Chapter 7: The Price of Hope

My thoughts drifted back from the distant past. Rajeev was no longer by my side. The ache in my chest was sharper than ever.

Arjun Singh’s car was still moving, the scenery outside growing ever more desolate. The Mumbai skyline had given way to broken walls, empty factories, and the sharp smell of burning garbage. This didn’t look like a place to eat paneer tikka.

Finally, the car stopped in front of an abandoned factory. Rusted gates creaked as Arjun Singh’s men pushed them open.

Arjun Singh had his men watch Anvi and brought me inside. The air was thick with dust and old secrets.

"Before dinner, there’s a little job to do," he said. "The police caught my cousin. I agreed to a hostage exchange—use you to get him back."

He turned on his walkie-talkie and ordered, "Snipers in position. As soon as the exchange ends, when the police take Ritika, open fire. Leave none alive."

He yanked my hair. "Tell me, will the one coming to make the exchange be Rajeev? The Rajeev you’re always thinking of?"

I laughed, a bitter sound. You’d better hope it’s not him. He’ll make you pay.

My smile infuriated him. His face twisted with rage. "You damned traitor!"

Strange. How am I a traitor? I never betrayed my beliefs. The word stung, but I let it pass.

Twenty minutes later, the walkie-talkie crackled: "Bhaiya Arjun, they’re here!"

Arjun Singh and his men loaded their guns, their eyes darting with nervous energy.

The factory door opened. Three people walked in. The one in the middle I recognised—Arjun Singh’s cousin, Vikram. The other two, I stared at, but didn’t recognise. Judging by their bearing, they were probably my former colleagues—plainclothes, eyes sharp, posture tense.

Arjun Singh narrowed his eyes. "Where’s Rajeev? Why didn’t he come?"

"Arjun Singh! We brought the person you wanted. Let’s exchange hostages," the plainclothes officer said, his accent pure Mumbai police.

"I said Rajeev has to come in person! Are you messing with me?"

Arjun Singh shouted, raising his pistol and chambering a round. The tension was suffocating, the air crackling with danger.

"Arjun... Arjun Singh."

For the first time in five years, I spoke. My voice sounded strange, rusty.

"Let... let Vikram go. Let those two officers leave."

He glanced at me coldly. "Why?"

"I’m not leaving. I’ll go with you."

He ignored me. I slowly folded my hands and begged, "Don’t let me go. I want you. I want Anvi. The three of us, let’s run away together, okay?" My hands shook, but my eyes stayed dry. I was acting now, playing the part I had to play. If I faltered now, Anvi’s life would be the price.

His stony face softened a little. He finally lowered his eyes and set the gun down. "Let Vikram go. The two officers, get out!"

On the way back, Arjun Singh’s face was dark and silent, like the night before a storm.

Anvi was quiet too, playing obediently with her toy—a plastic gun she pointed at the ceiling, making little "dhishoom-dhishoom" sounds.

Back at the bungalow, Arjun Singh said, "Meera, take Anvi upstairs!"

Meera came and led Anvi away, her face unreadable.

Arjun Singh turned and slapped me. The sting was sharp, the humiliation sharper.

"You want to be Anvi’s mother? You’re not worthy!" He grabbed my neck. "If Rajeev doesn’t show, I’ll kill you sooner or later, you monster!"

I just smiled, blood from my nose flowing into my mouth, staining my teeth red. I must have looked like a demon, a rakshasi from some old story.

Arjun Singh let go, and I collapsed to the floor. They sent me back to the storeroom.

Familiar darkness, familiar dampness, familiar silence. Somehow, I felt a little safer there. At least here, no one could see me fall apart.

I curled up in the corner, dazed. After five years in confinement, I’d learned to pass the days and nights in a stupor.

In that haze, memories would rise—overlapping, twisting, tearing apart before my eyes. Rajeev, Arjun Singh, my father and mother, my foster parents—they all appeared, so vivid I couldn’t tell dream from reality. Sometimes, I’d talk to them, sometimes just listen, as the memories washed over me like the high tide at Juhu Beach.

Clang, clang.

The iron door clanged again. It wasn’t mealtime. Who was it?

A torchlight beam swept in. Behind the glare, I saw a woman’s graceful silhouette, the swish of her dupatta the only sound in the darkness.

It was Meera.

"Ritika, come here."

She beckoned me to the bars. Her face was tense, but her eyes were softer than before.

She slipped a plastic bag into my hand. "These are painkillers. Maybe they’ll help a little. Don’t ask how I got them. Just... take care."

I didn’t understand why she was suddenly being kind. Maybe even in hell, women still look out for each other.

Before she left, I asked her to leave the torch. She nodded, pressing it into my palm. Before she turned away, she gently adjusted my dupatta again—a silent gesture only another woman would understand.

I took a photo from under my pillow and, by the torch’s glow, looked at the person in the picture. The only photo he left me. Handsome in his police uniform, bright eyes, a sunny smile.

Rajeev bhai, it’s been so long since I last saw you. Are you still searching for me, or have you moved on? Sometimes, I whisper your name, hoping it will reach you through the cracks in these walls.

But in the darkness, with only Rajeev’s photo for company, hope was the most dangerous thing of all.

My thoughts drifted back, once more, to five years ago.