Chapter 5: Chains and Letters

Inside the PM’s residence…

The faint smell of incense lingered from the morning’s pooja in the marble foyer. The palatial estate on Lutyens’ Lane was ablaze with light, but inside, the air was thick with fear and sweat. Servants scurried down marble corridors, their sandals slapping in nervous haste.

Rajeev, face dark as thunder, handed a letter to the chief secretary and gave his instructions.

He paced the length of the room, brooding like a villain from a Mughal-era drama, each step echoing his frustration. The chief secretary, papers trembling in his hand, awaited the next storm.

“Send this immediately to the Commander of the Northern Frontier.”

The command crackled, final and cold. Rajeev’s lips pressed into a thin line, moustache quivering with suppressed rage. Outside, peacocks screamed in the garden, as if protesting the day’s injustice.

In the original novel, Ananya knew she would be used to threaten me, so as soon as she entered Delhi, she attempted suicide multiple times.

Each attempt left the household in shambles—doctors rushing in, aunts wailing, even Rajeev’s old mother lighting camphor in frantic pooja. But Ananya was determined, stubborn as a monsoon flood.

Of course, she never succeeded—otherwise, the novel couldn’t go on.

Fate always intervened—a servant’s cry, a rope that snapped, a vigilant guard. The melodrama never abated, as if the gods themselves wanted the story to continue.

Rajeev, afraid she might actually die, chained the heroine’s limbs to keep her from harming herself.

The sight was enough to make the staff weep in corners, whispering prayers for her release. In this land, to imprison a woman was to invite a curse on one’s own head.

Later, worried that a single government order wouldn’t be enough to make me return, he wanted Ananya to write a letter to persuade me.

Rajeev’s voice was soft, almost seductive, as he coaxed, threatened, and pleaded. But Ananya’s resolve was harder than steel.

Naturally, Ananya refused.

She pressed her palms together in namaste, refusing the pen, her eyes never leaving Rajeev’s. Her back was straight, eyes blazing, lips pressed together in silent defiance. Even the most seasoned politicians shrank from her glare.

Rajeev then arrested her best friend and personal maid, threatening, “If you don’t write the letter, I’ll ruin their lives.”

The maid, Fatima, sobbed, hands trembling. Ananya’s knuckles whitened, but she did not move.

The heroine would not give in easily.

She whispered prayers to Durga, asking for strength, refusing to betray the man she loved.

So Rajeev broke one of the maid’s fingers.

The sound of bone snapping echoed through the marble hall, silencing even the birds. Ananya’s scream was ragged, a sound that would haunt the corridors for days.

The heroine, a true saint, couldn’t bear to see this and finally agreed to write a letter as Rajeev demanded.

Tears streaked her face as she picked up the pen. The letter, however, held only her dignity and sorrow.

Of course, the letter contained only one word: Return.

Just a single, trembling word. Return. The ink smudged by her tears.

Clearly, the heroine was still reluctant.

Rajeev’s hand shook as he read it. He knew the game was not yet won. Even the chief secretary avoided his gaze, sensing the danger.

Rajeev dared not push further and had to send me this single-word letter.

In Delhi’s labyrinth, even the mighty PM was sometimes helpless before a woman’s will. The order was dispatched with trembling hands, the seal pressed down with extra force as if to compensate for his own doubt.

But what was truly written between the lines of that letter?