Chapter 5: The Scene of Yamraj’s Court

When we reached, yahan toh asli narak tha—like a scene from Yamraj’s own court.

Flies were thick as monsoon clouds. The smell of burnt ghee from the neighbour’s kitchen mixed with the metallic tang of blood, making everyone’s pet ka haal kharab. A strange chup in the air, jaise bhoot bhi dar gaye ho. Every kadam left a nishaan in blood and dust.

Victim Anjali lay nangi on her back on the bed, haath-pair tied to the bedposts, lips parted, ek gehra zakhm across her throat.

Her red bindi still clung to her forehead, like a chuppi hui protest. Her mangalsutra was snapped, motiyan bikhar gaye on the floor. You could almost hear her last saans echoing.

That wound was like an open nal, draining her body dry.

Anjali used to be healthy, like hibiscus leaves in the khet—lush, strong, not afraid of dhoop or hawa.

She was the kind to break her back lifting grain sacks, still laugh at the end of din. Mazboot haath, aawaaz always loud, kabhi kaam se peechhe nahi hati.

Now, she was ek size chhoti, like ganne ke ras nikalne ke baad—pale, broken. Only her lips, thickly painted with lipstick, stayed shocking red, as if whispering some raaz the duniya would never know.

That lipstick, a bright city red, looked almost defiant on her village-worn face—a splash of colour in a world of mitti and paseena. You just couldn’t look away.