Chapter 2: Striking Back

Once again, I opened my eyes, the echoes of the azaan mixing with a rooster’s crow outside—life in Rajpur, indifferent as ever to my fate.

The death-call came again, familiar words in a room that was suddenly colder.

"The CM has returned victorious. Even if you’re unwell, you must force yourself to enter the bungalow and offer congratulations," Uncle Dev said. But this time, his voice felt tired, the lie heavy in the air.

My throat still burned, a dull ache from the last time that rope bit in.

I wouldn’t wait for death again. My heart pounded, the old survival instinct flaring up. Quietly, I slid my hand under the pillow, feeling for the knife—its handle smooth, my palm already slick with sweat.

"Uncle Dev, there’s something I’d like to ask you," I forced out, trying to sound casual, my smile shaky as I wiped my brow.

He leaned closer, his scent a mix of sandalwood, mothballs, and the faint must of old government files.

I moved quick—looped my arm around his neck, drew the knife, and stabbed wildly at his chest. My heartbeat hammered in my ears, each second stretched thin as kite string.

He fought back, surprising me with his strength—his rough hands twisted my wrist, and before I knew it, he had the knife. I felt the blade drive into my side. The pain was white-hot, blooming outwards.

A memory flickered—CM’s voice, mocking: “Arjun, you should eat more ghee, lift some weights!”

If only I’d taken wrestling classes with the akhara boys. Maybe then...

My body went cold, vision blurring. But I refused to fade quietly. This time, I needed answers.

"Why does Didi want to kill me?" I hissed, each word scraped from the pit of my lungs.

"Arjun... you’re too young, too powerful. How could Didi tolerate you? Why not marry a daughter of the Sharma family and become one of them?" Uncle Dev’s eyes filled with a pain that almost made me pity him.

A daughter of the Sharma family? The words rang in my head, sharp as temple bells.

Ritika. Her face, her laughter, memories of forbidden Holis and monsoon nights—all blurred but alive.

But hadn’t she married Amit? Was that wound really so old?

Could I survive if I reconciled with her? A desperate hope flickered, thin as the flame of a diya.

I wanted to ask more, but Uncle Dev’s hand shook as he stabbed me again, tears in his eyes.

And this time, everything went dark, final and absolute.

Outside, the city kept moving—rickshaws rattling, vendors shouting, as if nothing had happened.