Chapter 3: New Life, Old Tricks

On the drive, through casual conversation, I learnt her name: Meera. Twenty-four years old.

Her voice was soft, almost musical, with a faint Lucknowi lilt. She answered my questions with simple words, avoiding eye contact, her gaze fixed on the changing scenery outside.

She’d served five years for acting as a guarantor for someone.

She spoke hesitantly: "Bas, kisi ko bharosa dikhaya tha... woh sab galat ho gaya." Her eyes clouded as she recounted how she’d signed papers for a neighbour and ended up in jail when he vanished. Such is fate, I thought, and feigned sympathy.

I sneered inwardly—just as I thought. Women this attractive are usually in for fraud or as someone’s scapegoat.

I almost wanted to laugh—beauty and bad luck, what a combination. In my mind, I imagined all the stories I’d heard before: a husband’s loan, a friend’s betrayal, a lover’s crime. It was always the pretty ones who paid the price.

After her release, her parents cut ties. Friends and relatives kept their distance.

She stared at her hands, voice trembling: "Ab to ghar bhi laut nahi sakti. Maa-baap... rishtedaar sab ne muh mod liya." I nodded, making the right noises of concern, but inside I was already planning.

Years in jail had left her disconnected, lost, and helpless.

She watched the busy streets with wide-eyed wonder—children chasing a kite, a fruit vendor haggling with an old woman. It was as if she was seeing everything for the first time. I could sense her longing for warmth, for any form of connection.

I was the only one showing her any kindness—her only lifeline.

In a city where everyone keeps to themselves, my offer must have seemed like a miracle. She looked at me with a flicker of hope, and I basked in the power it gave me.

That’s why she’d gotten in my car so easily.

I glanced at her, noting the way she hugged her dupatta. Trust like this was rare. It made my job easier.

Women like her—treat them a little better, and they’re yours for the taking.

A word of praise, a gentle touch, and the gratitude spills out. I’d seen it happen again and again—the way loneliness softens even the hardest hearts.

Meera was the fourth woman I’d picked up this way, and by far the most beautiful.

I had to admit—even my heart thudded a little harder at her presence. Compared to the others, she glowed, her beauty undimmed by the years inside.

Just imagining her in bed made my skin crawl with anticipation, every nerve itching.

My mind wandered, picturing her shy glances, her slender arms, her hair spread out on a pillow. I bit the inside of my cheek, struggling to control my excitement.

Meera didn’t say much. When I cracked a joke, she covered her mouth and smiled, her large, bright eyes full of a kind of innocence, as if untouched by the world.

The laugh was small, uncertain, as if she’d forgotten how. She reminded me of a sparrow, always alert, ready to fly at the first sign of danger.

I parked at a restaurant and bought her dinner—simple South Indian thali, the two of us spending less than a thousand rupees.

The TV in the corner blared a Bhojpuri song, and a waiter wiped his hands on his lungi, eyeing us with open curiosity. The thali came with crisp dosas, sambar steaming, and two glasses of chilled Rooh Afza. It was more than enough.

Meera ate slowly, carefully. Even when food fell on the table, she picked it up and ate it.

She chewed each bite slowly, as if memorizing the taste, her eyes darting to the door every time someone entered. She murmured, "Jail mein khana to bas zinda rehne ke liye hota hai. Yeh to bilkul alag hai." She picked up a stray grain of rice and popped it into her mouth, smiling with embarrassment.

I lit a cigarette and watched her, smiling.

The smoke curled lazily above our heads, mixing with the aroma of curry. My eyes never left her face as she ate—watching, studying, planning.

Almost every former inmate’s first meal outside is like this.

I’d seen it before: the way they savour each bite, looking around nervously, as if expecting someone to snatch the food away.

After jail, they know how precious life is on the outside.

To her, even the sticky formica table and the blaring TV in the corner must have felt like luxury. She glanced at the neon menu on the wall with childish delight.

That’s why, even if I use force, they never think to call the police.

They’re too used to being powerless, too afraid of more trouble. I took another drag, blowing smoke towards the kitchen.

After dinner, night had fallen.

The street outside buzzed with auto horns and distant wedding drums. A few children played cricket under a streetlight. Meera shivered, clutching her thin shawl.

I invited Meera to stay at my place for the night, promising to help her get used to society the next day.

I made my voice gentle, almost paternal: "Kal subah se nayi zindagi shuru karenge. Mere paas ruk jao, sab thik ho jayega." I saw the hope light up in her eyes.

She agreed.

She gave a tiny nod, trusting me with everything she had left. I reached for my car keys, feeling triumphant.