Chapter 3: Night Walks and Old Fears

I giggled drunkenly as I staggered out the front doors of Mehfil Bar.

My lipstick was smudged, hair wild, and for once, I didn’t care if anyone stared. Mehfil’s neon sign blinked behind me, glowing like a beacon on a lonely road.

Wanyaa, the owner’s daughter and a good friend of mine, called after me with concern: "Ananya, be careful on your way home!"

She sounded like every elder sister in every mohalla, voice full of worry, already picturing my mother scolding her if anything happened.

I waved back at her.

"Arrey, don’t worry! I’m not so fragile, yaar!" I stumbled a little, then burst out laughing at myself, thinking how Bollywood heroines always get home safe—except I wasn’t sure I would. Still, I kept walking, chin up.

It was nearly midnight, the sky pitch-black, and the streets were empty.

Only the distant bark of a dog and the hum of a lone auto interrupted the silence. Even the air smelt different at this hour—cooler, with a whiff of frying pakoras from a late-night stall.

Luckily, I’d walked this road hundreds, if not thousands, of times—I could get home with my eyes closed.

As I passed the closed paan shop, a memory flashed—hiding there as a child to avoid tuition, clutching my schoolbag and grinning at my own mischief. Some habits die hard; tonight’s bravado felt like the same old game, only the stakes had changed.

Each crack on the pavement was as familiar as the lines on my palm. I whistled a tune from an old Kishore Kumar song, my footsteps unsteady but confident.

With the alcohol burning in my veins, my courage soared, and I swaggered home alone, completely fearless.

Somewhere, my mother’s voice echoed in my head: "Good girls don’t roam the streets at night." I ignored her as easily as I ignored old wounds.

Nothing happened along the way.

No ghosts, no gundas, just the soft chirp of crickets and my own giggles. Even the city seemed to be holding its breath, as if watching me and waiting for the punchline.

When I saw my familiar gate, I fished around in my bag for the key, leaned against the door, and was about to insert it—when the door suddenly swung open and I tumbled inside.

I landed flat on my back, seeing stars.

For a second, I just lay there, stunned, the taste of cheap whisky on my tongue. The cold floor sobered me faster than any lecture.

Dizzy, I grabbed the door to pull myself up. When my vision finally cleared—

I found myself facing more than a dozen swords, all pointed straight at me, cold light glinting off the blades.

The blades caught the yellow light, casting thin lines across the walls. Each sword looked heavier than my entire past.

The swordsmen were all dressed in black, each one clearly a master.

Their faces were hard, eyes even harder, like the ex-commando types you hear about in family gossip. They didn’t move an inch.

Worse still, behind them, a man in a black shawl slowly turned at the noise.

The way he turned, it was almost cinematic—like every villain’s entry in a Bollywood movie. My heart skipped a beat.

The moment I saw his face, my drunkenness vanished.

That familiar jawline, those eyes that had seen too much—Arjun, my past and present nightmare.

Arjun looked at me, grinned, and his voice was cold as death, like a ghost rising from the ghat.

"Long time no see, didi."

I swear, for a second, the fan above stopped spinning. Only his words filled the room, thick as smoke.

My legs turned to jelly. I instinctively stepped back—

But fate, that old trickster, had other plans.

And a large hand caught me from behind.

It was warm, but I felt a chill straight to my bones. The grip was gentle but iron-strong, leaving no space to wriggle away.

A chill shot through me. Trembling, I turned to look.

My mouth dried, and all the bravado I had left evaporated like water on a hot tava.

It was my former fiancé, Kunal, the one I had once humiliated and who now held great power in government.

He looked at me as if weighing up an old debt, the kind people whisper about after weddings, when the lights are low and secrets come out.

Standing next to him was the heroine, Priya, whose reputation I had ruined.

Priya was dressed in a kurta and jeans, no longer the delicate flower she once was. With a heavy duffel bag slung across her back, she looked bold and imposing.

She looked like she’d walked through fire and come out steel. No more meek smiles, just the determination of someone who had rebuilt herself from scratch.

She stared at me, teeth clenched, her voice cold and full of hatred.

The kind of hate that seeps in slowly, like turmeric stains—deep, lasting, impossible to wash off.

"Ananya, you really are something."

Her words rang in my ears, echoing the ones I’d once thrown at her. This time, there was no laughter, only the memory of old wounds.

Each of them looked at me with eyes so fierce and complicated, it was as if they wanted to finish me off right there, tear me limb from limb.

Their gazes pressed on my skin, heavier than any blanket in winter. My mind searched for escape, but even my shadow seemed trapped.

Arrey yaar.

I’m finished.

Why didn’t I just stay in bed with a cup of chai tonight?