Chapter 2: The Call

Just as I finished my warm-up stretches, my old Hawkins pressure cooker whistling in the kitchen, my youngest cousin burst in, breathless: “Bhaiya Rohan, did you see the news? That Agarwal family heir tried a solo dive and is now missing—no one knows if he’s alive or dead.”

But the diving circles had already buzzed with it. My WhatsApp pinged non-stop: “Did you see?” “Same cave again!” “Bro, this guy never learns.”

Any diver from India’s smallest club knows this: Never go alone, always have a buddy. My first coach, Mr. Abraham, used to say, “Bacche, paani kisi ka nahi hota. Respect the water, only then it’ll let you go.”

But Arjun Agarwal wanted viral glory, ignoring every rule, and dove alone.

His Instagram was full of bravado—filters on, captions loud: ‘Solo records are meant to be broken. See you on the other side!’ For Arjun, life was a stage and every stunt a ticket to more followers.

The cave he picked—Kaveripur—was infamous. Only I had ever made it in and out alive.

Just the mention of Kaveripur Cave made seasoned divers uneasy. Its entrance hid behind the chaiwala’s stall, where the air always smelled of ginger and frying samosas, and a crumbling banyan tree loomed overhead. Locals whispered about the boy who’d disappeared there years ago.

Kaveripur was a beast—jagged, uneven, winding for seven kilometres, its deepest point at eighty-two metres. The further you went, the more it tested your nerve.

The darkness wasn’t just black—it pressed in, heavy as a secret. Even the bravest felt their hearts skip at that inky cold. During monsoon, you’d hear the cave’s strange watery song above ground.

Even with twelve years’ experience, I’d nearly lost my life there. My mother had tied a black thread around my wrist for nazar after my last close call—coconuts broken, camphor burnt, neighbours blessing me. Arjun, with his confidence and hashtags, had no clue what he was facing.

The whole internet watched his livestream. Five hours ago, he’d dropped his gear and gotten stuck.

YouTube was flooded—one second, he’s grinning, the next, his mask slips and the camera spins. Comments exploded: “Arjun bhai, kya kar diya!”

The Agarwals flew in divers from Mumbai, Bengaluru, even Dubai. No one could crack the cave’s twisted belly. One fainted, had to be dragged out on a safety line.

The family’s cries echoed at the cave’s mouth. Villagers gathered, hands folded in prayer as dusk crept in.

Mr. Agarwal called, voice trembling: “Rohan beta, please. Save my son—I’ll pay anything, fifty lakh, one crore, whatever you ask!”

I stayed calm. “If something goes wrong, sir, will I be blamed?”

He was silent, then sighed—the sound of hope dying. “Bas, Rohan. Please try once. You’re my only hope.”

I called Kunal, my old friend, and together we prepped: tanks checked, torches tested, lucky threads tied. The sun dipped low, and the cave mouth yawned like a warning nobody wanted to heed. Kunal whispered, “Bhai, we’re really going in for him again?”

A quick calculation—based on Arjun’s tank, he wouldn’t last the night. I scribbled a note for Amma: “Dua karo, I’ll come back safe.”

Every twist, every fork in that cave was in my bones. I avoided the trickiest routes, trusting my memory and the faint drip of water to guide me.

After two hours, my torch found Arjun—pale, wide-eyed, breath ragged. Even through the mask, I could see the terror in his eyes—the bravado stripped away, leaving just a scared boy far from home.