Another.

Karan laughing beneath the neem trees.

Another.

The stone descending toward his head.

Another.

Inspector Bhumi pressing her white handkerchief against his wound.

Another.

The hospital.

One o’clock.

The moonlit room.

The chair.

The Task Giver.

Another.

Chetan.

Unconscious.

Machines breathing for him.

Another.

The empty auditorium.

The untouched podium.

The microphone still waiting.

Thousands...

tens of thousands...

of moments floated around him like fragments of stained glass.

Every joy.

Every regret.

Every choice.

Every consequence.

The Task Giver walked slowly among them.

None of the shards touched him.

None reflected him.

He seemed older now.

Not in years...

but in presence.

His black coat moved without wind.

His silver hair caught light that came from nowhere.

His calm eyes reflected every fragment at once, as though he had watched them all before.

He stopped before Dev.

“You believe time is a river.”

He gently touched one floating shard.

It dissolved into light.

“It is not.”

He touched another.

It too vanished.

“It is memory.”

Another.

“It is consequence.”

Another.

“It is choice.”

Soon...

every fragment began dissolving.

Not breaking.

Returning.

Each memory became a stream of light.

Thousands of luminous threads spiralled around Dev.

Faster.

Faster.

Until they formed a vast whirlpool of light around both of them.

Dev felt weightless, as though grief itself had been the only thing holding him to the ground, and the ground had just let go in return.

The city disappeared.

The parking lot vanished.

Even the sky unraveled into flowing ribbons of silver.

Dev felt no movement.

Yet everything moved.

He could no longer tell whether he was travelling through time...

or whether time was travelling through him.

Somewhere inside the light, for the space of a single heartbeat, he heard Bhumi laugh.

Not the memory of her laughter.

Her laughter.

Alive, unbidden, and gone before he could turn toward it.

Faces passed.

Years folded.

Laughter.

Rain.

Classrooms.

Hospitals.

Birthdays.

Loneliness.

Hope.

Grief.

Stars he had never seen wheeled past in patterns no sky had ever held.

Everything became light.

Then...

darkness.

A cold breeze touched his face.

He opened his eyes.

He stood alone.

Somewhere far off, a single bird called into the stillness, answered a moment later by another, as though dawn itself were being passed hand to hand across the fields.

The city stretched far away beneath the pale colours of dawn.

Fields surrounded him.

The distant skyline shimmered on the horizon.

The Task Giver stood several steps ahead.

His walking stick rested upon the earth.

The morning wind stirred the edge of his coat.

Dev looked toward the city.

“It has begun.”

The Task Giver nodded.

“There is another Dev there.”

“He has awakened.”

“He believes today will be ordinary.”

“He knows nothing of me.”

“He knows nothing of you.”

Dev looked at his own hands.

They were younger.

Unscarred.

“No two lives may walk together.”

The Task Giver continued.

“If he sees you...”

“If you reveal yourself...”

“If you attempt to become him...”

“...the life you have come to save will cease to be your own.”

Dev slowly nodded.

“What must I do?”

“Remain unseen.”

“Change events.”

The Task Giver looked once toward the awakening city.

“The task remains the same.”

He turned back to Dev.

“But now...”

“...you have chosen the beginning instead of the end.”

The first rays of sunrise crossed the fields.

The light passed through the Task Giver.

Not around him.

Through him.

His outline became translucent.

Then countless tiny fragments of light drifted away from his body.

His walking stick dissolved next.

Then his hands.

His face.

His calm eyes remained visible for one final moment.

“There will be no third offer.”

The eyes, too, became light.

The morning breeze carried the last fragments away.

Dev stood alone.

Beyond the fields...

the city was waking to the very morning on which everything had first begun.

And somewhere within it...

another Dev was already on his way to an auditorium, waiting for a student named Chetan.

The morning air carried the quiet promise of an ordinary day.

For a long moment, Dev simply stood on the roadside.

The city stretched before him.

Alive.

Untouched.

Somewhere beyond those buildings...

Bhumi was still alive.

Chetan was smiling, unaware of what awaited him.

Karan had not yet crossed the line from which there would be no return.

Dev closed his eyes.

“If I can save one...”

“...perhaps I can save them all.”

He opened them again.

There was no time to lose.

…

A man stood outside a small pharmacy, speaking on his mobile phone.

Dev hurried toward him.

“I’m sorry...”

The man looked up.

“I know this sounds strange, but it’s an emergency.”

“May I borrow your phone? Just for a minute.”

Seeing the desperation on Dev’s face, the man silently handed it over.

“Thank you.”

Dev’s thumb hovered over the keypad.

Ram.

He knew the name the way he knew his own, three years of Sunday visits to the shelter, three years of a friendship built entirely around one shared conviction — that no child was already lost.

But the number.

He had called it perhaps five times in his life.

Bhumi was always the one who dialled.

His mind went blank, then slowly, painfully, began to surface it, digit by digit, the way a face surfaces from underwater.

He tried once.

Wrong number.

A woman’s voice, confused, hanging up before he could apologise properly.

No...

Think.

He closed his eyes.

Bhumi’s phone, propped on the kitchen counter, Ram’s name above a number he had glanced at a hundred times without ever needing to remember it.

He tried again.

One ring.

Two.

Then—

“Hello?”

Ram.

Relief washed across Dev.

“Ram, listen to me carefully.”

“There are boys near the eastern bypass, past the old flyover.”

“They’re carrying narcotics.”

“They’ve surrounded another student. They’re forcing him.”

Ram’s tone changed instantly, all warmth gone, replaced by something focused and fast.

“How long ago?”

“Right now. It’s happening right now.”

“I’m leaving immediately. Ten minutes, maybe less.”

“Who is th—”

Dev ended the call.

He handed the phone back.

“Thank you.”

The man nodded politely and continued on his way, unaware that a single phone call had just changed someone’s future.

…

By the time Dev reached the college...

the campus had already awakened.

Students hurried through the corridors carrying files and presentation charts.

Faculty members walked briskly toward the auditorium.

Everything looked exactly as he remembered.

He quickened his pace toward the entrance, pulling his collar up out of habit rather than need.

