Chapter 5: The Price of Loyalty

I turned. It was my father.

He looked older, hunched, blood-spattered but upright. His eyes were wild, desperate, searching my face for some sign of understanding or forgiveness.

There were still bloodstains on him, but none of it was his own.

The stains looked dark, almost black against his pale kurta. I realized he’d carried more than just the weight of the dead that night—he was carrying something broken deep inside, too.

Dad looked at me seriously. “Your sister brought fortune to our family. Thanks to her, we’ve latched onto the big tree that is the Sharma family.”

His voice was flat, rehearsed—like he was reciting a lesson. He stared at the Sharma bungalow, pride and sorrow fighting in his eyes. “Now we’ll never be poor again. We are connected to the people who matter.”

Before the crackdown on the coal mafia, the mining business was always soaked in blood and violence, but it was also full of opportunity.

Everyone in the mohalla knew the stories—the rise and fall of coal barons, the midnight disappearances, the whispers about who had paid which inspector how much. It was a world where power was measured in guns, money, and who you could trust to stab you last.

Either you’re smashed to pieces, or you soar in one leap.

It was always said in hushed tones: "Yahaan ya toh mitti mein mil jaoge, ya ek din Raja ban jaoge." My father had chosen to play the game, no matter the price.

My sister was the sacrifice my father offered to the Sharma family.

The words felt like a curse, heavy and cold. My sister’s life had become a bargaining chip, and my father’s hands were forever stained—no matter how hard he scrubbed them at the public tap.

He worked for the Sharmas and took all the blame.

It was understood, though no one said it aloud. In return for our loss, the Sharmas stayed untouched, and my father became the shield for their sins, a footnote in their rise to power.