Chapter 8: The Chessboard of Fate

Outside the Delhi gates, I gazed at the majestic city and let out a long breath.

The dust of the road clung to my boots, the smell of smoke and sweat filled the air. Before me, Delhi sprawled in all its chaotic glory—a city that had witnessed centuries of conquest and rebellion.

This time, it’s in the bag.

My lips curled into a quiet smile. The old tales said Delhi belonged to those who dared; today, the city would witness a new kind of courage.

For a commander rebelling, reaching this point is essentially declaring victory.

My soldiers were weary but determined, the horses restless, the drums silent but ready. This was not just a battle—it was a reckoning.

The vanguard I now lead numbers only three thousand, all cavalry—hardly suited for a siege.

We were outnumbered, but our resolve was sharp. My men adjusted their turbans, checked their rifles, eyes searching the skyline for any sign of Delhi’s defenders.

There are fifty thousand Guards in Delhi. Though they’re mostly pampered netas’ sons, I must remain cautious. If I were to stumble here, I’d be a laughingstock.

Delhi was not defended by lions, but by kittens in silk pajamas. Still, the city’s walls were high, and luck is a fickle ally.

All I need to do now is wait for the main force to arrive, then begin pressuring the PM.

I sent for chai, settled on a battered charpoy, and listened to the buzz of my men. They were restless, but their faith in me was a balm against the night’s uncertainty.

If this were the original plot, I’d enter Delhi alone and be thrown straight into lockup.

I could see it now: a solitary walk through empty corridors, the clang of iron bars, the shame of a leader brought low by his own trust.

Rajeev would then fabricate charges against me.

In Delhi, nothing was easier than framing a rival. Even the chaiwallahs knew how quickly a good man could become a scapegoat.

He’d torture me, trying to force a confession.

The old tricks: bamboo sticks, sleep deprivation, endless rounds of questioning. The PM’s men had learned well from the British, it seemed.

I, being upright and unyielding, would of course refuse.

In every Indian tale, the hero endures, never breaking under duress. I would be no different.

And then… because I wouldn’t confess, Rajeev actually couldn’t convict me…

Even in fiction, the law sometimes had a sense of irony. The audience would weep, the villains would gnash their teeth, but the hero’s resolve would remain unbroken.

Driven mad, Rajeev would come up with a brilliant idea.

The PM’s advisors, fat and lazy, would whisper schemes, but none could match the desperation of a man cornered.

He’d bring me Ananya’s dupatta, her handkerchief, and a lock of her hair, sending them into the lockup.

These tokens of love—fragrant with jasmine oil, the threads still warm from her touch—would break even the hardest heart. Rajeev knew the power of nostalgia.

In despair, I’d finally sign a confession.

The weight of loss would finally crush me. My signature, a final act of surrender, would be as much for Ananya as for myself.

At this point, the heroine would hear the news.

The walls of the PM’s residence were no match for a woman’s determination. Servants whispered, and the guards looked the other way, unable to resist her tears.

She’d bribe guards and orderlies, sneak out of the PM’s residence, break into the lockup, and meet with me—a tearful, heartfelt reunion.

If only the world were truly so forgiving. Still, Ananya’s footsteps would echo in the darkness, her voice a lifeline in my despair.

Honestly… I just want to ask: Girl, if you’re this capable, why not use these skills earlier?

But in fiction, timing is everything. Her courage arrives only at the eleventh hour, when all hope seems lost.

Anyway, after our meeting, the heroine would ask if the charges were true.

She would search my face for the truth, eyes shining with unshed tears. I would tell her, softly, the weight of my words heavier than chains.

I’d tell her the truth.

No lies, no evasion. Love demands honesty, even when it hurts.

Then she’d sneak back into the PM’s residence.

A shadow among shadows, her spirit unbroken. Even the harshest jailer would struggle to hold her captive.

I mean, how does she come and go from the PM’s residence so freely?

In India, nothing is impossible for a woman with a cause. Old aunties would say she had Devi Shakti on her side.

Meanwhile, Rajeev would be discussing my fate with the Home Minister and the Chief Justice.

The three of them, sitting on expensive sofas, sipping chai and plotting the next move, as if the fate of nations could be decided over biscuits.

The heroine would eavesdrop, then rush in at the perfect moment to expose the truth.

She would burst in, sari trailing, voice ringing out like a temple bell. All eyes would turn, the moment electric with possibility.

Basically, she’d say the Commander was innocent, and the charges were baseless.

Her words would cut through the lies, her conviction stronger than any evidence. Even the Home Minister would hesitate.

Amazingly, the Home Minister and Chief Justice would actually refuse to convict me due to lack of evidence.

For once, the law would side with justice. The crowd outside would cheer, the newspapers would praise her courage.

Cue a digression praising the heroine’s wisdom and courage.

Songs would be sung, poems written, the colony aunties gossiping about her bravery for weeks.

Rajeev would be so angry he’d tremble, face turning green, yet remain helpless.

His rage would shake the palace, but even a king cannot stop the tide of public opinion.

Then Rajeev would chain up the heroine.

A cruel move, meant to break her spirit. But Ananya, like the heroines of our epics, would not yield.

After that, he’d torture her in every way imaginable.

From solitary confinement to denial of food, every trick in the book was used. Yet, her faith did not waver. She clung to the memory of our love, a beacon in the darkness.

During this time, Rajeev would develop feelings for her.

The classic villain’s dilemma—love for the one he cannot control. His heart, once made of stone, would begin to crack.

To win her, Rajeev would use my life to threaten Ananya.

A twisted proposal: “Madam, you don’t want the Commander to keep suffering in lockup, do you?” His words dripped with venom and longing.

What could the heroine do? She could only agree, tears in her eyes.

Torn between love and sacrifice, her heart would break anew. Even the gods would weep for her fate.

Of course, she hadn’t completely forgotten me and kept begging Rajeev to spare my life.

She would plead with folded hands, eyes swollen from crying. But every time she did, Rajeev would only torment her more.

He thrived on her pain, his desire twisted into cruelty.

After much struggle, Rajeev was finally forced to let her visit me in lockup once on the fifteenth of each month.

A cruel mercy. The anticipation of each meeting was both hope and torture for us both.

Every time we met, the scene was heartwarming and moving—a perfect display of deep, sincere love.

Our hands clasped through the bars, whispered promises, tears mingling. Even the harshest guard would turn away, unable to bear the sight.

Rajeev’s heart burned with passion for her, but on the surface he remained cold as ice, torturing, gaslighting, mocking, and ridiculing her at every turn.

He would watch from the shadows, torn between love and hate, his own loneliness growing deeper with each encounter.

The heroine, meanwhile, always remained steadfast in love.

She would leave each visit stronger, her resolve shining in her eyes. Even in chains, her spirit was unbreakable.

“You can have my body, but you’ll never have my heart.”

Her words would echo in the halls, a challenge Rajeev could never overcome.

One is twisted and obsessive, the other loyal and unyielding. If this were any other story, it would end here.

But the author is anything but ordinary…

But in this world, loyalty was as fragile as a diya in the wind.