A group of second-years held the gate open for him, one of them raising a hand in greeting.

“Good morning, sir!”

Dev’s steps faltered for half a second.

He gave a small, tight nod and kept walking, eyes fixed somewhere past them.

Near the corridor leading to the auditorium, a peon he recognised instantly — Somaiah, who had served tea in the staff room every morning for eleven years — looked up from sweeping and smiled.

“Sir, you’re early today.”

Dev didn’t trust his own voice.

He simply raised a hand in acknowledgment and turned down a side passage before the man could say anything further.

Every familiar face felt like a small betrayal waiting to happen.

He kept his head slightly lowered, his stride unhurried on the surface and frantic underneath it, the way a man walks when he is trying very hard to look like he is not hiding from anyone.

He slipped in through a side door near the back, where a stack of folded chairs and a support pillar kept the last row in shadow.

A knot of latecomers were still filing in through the main entrance, giving him cover.

One more figure lost in the crowd, head down, unremarkable.

Close enough to see everything.

Far enough that no one would look twice.

Inside...

the auditorium buzzed with quiet excitement.

Rows of students adjusted their blazers, rehearsed their speeches beneath their breath and glanced nervously toward the stage where a wooden podium stood beneath the banner.

District Inter-Collegiate Oratory Competition

Faculty members moved between the aisles with attendance sheets.

The judges had already taken their seats.

The microphone crackled.

“One... two... testing...”

A faint smile crossed Dev’s face.

He remembered every second.

Near the stage...

another Dev stood exactly where he once had.

Checking his wristwatch.

Looking repeatedly toward the entrance.

Waiting.

Ramesh approached him with the same familiar smile.

“Still waiting for your star student?”

Dev, at the back, mouthed the words along with him without meaning to.

“He’ll come.”

“He has another two minutes.”

“Maybe he’s preparing a dramatic entry.”

“Chetan doesn’t do dramatic entries.”

“You trust him that much?”

“I know him.”

Word for word.

Memory had not failed him.

The host stepped toward the podium.

“Ladies and gentlemen...”

At that exact moment...

Chetan appeared at the auditorium entrance.

Breathing heavily.

Holding his presentation file.

Chetan hurried toward the stage.

At the back of the hall, Dev felt something inside him finally loosen too.

He had done it.

Chetan never reached the bypass.

He never encountered Karan.

He was safe.

The competition began.

One by one...

students delivered their speeches.

Finally...

Chetan’s name was announced.

He walked confidently toward the podium.

Every word...

Every pause...

Every gesture...

Dev remembered them all, except now they arrived a beat different, a fraction warmer, spoken by a boy who hadn’t spent the morning being held down.

When the speech ended...

the auditorium erupted into applause.

Dev found himself applauding too.

Quietly, from the shadow of the back pillar.

Tears gathered in his eyes.

He had changed the future.

The applause slowly faded.

The Dev on stage walked toward the microphone.

He adjusted it gently.

“Ladies and gentlemen...”

“Before we conclude...”

“I’d like to say a few words.”

Everything stopped.

The applause froze.

Hands remained suspended halfway through a clap.

A programme booklet hung motionless in mid-air.

Even the faint dust beneath the stage lights ceased to drift.

Silence swallowed the auditorium.

The Dev standing at the podium slowly raised his head.

Not toward the audience.

Toward the last row.

Toward him.

Their eyes met.

Dev’s heart stopped.

Impossible.

The man on stage smiled.

It wasn’t his smile.

Tiny fragments of light began breaking away from his skin.

His face dissolved first.

Then his hands.

His body stretched upward.

The microphone bent and darkened.

Transforming into polished black wood.

A walking stick.

The suit darkened.

The shoulders broadened.

Within seconds...

the lecturer standing upon the stage no longer existed.

In his place stood the Task Giver.

Nearly ten feet tall.

His black coat hung without movement.

His silver hair shimmered beneath the auditorium lights.

For the first time...

his expression was different.

Not calm.

Not patient.

Something had disturbed him.

He leaned slowly toward the microphone.

The sound echoed throughout the frozen hall.

Soft.

Measured.

Yet impossible to escape.

“What...”

A pause.

“...are you doing?”

“What...”

A pause.

“...are you doing?”

The words did not fade.

They hung in the frozen auditorium like smoke with nowhere to go.

Dev did not move from the shadow of the pillar.

The Task Giver stepped down from the stage.

Not walking so much as arriving — one moment behind the podium, the next standing three feet away, the frozen crowd parting soundlessly around him though nothing about them moved at all.

“You saved the boy.”

“Yes.”

“You did not touch Karan.”

“No.”

The Task Giver’s eyes moved slowly across Dev’s face, as though reading something written there in a language only he understood.

“Why?”

Dev held his gaze.

“Because I don’t want him dead. I want him stopped. There’s a difference.”

“You already tried that difference.”

The stranger’s voice remained level, but something beneath it had sharpened.

“You believed in it for years. You held onto it in a hospital room. You held onto it in a courtyard, in a classroom, in your own home.”

He took a step closer.

“And it ended with your wife bleeding out on a parking lot floor while you knelt beside her, useless.”

Dev’s jaw tightened.

“That’s not what this is.”

“Isn’t it?”

“You came back for one reason.”

The Task Giver’s voice did not rise, but the frozen air around them seemed to thin, as though the words themselves were taking up the room’s oxygen.

“Not to save a boy who was never truly in danger from Karan directly. Not to build a kinder version of a story that already ended. You came back to kill him. Nothing else.”

“No.”

“Then what was today?”

“A start.”

“A start toward what?”

Dev exhaled.

“Toward proving it doesn’t have to end the way it ended. If I can stop this before it becomes what it became — confine him, expose him, put him somewhere he can’t reach anyone — then no one else has to become what I became in that parking lot.”

The Task Giver studied him for a long moment.

“If killing is truly the only door,” Dev said quietly, “then why does it have to be me who walks through it?”

For the first time, something almost like amusement crossed the stranger’s face.

“You want me to do it.”

“You could. You’ve done stranger things tonight than end one boy’s life.”

“You misunderstand. This was never a request.”

“Then what is it?”

