[15]VISIT TO PROPERTY
Next day,at evening...
The haveli’s courtyard baked under the late afternoon sun, the red sandstone walls glowing like embers.
Inside Abhiraj’s office, the air was cool, heavy with the scent of old teak, ink, and the faint musk of his cologne.
Three monitors glowed with blueprints—vast stretches of land, irrigation lines, a proposed community hall under the Shekhawat crest.
He leaned back, chair creaking, black shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled to the elbow, Rolex glinting as he signed off on a final email.
He stood, stretched, vertebrae popping, shirt riding high to reveal the hard planes of his abs, the deep shadow of his navel catching the lamplight.
A quick glance in the mirror—hair slightly tousled, jaw sharp, eyes dark with purpose.
He grabbed his sunglasses, slid them into his pocket, and strode out, boots silent on the marble.
Dadi sat on the divan, fanning herself with a peacock-feather pankha, her silver bangles clinking softly.
The air carried the sweet tang of jaggery from the kitchen, mingling with the faint rosewater on her shawl
.
“Kahan ja rahe ho abhiraj?” Her voice was sharp, playful, cutting through the hum of ceiling fans.
Abhiraj paused at the threshold, sunlight spilling over his shoulders.
“Nai zameen dekhne. Khet ka survey.”
Dadi’s eyes narrowed, then sparkled with mischief.
“Akela? Amisha ko bhi le ja. Ghum legi thodi. Itne din baad aye ho,sath me samay bita lena.”
Before he could protest, she cupped her hands and called toward the kitchen, voice booming despite her age.
“Amisha! Beta, Abhiraj ke saath bahar jaana hai!”
A clatter of steel echoed from the kitchen—utensils hitting the counter, a startled gasp.
“Naa… nahi… haan, jaana hai!”
Amisha’s voice was flustered, tripping over itself.
She appeared in the doorway, a vision of chaos and innocence.
A simple cotton saree clung to her, damp from kitchen steam, a streak of flour dusting her left cheek like a misplaced tilak.
Her pallu was slipping off slightly by one shoulder, braid half-undone, strands curling wildly around her face.
She clutched a steel dabba, eyes wide, lips parted in a nervous smile.
“Rukiye zara, kapde change karke aati hoon!”
Abhiraj’s lips twitched, but he only nodded, already moving toward the courtyard.
The heat shimmered off the gravel, the air thick with dust and the sweet bloom of madhumalti creepers climbing the haveli walls.
Five black Scorpios idled in a precise arc, engines purring low, their polished surfaces reflecting the sky’s deepening gold.
Security men in plain kurtas stood at attention, earpieces glinting, eyes scanning the horizon.
Abhiraj leaned against the lead car, one foot crossed over the other, arms folded, sunglasses now shielding his eyes.
The white kurta from the temple was gone; he was all sharp edges now—black shirt, charcoal trousers, the faint scent of sandalwood soap lingering from his shower.
He looked like a king waiting for his queen, impatient but indulgent.
Then—
chhan-chhan… chhan-chhan…
Silver payals on stone, soft as a heartbeat.
He looked up.
His breath caught, hard.
Amisha stepped into the sunlight.
White chikankari kurta, delicate threadwork catching the light like frost, flowing over a soft cotton sharara that swished with every step.
A sheer dupatta draped loosely over one shoulder, fluttering in the breeze.
Her hair was in a thick, glossy braid, swinging down to her waist, tied with a simple white parandi.
No jewelry but tiny silver jhumkas that danced when she moved, and a thin black thread around her wrist.
Her face was bare of makeup, lips naturally pink, kohl smudged faintly from the morning, cheeks flushed from the kitchen’s heat.
Simple.
Devastating.
Why does this woman look like a dream in every damn thing she wears?
His chest tightened.
Flour-dusted in the kitchen, lavender poshak at the temple, now this—effortless, radiant, his.
She didn’t even try, and she undid him.
She climbed into the back seat, sharara pooling like milk around her.
He slid in beside her, door shutting with a soft thud.
The convoy rolled out, tires crunching gravel, dust swirling in their wake.
The cars slowed at the end of a dusty track, where the village gave way to endless fields.
The new property stretched before them—hundreds of acres of golden wheat stubble, dotted with neem trees, their leaves shivering in the evening breeze.
The air was alive with the scent of dry earth, marigolds, and the faint musk of grazing goats.
A narrow canal glinted in the distance, reflecting the sky’s fiery orange.
Abhiraj stepped out, boots sinking into the soft soil.
He leaned into the car, speaking to the rearview mirror, voice low, firm.
“Yahan se bahar mat jaana. Car mein hi rehna. Samjhi?”
Amisha nodded absently, already distracted, her nose pressed to the tinted glass.
Her eyes sparkled at something beyond.
He straightened, adjusted his sunglasses, and strode off, flanked by two security men in kurtas, their earpieces catching the fading light.
The other guards fanned out, forming a loose perimeter.
Amisha’s fingers fidgeted with the edge of her dupatta.
Through the window, she spotted them—
a dozen baby goats, white and brown, scampering through the stubble, their tiny bells tinkling like wind chimes.
