Chapter 1: The Night Ananya Returned

When I worked as a local trekking guide, my cousin never missed a chance to tease me for being good-for-nothing.

He would lean back, grin like a filmi hero, and say, 'Arrey, yaar, duniya ki sabse badi cheez hai aurat. Aurat na ho toh zindagi ka kya maza?'

That night, the air was thick with the scent of raat ki rani, and the distant call of a train horn drifted up from the valley. The stars above Gulmohar Hill burned brighter than usual, and my cousin finally got what he always chased—slipping into a tent with four women, thinking himself a king.

The way he said those things, mischief dancing in his eyes, you’d think he was reciting some old Bollywood shayari, not making crude jokes. Sometimes I’d laugh, sometimes my face would burn—especially when Amma was in the smoky kitchen, stirring dal, her eyes sharp as a knife even when she pretended not to listen. That night, the bonfire threw restless shadows across the courtyard, the smell of damp earth mixing with agarbatti from someone’s puja corner. I couldn’t help but wonder: was my cousin right, or just hopelessly besharam?

1

After we dropped off the tourists, my cousin stomped back, furious. He kicked a plastic stool—one of those faded red ones from Lajpat Nagar—sending it skidding across our old colony’s courtyard.

'Bas, yaar! This time, the target was way too cautious. Three days, two nights—not even a single chance to make a move.'

She came prepared: satellite phone, taser, Swiss knife. She was capable—pitching tents, lighting campfires, handling first aid, all without help. Worst of all, she was always alert. Never shared food, kept her distance from cliffs and rivers, barely spoke, and slept with an infrared alarm clutched in her palm.

There were five of us—three tourists, me, and my cousin—but only one target. From start to finish, she was flawless, never letting us get even a finger close to force. We could only watch as she left, triumphant, while the two male tourists shot us looks full of disgust and anger.

The stool clattered so loud that Amma’s parrot squawked from its cage, and even Bhola Uncle, the chowkidar, glanced up from his cards under the neem tree. Amma, ladle mid-air, glared at the commotion and muttered, 'Hamesha nautanki.' My cousin’s frustration seeped into every brick of our house. 'Useless, all that planning,' he grumbled, spitting a mouthful of paan juice. The red stain splashed near Amma’s prized tulsi plant, making her click her tongue in annoyance. 'All this tamasha, and in the end, city people made fools of us!'

'We can set out in the afternoon, come over now.' My cousin slammed his phone shut.

'Who was that?' I asked, my mind still on the failed plan.

'It’s Director Nikhil’s group. They’re shifting to today.'

There shouldn’t be back-to-back groups like this. You need time—rest, resupply, figure out the new crowd. But we’d barely set foot back in the village before noon. My cousin, stung by defeat, was desperate for a fresh target.

I forced myself to think about what we needed—bread, glucose, Parle-G, matchbox—but all I could picture was that woman’s face.

What was her name again? Ananya. Yes, Ananya. Was she mocking us, walking away untouched, proving all our tricks useless? Gritting my teeth, I thought—if I got another chance, I wouldn’t let her win again.

I stared at my mobile’s shopping list, my hand trembling as if the mountain cold had followed me home. Her face kept flashing in my mind: sharp jawline, no-nonsense ponytail, lips pressed tight like she was holding back a storm. 'Ananya,' I whispered, the name tasting bitter. Even when Amma yelled, 'Beta, thoda doodh le aa, chai ke liye!' I was lost in shame and anger, burning from the inside.

'Guide bhaiya.'

I turned. Ananya stood at the gate.

My heart thudded. She stood there, sunlight catching the dust around her, making her seem almost golden. The old iron gate creaked, and all the colony kids stopped their gully cricket, gaping at her boldness. An aunty peeked through her window grill, while the kids whispered, 'Kaun hai yeh didi?' Ananya didn’t smile or fidget—she just crossed her arms, waiting like she owned the place, ready to flip my world upside down.