“A certainty.”

The Task Giver’s eyes did not blink.

“You will end his life. Today, or years from now, in some parking lot no one warned you about. The only question left to you is which blood you can live with — his, spilled by your own choice, with time still on your side to prepare for what it costs you. Or hers, spilled by his hand, while you stand there and watch, exactly as you already have.”

“Bhumi wouldn’t want this.”

The words came out steadier than Dev expected.

“She wouldn’t want a husband who kills for her. I was not myself in that parking lot — grief isn’t a decision, it’s a wound that decided for me. I have a chance now that I didn’t have then. A chance to choose something other than blood.”

He looked past the Task Giver, toward the frozen figure of Chetan on stage, caught mid-bow to an audience that would never finish applauding.

“I saved him today. Not by killing anyone. I can save Karan the same way — from Rajan, from himself, from becoming what he became. I believe that. I still believe that.”

Dev held his gaze steady.

“You don’t want me to kill Karan.”

“You want me to become him.”

The Task Giver’s expression did not change, but the frozen auditorium did.

A low tremor moved through the floor.

Not violent.

Patient.

The way a held breath finally lets go.

“You will lose her again,” the Task Giver said, “if you insist on this.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know exactly that.”

The tremor deepened.

A crack split the floor beneath the last row of seats, spreading outward in slow, deliberate lines, like frost creeping across glass.

The frozen students in their chairs began to tilt, imperceptibly, as though the whole auditorium had been set adrift on water no one could see.

The lights dimmed without dying.

The walls breathed.

“Every future you refuse to choose,” the Task Giver said, and his voice now seemed to come from every direction at once, “chooses itself instead. And it will not choose kindly.”

The floor beneath Dev’s feet dissolved into open air.

He did not fall.

He looked down once, at the place where solid ground should have been, at the slow spiral of light and dark opening beneath him like a throat.

Then he looked back at the Task Giver.

“You can take away the floor,” Dev said. “You can take away the walls, the light, the sound of my own voice if you want to. You’ve shown me you can unmake almost anything in this place.”

He took a step forward. There was nothing beneath it. He did not need there to be.

“But you can’t unmake me. Not the part of me that’s choosing this. That part isn’t yours to destabilize.”

For the first time since Dev had met him, the Task Giver said nothing at all.

Dev walked past him, out over the widening dark, each step landing on nothing and holding anyway — not because the ground had returned, but because he had simply stopped waiting for it to.

Behind him, the Task Giver’s voice followed, quiet now, almost gentle, which made it worse.

“This is not defiance,” he said. “This is chaos. You are choosing a world with no floor beneath it at all — and somewhere in that fall, blood will still find your hands. It always does. You have only postponed whose.”

Dev kept walking.

The dark beneath him rippled, and for a moment it was not dark at all.

It was the parking lot again.

Bhumi lay exactly as she had lain before, her hand searching the concrete for his.

Dev’s chest tightened.

He did not stop.

The image shattered like a struck mirror, and in its place rose a hallway he did not recognize, lined with doors that opened onto nothing, each one breathing cold air against his face as he passed.

He kept walking.

The hallway folded into fire — the pyre from a night he had once been shown, flames climbing without heat, without sound, close enough to touch and touching nothing.

He walked through it.

It did not burn.

Karan’s laughter echoed once, young and cruel, beneath imagined neem trees that grew and withered in the same breath.

Dev did not turn toward the sound.

Each vision rose taller than the last, each one built with more care than the one before, and each one dissolved the moment his foot came down through it, as though his refusal to be stopped was itself unmaking them faster than they could be built.

The Task Giver’s voice, when it came again, had lost some of its stillness.

“I can end this.”

Dev did not slow.

“I can send you back to that parking lot floor, this instant, and leave you there. No second chance. No further offer. Only the blood already spilled, and nothing more you are permitted to change.”

Dev stopped then.

Not from fear.

He turned to face him.

“Do it, if that’s what you’ve decided.”

Silence.

“But understand what that makes you.”

The Task Giver’s expression did not move.

“You showed me that time can be changed.”

“You gave me another chance.”

“Now you’re angry because I’m using it differently than you wanted.”

“That is not villainy. That is judgment.”

“No.”

Dev’s voice did not rise, but it did not waver either.

“Judgment would be letting me try and fail on my own terms. This is refusal. You have more power in your hands than anyone I have ever known, and you are using it to make sure no one gets a chance you haven’t already decided they deserve. That makes you the only villain in this story who never had an excuse.”

“I killed Karan in grief, not design. I did not choose it — it happened to me. You are choosing this, calmly, right now, with nothing forcing your hand at all.”

“Which means whatever I became in that parking lot for one unwilled moment, you have chosen to be for far longer, on purpose, every single time you refuse someone the same mercy you’re capable of giving.”

The tremor beneath them stilled.

The Task Giver smiled.

Just slightly.

“No.”

“I am the only one in this story who has never killed anyone.”

Silence.

“You have.”

Dev said nothing.

There was nothing ready to say.

Dev turned from him and kept walking, out across the dark, toward whatever waited on the other side of it.

Behind him, the Task Giver remained standing in the dark.

He was no longer trying to stop Dev.

He was waiting.

Dev stood outside the college gates long after the last student had gone home.

Confronting Karan had never been enough. Karan went home every night to the same house, the same father, the same voice teaching him what a man was supposed to be. You could not fix the boy without going to the source.

He found the godown on the industrial road past the old cotton mill — unmarked, its shutter half-raised even at that hour, as though it had nothing to hide because everyone already knew.

…

The godown smelled of diesel and stored grain.

A man looked up from behind a metal desk, a ledger open in front of him.

“Who are you?”

“My name is Dev. I teach at the college your son attends.”

“Then you’re in the wrong building.”

“I don’t think I am.”

Rajan set his pen down.

“I came to ask you, as a father, to stop what you’re doing to your son,” Dev said. “Whatever he’s carrying to that college — whoever is giving it to him — stop it. Let him have a chance to become something else.”

For a moment, Rajan said nothing at all.

Then he laughed. Short, without warmth.

“You walked into my godown to ask me that.”

“Yes.”

