Chapter 2: Meera Steps Out

A woman stood at the jail gate.

She had fair skin, delicate features—cheeks flushed pink, like the malai pedas sold at Chowk, eyes with the softness of a Lucknowi morning. The way she clutched her dupatta, her wrists slender, told me she wasn’t used to the roughness outside.

Even in plain salwar-kameez, her graceful curves were impossible to hide.

The white cotton clung to her in the winter breeze, the ends of her dupatta fluttering. Underneath the loose fit, her body seemed to shimmer with a kind of hidden energy. I could make out the gentle slope of her shoulders, the way her waist narrowed. My tongue flicked unconsciously at my lips.

I stared at her hungrily from behind the wheel, my eyes roaming up and down her body.

I noticed the tremor in her hands, the way she shifted her weight from foot to foot. My gaze lingered too long, but in the anonymity of the street, no one cared.

A cold wind swept by. The woman hunched her shoulders, shrinking like a frightened sparrow.

She pulled her dupatta tighter, almost as if she wished it could hide her from the world. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. A passing rickshaw splashed water from a pothole, making her flinch even further.

Before she got in, she glanced at the jail gate, then up at the sky, as if searching for a sign or a god to guide her. A surge of heat rushed through my lower belly. I didn’t hesitate any longer—I started the car and pulled up beside her.

The old Maruti rattled as I rolled down the window, pretending to adjust the rearview. The music system crackled with an old Kishore Kumar song. My palms were sweaty, but my expression remained calm.

Rolling down the window, I gave her my practiced smile.

I flashed the smile that had worked on so many others—soft, gentle, with just the right hint of empathy. Even my moustache seemed to perk up for the act.

"Hello, I’m a volunteer dedicated to helping former inmates settle back into society."

My Hindi was proper, my accent polished enough to inspire confidence. Sometimes, I mixed a few English words for effect: "rehabilitation volunteer", "social reintegration"—terms no one really questioned, but which sounded official.

"Is there anything I can help you with?"

I made my voice soft, pausing just enough to let her imagine safety in my presence.

I handed her a business card, my name printed in a red heart: Rohan, Social Welfare Volunteer.

The card looked new, glossy, printed with a mobile number and a fake NGO name. I made sure to hand it over with both hands, the way office people do, as if it was a passport to a better future.

She took the card. The wariness in her eyes eased.

She turned the card over, tracing my name with her thumb. She stole a glance at my face, as if searching for any sign of deception. Her shoulders loosened just a bit.

After a moment’s hesitation, she opened the door and got in.

She adjusted the seat, careful not to touch anything with her bare hands. The sound of her bangles clinking echoed in the cramped space. The car felt suddenly smaller, charged with possibility.

A scent of fresh detergent mixed with her own fragrance filled the car, making me restless.

It was a strange blend—cheap detergent, a faint trace of hospital soap, and underneath it, something floral, like jasmine. My pulse quickened. I could hear her nervous breathing, feel the warmth of her presence.

The fish had taken the bait.

As I pulled away from the jail, I caught a glimpse of her in the rearview mirror, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. I grinned, knowing the first step had worked—just as it always did.