Chapter 4: Out of the Shadows

For the first time in five years, I was taken out of the dark cell. The moment sunlight hit my eyes, I panicked like a street dog caught in traffic, screaming and trying to run. My legs felt like jelly, barely able to support my weight.

Arjun Singh grabbed me, dragging me into the bungalow—a sprawling, garish place with garlands of marigolds wilting on the gates and a faint smell of frying onions in the air.

On the spacious sofa, several women lounged about, heavily made up, bangles clinking as they adjusted their sarees and dupattas. Bollywood music blared from an old television in the corner. "Bhaiya Arjun..." They stood up to greet him. One even came up and kissed him, leaving a smear of red lipstick on his cheek.

Right in front of me, Arjun Singh kissed her back, lingering passionately, his hand on her back. The others giggled, sharing sly glances at me, as if I was some beggar who’d stumbled in from the street.

"Meera, take her upstairs for a bath. Clean her up," he said to the woman with the loudest eyeshadow.

Meera gave me a sidelong glance that could have cut glass. "Arre, chudail, chal na."

She and the other women spent the whole afternoon scrubbing filth and lice off my body. They scrubbed my arms with Lifebuoy soap, the harsh smell burning my nose, the water swirling red with old dirt. The water scalded my skin, but I didn’t protest. Hot water poured over my wasted frame. My ribs jutted out like the spokes of a broken umbrella; I looked like a dried-up corpse from some old Ramleela story.

Five years gone. The once beautiful, spirited policewoman Ritika Sharma had become a walking ghost, unrecognisable even to herself.

Meera combed my hair, her tone unexpectedly soft. "Don’t get any ideas. Bhaiya Arjun isn’t who he used to be. If you want to live another day, just behave. You think you’re special? You’re nothing here."

"Meera, you can leave." Arjun Singh appeared at the door, arms folded, his stare icy.

Meera shot me a warning look—one of those "samajh jao" looks only Indian women know—and left, swishing her saree behind her. Before leaving, she adjusted my dupatta, tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear—a silent gesture of solidarity that needed no words.

Arjun Singh stood behind me, looking at my reflection in the mirror. His long, slender fingers traced my temples, neck, collarbone, slipped into my kurta, and slid slowly downward. I flinched, my jaw tightening. I frowned, unable to hide my disgust any longer.

He stopped. Suddenly, he grabbed my hair, forcing my head up, his grip hard enough to make my scalp burn.

"Look at you now—who’d want to see you naked?" he spat, his words thick with scorn and something else I couldn’t name.

"Papa!" A little girl’s voice sounded at the door, clear and sweet.

Arjun Singh paused, letting go of my hair. "Papa, you finally brought Mummy out!" The little girl ran over, her black braids bouncing, gazing up at me, carefully studying my face. My hand instinctively twitched to reach for her, but trembled in midair. I searched her forehead for a bindi, desperate for a sign of connection. "Mummy is really pretty, just too skinny. Mummy needs to eat more."

I looked at her, my eyes growing misty. Her nose, her eyes, her tiny mouth—I searched for myself in every feature, my heart fluttering with hope and terror. Is this my child? Is she really my child?

"Anvi, tonight Papa will take you and Mummy out for paneer tikka, okay?" Arjun Singh said, softening his tone. For a second, he sounded almost normal—almost like the man I’d first met.

"Yay!" Anvi jumped and laughed, clapping her hands together. Her joy was infectious, lighting up the room for a moment.

I didn’t know how, in this den of devils, she’d grown up so innocent and lively. On the way to the restaurant, she pressed her nose against the car window, giggling at the street vendors, stray dogs, and old aunties arguing over the price of tomatoes. She begged for roadside gola, her tongue turning orange from the syrup, laughing at everything outside.

Arjun Singh spoke to her gently, none of his usual harshness in sight. Watching this father and daughter, my thoughts drifted back more than twenty years, to a world I’d thought I’d left behind.

That year, I was five.