“You think I don’t know what he does? You think this is happening behind my back?” Rajan stood, his voice rising with him, filling the space between the stacked crates. “I built every brick of what he’ll inherit. I decide what he becomes. Not you. Not some teacher who read one file and decided he understood my son better than his own father does.”

“I’ve watched what he’s become. It’s already costing lives at that college.”

“Get out of my godown.”

“Not until you hear me.”

“You don’t get to stand in my place and lecture me about my own blood.”

“Someone has to,” Dev said, his own voice rising to match the room instead of trying to calm it. “You’ve built a boy who forces drugs down another child’s throat for laughing at him. That’s not strength. That’s a weapon, and you’re the one pointing it.”

Rajan’s hand slammed flat against the desk.

“You know nothing about what strength costs.”

“I’ll find whatever I need to prove it,” Dev said. “Every packet, every name, every boy he’s touched. I will make sure you’re arrested for what you’ve built here.”

For a long moment, neither of them moved.

Then Rajan reached into his jacket, unhurried, and drew out two small plastic packets. He set them down on the desk in front of Dev, deliberately, the way a man lays down a winning hand.

“You want proof this badly, Professor? Here.”

Dev looked down at them, then back up.

“Pick them up,” Rajan said. “Hold them tight. Isn’t this what you came for — something to show the police, something with my name attached to it?”

Dev hesitated only a moment before his fingers closed around the packets.

“Go on, then.” Rajan leaned back, something unreadable moving behind his eyes. “Call them. Call the police right now, from right here, in front of me. Let’s see how confident you are with them listening.”

Dev pulled out his phone.

His hands were steady as he dialed. He gave the address. He said there were narcotics in the room, that he had them in his hand, that Rajan needed to be arrested tonight, before he could hide anything.

Rajan sat, and watched him do it, and said nothing at all.

…

Headlights swept across the shutter less than half an hour later.

Pradeep entered first, a constable behind him.

Bhumi followed.

Dev’s chest tightened at the sight of her — familiar in every way that mattered to him, and utterly unaware of it. She scanned the godown the way any officer scans an unfamiliar room. No recognition at all.

Rajan rose before Pradeep could speak.

“Inspector. Thank god you’ve come.”

His voice had changed — wounded now, reasonable.

“This man came into my godown tonight and asked me to supply narcotics to students at his college. I refused him. When I refused, he threatened to go to the police and say it was the other way — that I was the one pushing drugs on children.”

“That’s a lie,” Dev said.

Rajan didn’t even look at him.

“Inspector, people say many things about me. My past isn’t spotless. That’s exactly why this accusation will be so easy to believe.” Rajan spread his hands, almost regretful. “I could have thrown him out of here myself and no one would have questioned it. Instead I sat and waited for you, so the law could decide the truth of it, not me.”

Pradeep’s eyes moved to Dev’s fist, still closed around the packets.

“Those,” Rajan said, nodding toward Dev’s hand, “are exactly the kind he wanted for his college. Not what I’ve ever dealt in — test them, Inspector, they won’t match anything that’s passed through this place. He brought his own.”

“That’s not—” Dev started. “He gave these to me. He told me to hold them.”

“He asked my son first,” Rajan continued, as though Dev hadn’t spoken. “Karan told him no. So he came to me directly.”

“I was arrested once myself, Inspector, you’ll remember. I got bail. Since then I have kept everything clean. Ask anyone who knows this place.”

“That’s not true,” Dev said. “None of it.”

Pradeep looked between them, his expression unreadable. “Words are easy, Rajan. Why should I believe any of this over his?”

Rajan turned toward the back of the godown. “Karan. Come out.”

The door opened.

Karan stepped through slowly, and Dev felt something in his stomach drop before the boy had said a single word.

He had been in there the whole time.

Listening.

“He came looking for drugs first,” Karan said, not once looking at Dev. “I said no. That’s when he went looking for my father.”

Dev stared at him. “Karan—”

The boy didn’t look up.

Pradeep closed his notebook.

“Bhumi. Take him into custody.” He glanced toward Rajan and Karan. “Both of you, come to the station as well. We’ll need everyone’s statements, so we can get to the truth of this properly.”

Rajan inclined his head. “Of course, Inspector.”

…

The handcuffs were cold.

Bhumi fastened them without a word — the same hands that would, in some other version of this, rest gently over his while he slept.

She didn’t know him.

She led him to the jeep without a flicker of anything beyond duty.

Dev climbed in.

Karan climbed in after him, close enough that their knees nearly touched.

The boy Dev had believed, with everything in him, could still become someone else.

He looked at Dev now with nothing in his face at all.

The jeep pulled away, and Dev sat handcuffed across from the one person he had crossed a lifetime to save — understanding, with a cold and total clarity, that saving him had never once required Karan’s permission to be saved.

As the jeep turned onto the main road, Dev glanced back at the godown, its shutter already sliding shut behind them.

The Task Giver stood at the entrance.

Perfectly still, framed in the last of the light spilling out from inside.

Looking directly into Dev’s eyes, as though he had been standing there the entire time and simply chosen not to be seen until now.

He was smiling.

Not the cold, patient smile Dev had come to expect.

Something closer to sympathy.

The godown, the shutter, the smile all folded into darkness as the jeep rounded the bend, and were gone.

Dev stepped down from the jeep, his hands still cuffed in front of him.

The station yard was busier than he expected for the hour. Small clusters of people stood scattered across the open ground — a lawyer with his briefcase held like a shield, a family arguing in low voices near the compound wall, two constables sharing a cigarette by the gate. Every circle belonged to its own case, its own quiet emergency, indifferent to every other.

Then, near the far corner of the yard, someone caught his eye.

A man in a black blazer, a name plate pinned to the chest — Professor, custom-ordered, precise. Brown shoes. A black belt. His shirt tucked in with the kind of discipline that came from habit, not vanity. Spectacles. A small pen clipped inside the blazer pocket. A metal wristband on his right hand, a silver-strapped watch on his left.

Ram.

Exactly as he would be, three years from now. All the same fire in him already, radiating even from this distance, even doing nothing more than standing his ground in a police yard.

