Chapter 3: The Rescue

His oxygen tank sputtered, the cave echoing every gasp. Panic twisted his face. I handed him a new tank, squeezing his shoulder. Into the wireless: “He’s alive. He’s breathing. Don’t lose hope.”

Above, faint cheers drifted down. Someone burst a firecracker. For a moment, hope cut through the darkness.

I started grinding at the rock pinning Arjun’s arm. Every whirr sent stone dust swirling. Kunal passed me tools, silent and steady. The tension was thick as the silt in the water.

Arjun’s lips were blue, fingers limp. “Hold on, Arjun, bas thoda aur,” I kept murmuring, as if the cave itself listened.

My oxygen was burning fast. Hands trembling, I cursed under my breath—quitting wasn’t an option. Not while a boy’s life was tied to mine.

After half an hour, the rock gave way. Arjun slumped, and I caught him. The silence in the water was a sigh.

But as I turned to leave, Arjun jerked away, stubborn as a Delhi traffic jam, refusing to let anyone block his road. He lunged deeper into the cave, chasing glory only he could see.

I signalled, desperate—pointed to my gauge, mimed running out of air. He refused to look at me.

He wriggled free, jaw set with that Delhi brand of pride. Even now, halfway to collapse, he wanted to finish for the camera, for the story.

I grabbed his harness, trying to drag him back. He thrashed—elbowed my ribs, almost tore off my mask. My torch spun away, plunging us into gloom. The cave walls pressed in.

Panic clawed at me. If we fought, we’d both be stuck, waiting for a rescue that might never come.

I signalled Kunal—let him think I’d given up. Then, in one desperate move, I knocked Arjun out from behind.

My heart hammered with guilt. But it was the only way—better unconscious than dead.

I tied him to my foot, remembering Amma’s black thread, the rituals for nazar. Every kick dragged his weight behind me, muscles burning, oxygen running low.

Two hours later, I was at my limit. With the last of my strength, I hauled him to the surface, collapsing on the muddy bank. Villagers rushed with chai; I barely tasted it.

Days passed in the hospital. Amma sat by my side, lighting an extra diya each morning, whispering prayers for my name to be cleared. Arjun recovered—his arm saved, his life intact. Mr. Agarwal brought sweets and the media, garlanding me as a hero.

But in India, saving a life doesn’t always mean saving your own.