Chapter 2: Five Years of Darkness

Five years ago, Arjun Singh beat me black and blue, took away the lifeless child I had brought into this world, and vanished from my life as though I never existed.

Day after day, night after endless night, I was locked away in darkness—four rough walls, a rusty latch, and a plastic bucket that stank of old urine. Sometimes, the silence pressed so hard on my ears that even my own breath sounded alien. When loneliness gnawed at me so much that my heart started to ache, I’d catch a fat Bombay cockroach scurrying by and talk to it for hours. Sometimes, I’d even name him Chintu, pretend he was my little brother pestering me for Parle-G biscuits, just to keep madness at bay.

It’s a miracle I didn’t lose my mind in these five years, but I came close, so many times. I’d catch myself humming childhood jingles—"Nirma, washing powder Nirma"—remembering Amma folding laundry, singing along, the jingle echoing through our old chawl. Just to hear a voice, even if it was my own.

But my body grew weaker, more fragile than the monsoon-wilted hibiscus outside some window I could barely remember. Years without sunlight, damp air biting into my lungs, spoilt food that tasted of nothing—every inch of me ached, joints creaking with every movement like my grandmother’s did after a fast.

The little girl was the first living soul to speak to me in five years. Her voice was soft, almost musical, with that lilt only a Mumbai child could have. She said—

"Mummy, Papa is drunk. He’s crying, crying and saying he misses you."

I didn’t understand. Why did she call me Mummy? Who was her Papa? I wanted to answer her, but my throat felt like it was filled with cotton. I opened my mouth, but after so long in silence, my voice was lost somewhere in the pit of my stomach.

Panicking, I started coughing violently. Each cough sent shooting pains through my chest, and before I knew it, a mouthful of blood splattered onto the girl’s white frock—bright red, so out of place against all the grey.

Frightened, she ran away. Her little feet made a tapping sound on the concrete that seemed to echo long after she was gone.

It’s over. I’ve caused trouble again. My heart thudded with dread. Sometimes, when those men were in a bad mood or if their cricket match hadn’t gone well, they’d barge in and thrash me for no reason. All because five years ago, I had given information to the police that cost them dearly.

Many died, their secret hideout was destroyed, and their boss—Arjun Singh—had to flee abroad with me and a handful of trusted men. Later, they found out I was an undercover cop. From then on, I was a thorn in their side—always there, a reminder of everything they’d lost.

They called me a traitor, a snake. But I never betrayed my beliefs. How was I a traitor? I remembered the words my father had once told me: "Beta, sometimes standing up for the truth makes you the villain in someone else’s story."

Arjun Singh tried every kind of torture on me—starvation, isolation, threats. I folded my hands and begged him to kill me, to end the endless cycle. He said he would keep my worthless life. As long as I was alive, Rajeev would come looking for me.

Rajeev—my husband. He’s a police officer, my teammate. And Arjun Singh’s most wanted target. Somewhere, I believed, Rajeev must still be searching for me, burning a lamp in every temple he passed, whispering my name in his prayers.