A couple stood behind him. A family stood in front, faces drawn tight with anger and fear both.

Bhumi told him once that this was how she met Ram. An elopement. A family that hadn't forgiven yet.

As Dev was pushed toward the main door, he glanced back once more. The couple behind Ram had turned slightly, and for a moment their faces caught the yard light.

Younger. Softer around the edges than the two he'd seen in the shopping mall that same morning.

But the resemblance was there. Faint. Unmistakable and impossible to be certain of, both at once.

Vikram. Ananya.

Then the door swallowed him and the yard was gone.

…

They put the three of them in an interrogation room with a single table and four mismatched chairs. Bhumi shut the door behind them herself. A constable took up position against the back wall.

She unlocked Dev's cuffs without a word, setting them down on the table between them like something she'd deal with later.

"Karan." She didn't sit. "Tell me about the packets. Everything you know."

Karan told the same story. Word for word what he'd said at the godown.

Bhumi looked at him for a long moment, the way a teacher looks at a student she already knows is lying, waiting to see how long he'll keep going before he notices she knows.

"We found packets like these during a raid at the sports ground three weeks ago," she said. "Same packaging. Same seal. It's the newest supply moving through this city — we've been tracking it for a month."

Karan went still.

Rajan leaned forward. "I don't know anything about that. I've never seen those before tonight. He" — a nod at Dev — "brought them. We're seeing them for the first time, same as you."

"Quiet." Bhumi didn't even look at him. "Karan. Again."

"This isn't your father's godown," she said, when he hesitated. "You don't get to tell me a story and have it become true because you said it twice."

Something in Dev's chest loosened, cautiously, for the first time since the handcuffs had gone on.

Rajan's face had changed. The calm was gone.

"Then why was he cuffed?" His voice rose, sharp now, all performance stripped out of it. "Why bring him in like a criminal if you already knew?"

"Because it was the only way to get you and your son into this building tonight without anyone at that godown deciding to intervene first," Bhumi said. "You'd have never come otherwise."

For a moment, nobody moved.

Then Rajan moved all at once.

He lunged at the constable by the wall before anyone could react, driving him back with both hands, slamming him into the corner hard enough that the man's head cracked against the plaster. He went down. Blood began to seep from somewhere above his ear, dark against the tile.

Bhumi was already turning, already reaching for something at her belt, when Rajan closed the distance behind her.

A blade. Small. Barely longer than a finger, drawn from some pocket no one had thought to check.

He pressed it to the side of her throat.

"Karan." His voice had gone flat, stripped of everything but instruction. "Lock the door. No one comes in."

Karan crossed the room without a word and threw the bolt.

Dev stood frozen, the empty cuffs still resting on the table in front of him.

Blood on the ground.

The Task Giver had shown him this already — a pyre burning under an orange sky, a warning he hadn't understood until now was never a metaphor at all.

The knife rested lightly against Bhumi's throat.

No one moved.

The interrogation room had become impossibly small.

The unconscious constable lay crumpled against the wall.

Blood slowly spread beneath his head.

Bhumi stood perfectly still.

She never looked at the knife.

She looked only at Rajan.

"You won't leave this station."

Rajan smiled.

"You still think this is about leaving."

His eyes shifted toward Dev.

"No."

"This is about teaching."

Dev slowly raised both hands.

"Rajan..."

"Let her go."

"You came to my godown to teach me."

His smile widened.

"Allow me to return the favour."

The knife pressed slightly deeper.

A thin line of blood appeared along Bhumi's neck.

Dev instinctively took one step forward.

"Stop."

Rajan's voice echoed through the room.

"One more step..."

"...and she dies."

Silence.

Only breathing remained.

…

Bhumi spoke quietly.

"Professor..."

Dev looked at her.

"Don't negotiate."

She gave the faintest shake of her head.

"You're hoping he'll become reasonable."

"He already decided before we entered this room."

Rajan laughed softly.

Outside...

boots pounded along the corridor.

Someone shouted.

The locked door rattled once.

Then again.

Rajan heard it.

His breathing changed.

Time had become his enemy.

"Karan."

His voice was sharp now.

"When I move..."

"...you move."

Karan nodded silently.

His eyes never left Dev.

…

The Task Giver appeared.

Standing behind Rajan.

Hands resting upon the walking stick.

Invisible to everyone else.

"You already know."

Dev didn't answer.

"End it."

"I won't."

The Task Giver lowered his eyes.

"Even now."

…

The pounding grew louder.

Bhumi saw it.

The briefest hesitation.

That was enough.

Her elbow shot backwards.

It struck Rajan's ribs.

His grip loosened.

She twisted sharply.

Her training took over.

She trapped his knife wrist beneath her arm.

The blade swung away from her throat.

Dev moved instantly.

He seized Rajan's forearm with both hands.

All three crashed into the interrogation table.

The wooden table overturned.

Files exploded across the room.

The discarded handcuffs skidded over the tiles.

Karan rushed forward.

He slammed both hands into Dev's back.

Dev lost his footing.

His shoulder crashed into the wall.

Pain shot through his body.

Still...

he refused to release Rajan's arm.

Rajan roared.

He drove his knee into Dev's stomach.

Air burst from Dev's lungs.

The grip weakened.

Rajan tore free.

The knife remained in his hand.

His breathing had become wild.

No patience remained.

No calculation.

Only desperation.

He lunged.

Bhumi sidestepped.

The blade sliced past her cheek.

A few strands of hair drifted downward.

Dev grabbed Rajan from behind.

Both men crashed heavily onto the floor.

The knife scraped loudly across the tiles.

Neither controlled it.

Neither released it.

Bhumi rushed forward.

She tried pulling Rajan away.

He shoved her violently.

She stumbled backward into the overturned table.

"Karan!"

Rajan shouted.

"Move!"

Karan grabbed Dev around the shoulders.

Trying to drag him backward.

Dev kicked behind him.

The blow struck Karan's shin.

Karan staggered.

Only for a second.

It was enough.

Dev threw his weight forward again.

Both he and Rajan rolled across the floor.

The knife remained trapped between them.

Rajan drove his forehead into Dev's face.

Blood burst from Dev's nose.

His vision blurred.

Still...

his fingers refused to let go.

Their hands slipped.

Caught again.

The knife twisted between them.

Its point scraped the floor.

Neither man knew who held it anymore.

The corridor outside erupted with shouting.

"Open the door!"

Heavy fists hammered against it.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Rajan heard them.

His eyes widened.

He knew.

There wasn't enough time.

With a sudden surge of strength...

he abandoned the struggle entirely.

Instead of trying to escape Dev...

he turned.

Knife raised.

Straight toward Bhumi.

Everything slowed.

Dev saw only one thing.

The blade.

Moving toward her.

He reacted without thought.

Without choice.

He hurled himself forward.

Both hands seized Rajan's arm.

He pulled with everything he had.

Rajan resisted.

The knife changed direction.

Its point drove inward.

Then...

stopped.

Silence.

Neither man moved.

Rajan looked downward.

The blade had entered his chest.

Not deeply.

Not cleanly.

Just enough.

Enough.

His fingers slowly opened.

The knife slipped free.

It struck the tiles with a dull metallic sound.

Dev released him.

Unable to understand what had happened.

Rajan took one uncertain step backwards.

His hand pressed instinctively against the wound.

Warm blood spread slowly between his fingers.

His eyes found Dev.

There was anger.

Then disbelief.

Then...

nothing.

His knees gave way.

He collapsed onto the cold floor.

Blood spread quietly beneath him.

No one spoke.

Karan stared at his father.

His face emptied completely.

He dropped beside him.

"Father..."

No answer.

He shook him.

Harder.

"Father..."

Nothing.

Bhumi slowly stood.

One hand rested against the shallow cut on her neck.

Her eyes moved from Rajan...

to Dev.

Dev remained exactly where he was.

His right hand still hung suspended in the air.

His fingers trembled uncontrollably.

He stared at them.

As though they belonged to someone else.

"I..."

The word never became another.

The pounding outside the door continued.

Louder now.

The lock shook violently.

Dev heard none of it.

His eyes never left his own hands.

Behind Rajan's fallen body...

the Task Giver stood in complete silence.

His black coat remained perfectly still.

His hands rested upon the walking stick.

He looked at Dev for a long moment.

Then...

he smiled.

Not with satisfaction.

Not with triumph.

With certainty.

"You started the chaos, Professor..."

A pause.

"The end begins..."

Another pause.

"...now."

Rajan's body lay motionless upon the floor.

No one moved.

Karan knelt beside him.

His trembling hands pressed desperately against the wound.

"Father..."

No response.

"Please..."

Nothing.

His shoulders began shaking.

Tears fell freely onto Rajan's shirt.

For several long moments...

the room contained only grief.

Then...

his fingers slowly closed around the knife lying beside his father's hand.

He stood.

Not quickly.

Not violently.

Quietly.

His eyes settled upon Dev.

"You..."

His voice cracked.

"You killed him."

Dev shook his head.

"I tried to save you."

"I didn't want—"

"You killed him."

The words carried no anger now.

Only certainty.

Karan took one slow step.

Then another.

Bhumi instinctively moved in front of Dev.

"Karan."

"Put the knife down."

He never looked at her.

His eyes remained fixed upon Dev.

…

The Task Giver slowly walked toward Dev.

"You know what happens now."

Dev wiped the tears from his face.

"No."

"You have another choice."

"I've already chosen."

"No."

The stranger pointed toward Karan.

"You chose once."

"Now..."

"...choose again."

Dev stared at him.

"Kill him."

"No."

"He'll kill you."

"No."

"He'll kill her."

"No."

"He'll destroy every future he touches."

Dev's voice broke.

"I won't."

The Task Giver's expression hardened.

For the first time...

patience disappeared.

"You still refuse."

"YES!"

Dev shouted.

"I REFUSE!"

"I won't become a murderer!"

"I won't!"

His voice echoed across the room.

No one reacted.

No one except the Task Giver.

The stranger slowly turned away from Dev.

He walked toward Karan.

Stopped before him.

Looked directly into his eyes.

Only Dev heard the words.

"I can return him."

Karan stood frozen.

The stranger continued.

"Your father."

"I can give him back."

Dev's face drained of colour.

"No..."

The Task Giver never looked away from Karan.

"One life..."

"...for another."

"KILL HIM."

Silence.

Dev felt his heartbeat stop.

The same offer.

Exactly the same.

Only...

to someone else.

Karan slowly tightened his grip around the knife.

Dev rushed forward.

"NO!"

He shoved Karan backwards with all his strength.

The knife slipped from Karan's grasp.

It spun beneath the overturned table.

Dev grabbed Bhumi's wrist.

"Come!"

She resisted.

"The constable..."

"They'll handle him."

"Come!"

He threw open the interrogation room door.

Constables rushed toward them.

Pradeep was among them.

"What happened?"

"No time."

Dev pushed Bhumi toward them.

"Take her."

Confused...

they pulled Bhumi into the adjoining investigation room.

More officers rushed in.

The corridor filled with uniforms.

Dev remained outside.

Watching.

Making sure she was safe.

Only then...

did he breathe.

…

Dev looked back.

The interrogation room door flung open.

Karan rushed out.

Knife in hand.

Eyes burning.

He didn't look toward the officers.

He looked only for one person.

Dev.

But Dev had already stepped inside the adjoining room.

Karan's gaze swept across the corridor.

Then...

he turned.

And ran toward the station entrance.

…

Outside the police station...

a young lecturer hurried toward the entrance.

A brown file rested beneath one arm.

His identity card swung loosely from his neck with every hurried step.

His shirt was neatly tucked in.

His spectacles sat slightly crooked from the rush.

Dev froze.

It was him.

The Dev who belonged to this timeline.

The Dev who knew nothing.

Who had never travelled through time.

Who had simply received a call asking him to come to the police station.

The lecturer who still believed today would end like any other.

The identity card bounced once more against his chest as he hurried toward the entrance.

He never saw Karan.

Dev did.

The boy emerged from the side of the building.

Knife already raised.

"NO!"

Dev screamed.

The younger lecturer turned instinctively.

Too late.

The blade drove into his abdomen.

The brown file slipped from his hands.

Sheets of paper scattered across the station steps.

His identity card twisted violently before coming to rest against his bloodstained shirt.

His knees buckled.

Dev reached him first.

He caught him before his body struck the ground.

The wounded Dev looked upward.

Confusion clouded his eyes.

He stared at the face above him.

The same face.

Only older.

More broken.

Dev's hands trembled.

"I'm sorry..."

The wounded Dev tried to speak.

No sound came.

His fingers tightened weakly around Dev's sleeve.

Something shattered inside him.

Dev slowly lowered him to the ground.

Then...

he turned.

Karan was pulling the knife free.

Dev crossed the distance in an instant.

He seized Karan by the collar.

Hurled him violently against the station wall.

The impact echoed across the compound.

Karan swung wildly.

Dev answered with a punch.

Then another.

Another.

Another.

Every blow carried three years of fear.

Three years of helplessness.

Three years of grief.

His fists crashed into Karan's face exactly as they had once before...

in the parking lot.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Karan's resistance weakened.

Still...

the blows continued.

Then...

Dev saw it.

Not Karan.

Bhumi.

Lying upon the parking lot floor.

Blood.

Her empty eyes.

His own hands.

He stopped.

Immediately.

His fist remained suspended in the air.

His breathing became ragged.

Karan collapsed unconscious against the wall.

Dev staggered backwards.

"No..."

he whispered.

"I won't..."

He turned back.

The wounded Dev still lay where he had left him.

Their eyes met once more.

One pair clouded with pain...

the other drowning in regret.

Neither understood how the other could exist.

They simply looked at one another.

The same life...

standing at two different ends of itself.

Around them...

the police station began to change.

A crack appeared in the air.

Then another.

The walls trembled.

The floor beneath them rippled like disturbed water.

Voices stretched unnaturally.

Light fractured into countless shimmering lines.

Reality itself could no longer bear two versions of the same man occupying the same moment.

The first fracture spread silently across the ceiling.

Then across the walls.

Then through the very air between the two Devs.

The world had begun to break.

The world broke.

Not with sound.

With pressure.

The cracks racing through the police station widened until they reached the sky itself.

Light poured through them.

Blinding.

Relentless.

Dev covered his face.

The fractured ceiling dissolved into thousands of floating shards.

Each one reflected a different moment.

Bhumi smiling over morning coffee.

The hospital room.

The moonlit chair.

The burning pyre.

Chetan at the podium.

Karan beneath the neem tree.

Rajan collapsing.

The parking lot.

Blood.

Another crack.

Every reflection splintered again.

Now each fragment held another fragment inside it.

Memories within memories.

Choices within choices.

The entire world folded endlessly into itself.

Dev staggered.

His head throbbed.

A sharp pain pierced behind his eyes.

He pressed both hands against his temples.

"No..."

The pain grew worse.

Every heartbeat became a hammer.

The Task Giver appeared one final time.

Not before him.

Not behind him.

Everywhere.

Standing inside every broken shard.

Thousands of silent faces.

Thousands of calm eyes.

Each looking only at him.

"You wanted another beginning."

Their voices echoed together.

"You wanted another ending."

The pain became unbearable.

His knees struck nothing.

There was no floor anymore.

Only light.

The memories began rushing past him.

Not slowly.

Violently.

The hospital.

Gone.

The auditorium.

Gone.

The godown.

Gone.

Bhumi.

Gone.

Everything he had lived.

Everything he had changed.

Everything he had believed.

Collapsed backwards through him.

He saw himself...

falling through every chapter of his own life.

The parking lot.

The shopping mall.

The apartment.

The wedding.

The classroom.

The ICU.

The auditorium.

The presentation.

The road.

Everything.

Faster.

Faster.

Until faces became colours.

Colours became light.

Light became pain.

A terrible ringing filled his ears.

He cried out.

The sound vanished before it reached him.

The Task Giver's thousands of faces slowly became one.

He stood before Dev exactly as he had the first night.

Black coat.

Silver hair.

Walking stick.

Perfectly calm.

"You wished to know..."

he said quietly.

"...whether a man can escape himself."

Dev could barely hear him.

His vision blurred.

The pain inside his skull became impossible.

"I..."

he whispered.

"...can't..."

The stranger slowly raised the walking stick.

Its tip touched nothing.

Yet the entire universe trembled.

One final crack spread across reality.

Straight toward Dev.

It reached his forehead.

And entered it.

Agony exploded through his head.

He screamed.

The scream echoed through every broken world.

Then—

Darkness.

…

Something cold touched his cheek.

Concrete.

Voices.

Running footsteps.

A distant siren.

Dev's eyelids fluttered.

His head felt as though it had been split open.

He tried to breathe.

Pain answered.

Slowly...

his vision returned.

The fluorescent lights.

Concrete pillars.

The basement parking lot.

He recognised it immediately.

The shopping mall.

His own breathing echoed loudly.

Everything else felt strangely distant.

He remained lying where he was.

Unable to move.

Then...

a shout.

"Leave him!"

Metal struck concrete.

Dev forced his head sideways.

Two figures struggled between parked cars.

One...

he recognised instantly.

Karan.

The other...

A young man.

His shirt torn.

His face bruised.

Yet still fighting.

Vikram.

Karan swung the iron rod.

Vikram caught the blow on his forearm.

Pain twisted across his face.

Still...

he refused to step back.

Instead...

he drove his shoulder into Karan.

Both crashed against the side of the white SUV.

The same SUV.

Vikram ♥ Ananya

The names stared back at Dev.

Exactly as before.

Not imagined.

Real.

Dev closed his eyes.

For one terrible second...

he couldn't tell which world he belonged to anymore.

Then he heard another voice.

Bhumi.

"Dev!"

She was alive.

She knelt beside him.

Blood stained her sleeve.

Cuts marked her arms.

But she was alive.

Relief washed over him so suddenly that it almost hurt.

He tried to speak.

Nothing came.

Bhumi gripped his shoulder.

"Stay down."

She turned.

"Karan!"

Karan shoved Vikram away.

His eyes found Dev again.

The hatred remained.

He picked up the knife.

Started walking.

Toward them.

Dev looked at Bhumi.

Then at Vikram struggling to stand again.

Then at Karan.

No visions.

No Task Giver.

No voices.

Only choice.

Real.

Painfully real.

Dev planted one hand upon the concrete.

Forced himself upright.

His legs shook violently.

He nearly collapsed again.

Bhumi reached toward him.

He gently pushed her hand away.

"I can..."

His voice barely existed.

"...stand."

One step.

Pain.

Another.

His vision blurred.

Another.

Karan rushed.

Knife raised.

This time...

Dev met him halfway.

He caught Karan's wrist with both hands.

The knife stopped inches from his chest.

Karan pushed harder.

Dev answered with everything he had left.

Vikram joined them.

Together...

they forced Karan backward.

The knife slipped.

Clattered across the concrete.

Karan swung wildly.

Dev wrapped both arms around him.

Holding him.

Not striking.

Not letting go.

Vikram seized Karan's other arm.

Both men wrestled him to the ground.

Karan struggled violently.

Shouting.

Cursing.

Trying to break free.

Dev held on.

Even when every muscle begged him to stop.

Even when pain threatened to pull him unconscious again.

Then...

sirens.

Closer.

Footsteps.

"Police!"

Pradeep's voice echoed across the basement.

Within seconds...

officers surrounded them.

Hands pulled Karan away.

Handcuffs snapped shut.

He continued struggling.

Until four officers finally forced him into the police vehicle.

Silence slowly returned.

Dev remained sitting on the concrete.

Exhausted.

Bhumi sat beside him.

Without a word...

she slipped her hand into his.

He held it tightly.

Longer than she understood.

As though reassuring himself...

that it was truly warm.

Truly alive.

And somewhere...

deep inside his aching mind...

the Task Giver never spoke again.

The parking lot slowly fell silent.

Police officers secured the area around Karan.

A few constables gathered statements.

Others spoke quietly over their wireless sets.

No one seemed to notice the three people sitting beside the white SUV.

…

Dev leaned against the rear wheel.

His head was wrapped in a temporary bandage.

Another strip of gauze rested across his shoulder.

Every breath reminded him of the blows he had taken.

Bhumi sat beside him.

Her forearm had already been cleaned and bandaged.

The cut near her shoulder was covered with fresh dressing.

Vikram knelt before them.

The first-aid kit from his car lay open beside him.

Without saying much...

he carefully finished tying the bandage around Dev's arm.

"There."

He leaned back slightly.

"That should hold until you get proper treatment."

Dev looked at him.

"You saved us."

Vikram smiled faintly.

"When Ananya and I came down for the car..."

"...your wife was already fighting him alone."

His eyes shifted toward Bhumi.

"I told Ananya to book a cab."

"I promised I'd come home soon."

"I asked her to wait."

"Then..."

"...I came here."

He looked toward Dev.

"You were still unconscious."

"So I held him back."

He nodded toward Karan.

"Your wife kept trying to wake you."

Bhumi looked at Dev with a tired smile.

"You finally decided to open your eyes."

Dev laughed softly.

"I suppose I took my time."

For a few moments...

none of them spoke.

The evening settled quietly around them.

Then Dev's eyes wandered toward the white SUV.

The scratches.

The damaged wheel.

The dented bodywork.

His expression changed.

"Vikram..."

"I'm sorry."

"Your car..."

"It was damaged because of us."

"I'll bear the repair expenses."

Vikram glanced toward the vehicle.

Then shrugged gently.

"It's alright."

"What matters..."

"...is that all of you are alive."

Dev looked at him for a long moment.

Then quietly said,

"Thank you."

Vikram smiled.

He closed the first-aid kit.

Rose to his feet.

"You both take care."

Bhumi nodded.

"We will."

Vikram extended his hand.

Dev shook it firmly.

Two strangers.

Bound forever by a single evening.

Vikram walked slowly toward his damaged SUV.

He paused once...

rested his hand on its roof...

then opened the driver's door.

…

Bhumi gently slipped one arm around Dev.

"Come on."

"We should leave."

They began walking slowly toward the parking exit.

Every few steps...

Dev leaned slightly against her.

She pretended not to notice.

Halfway across the parking lot...

he stopped.

He turned.

Karan stood beside the police vehicle.

His wrists were cuffed.

Two constables guided him forward.

He struggled once.

Briefly.

Then lowered his head.

The vehicle door closed behind him.

Dev watched silently.

Only hours earlier...

he had watched Karan die.

He remembered every moment.

The rage.

The grief.

The blood.

The terrible certainty that he had become a murderer.

His chest tightened.

Without warning...

tears rolled quietly down his cheeks.

Bhumi looked at him.

With her uninjured hand...

she gently wiped them away.

"It's over."

she whispered.

Dev nodded slowly.

After a long silence...

he spoke.

"There was something..."

"I never told you."

Bhumi looked at him.

"Last night."

"Your phone."

She frowned.

"What about it?"

"There was a message."

"From an unknown number."

"'I'll kill you.' 'Count your days.'"

"I saw it."

"I deleted it."

"I never told you."

Bhumi stared at him for a few seconds.

Then...

despite everything...

she smiled.

"You should have told me earlier, hero."

"I'm a police officer."

Dev looked at her.

Then...

for the first time since the attack...

he laughed.

Weakly.

Painfully.

But genuinely.

"I know."

"I wasn't thinking."

"No."

She smiled again.

"You were worrying."

They resumed walking.

The parking lot grew quieter behind them.

Dev looked once at the blood still staining the floor.

Then at the dried blood upon his own hands.

Some of it belonged to him.

Some of it belonged to others.

He could no longer tell which was which.

A thought returned.

Quietly.

Without the Task Giver.

Without visions.

Without dreams.

Just...

a question.

If someone attacks Bhumi tomorrow...

Not Karan.

Not Rajan.

Someone else.

What would I become capable of doing?

Would I stop them...

...or would my rage stop them for me?

He looked at Bhumi walking beside him.

Alive.

Smiling.

Holding him upright.

Then...

almost instinctively...

he looked down at his wristwatch.

6:00 PM.