One nibbled at a marigold bush, another chased its own tail in circles.
Her face lit up like a child’s on Holi.
Bakriya
His warning?
Gone.
She pushed the door open, sharara swishing, bare feet hitting the warm earth.
The driver startled,
“Bhabhi ji—”
But she was already running, giggling, braid bouncing, dupatta slipping off her shoulder and trailing behind like a comet’s tail.
“Aaja… aaja, chhoti!”
She darted through the field, chasing a particularly bold goat with a black patch on its nose.
Her laughter rang out, bright and free, mingling with the goats’ bleats.
She spun, arms wide, sharara flaring, white cotton catching the sunset like a sail.
A goat nibbled her dupatta; she squealed, knelt, stroked its soft ears, her jhumkas glinting as she cooed.
The world was golden, and she was its center.
Three men lounged in the shade, kurtas faded and dusty, paan-stained teeth flashing as they chewed.
They’d been watching the Scorpios roll in, curious about the city cars in their forgotten corner of the village.
Now their eyes locked on her.
The first, lean and wiry, spat red paan juice into the dirt.
“Yeh kaun panchi aa gaya hamare khet mein?”
His voice was low, oily, eyes raking over her spinning form.
The second, heavier, cracked his knuckles, gold chain glinting against
his sweaty chest.
“Bina permission ke aaya hai… saja toh milni chahiye panchi ko.”
The third, youngest, smirked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Dekho, kitni gori hai. Haveli ki rani lagti hai.”
They stood, slow, deliberate, like jackals scenting prey.
Twenty feet away, the guards were focused on Abhiraj, their backs turned.
The men started walking, boots scuffing dust, eyes never leaving Amisha as she laughed, oblivious, chasing a goat in circles.
Fifteen feet.
Her dupatta snagged on a thorn bush, slipped entirely, pooling in the dirt.
She didn’t notice, too busy scooping a goat into her arms, kissing its fuzzy head.
Ten feet.
The air turned heavy, thick with something dark, predatory.
The sunset bled red across the sky, and the goats’ bells seemed to fade.
Amisha knelt in the stubble, white sharara glowing, braid swinging,
completely unaware of the shadows closing in.
The sun hung low, bleeding orange across the stubble.
Amisha knelt, giggling, white sharara dusted with earth, a baby goat nuzzling her palm.
Her dupatta lay forgotten in the dirt, snagged on a thorn bush a few feet away.
She noticed it, crawled forward on her knees, fingers reaching.
The fabric was soft, embroidered, still warm from her body.
She tugged—
rip—a small tear, but she clutched it to her chest.
Then she looked up.
Three men stood five feet away.
Shadows stretched long behind them, faces half-lit, half-dark.
The lean one spat paan, red staining his teeth.
The heavy one’s gold chain glinted as he shifted.
The youngest licked his lips.
“Arre, memsaab… itni door akeli?”
The lean one’s voice dripped like oil.
“Haveli ki rani lagti ho. Aaj toh maza aayega.”
Amisha froze.
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
She yanked her wrist free when the youngest lunged, his fingers brushing her skin like a slap.
“Chhodunga nahi tujhe!”
he snarled.
She bolted.
Sharara bunched in her fists, braid whipping, payals chiming like alarms.
Behind her, boots pounded.
“Bhag mat, rani!”
“Pakdo ise!”
She ran.
Past the marigolds, past the canal, past the goats scattering in panic.
The cars—where were the cars?
She’d chased the goats too far, too deep.
The Scorpios were gone, swallowed by the fields.
Her lungs burned.
She ducked behind a neem tree, bark rough against her back, hand clamped over her mouth to muffle the sobs.
Tears stung, but she didn’t dare cry.
Through the leaves, she saw them—
twenty feet away, scanning, laughing, calling her name like a taunt.
They moved left.
She ran right.
The dupatta snagged again—hard—on a low branch.
She pulled, frantic.
Rip.
Half the fabric tore away, fluttering like a white flag.
She left it.
Ran.
The sun dipped lower, painting the sky blood-red.
The fields stretched endless.
No Abhiraj.
No guards.
No cars.
Her legs screamed.
Her throat was raw.
Then—
a small mud house, half-hidden by a banyan tree.
A flicker of hope.
She stumbled toward it.
A hand clamped her wrist like iron.
The youngest.
“Pakad li!”
She screamed—
but another hand slapped over her mouth, dragging her backward.
The lean one laughed, breath sour with paan.
“Chup, rani. Ab maza aayega.”
They hauled her inside.
The door slammed.
A rusty bolt slid home.
The room was dim, smelling of damp earth and stale liquor.
A single charpai, a cracked mirror, a clay stove cold and empty.
They shoved her to the floor.
She scrambled back, sharara tearing at the knee, braid unraveling.
The heavy one pulled a plastic bottle from his pocket—cheap desi daru.
“Pehle pee lete hain. Phir iska number aayega.”
They laughed, unscrewing the cap, passing it around.
The stench of alcohol filled the air.
Amisha crawled to the tiny window, fingers clawing at the wooden frame.
Outside, the sky was nearly dark.
She pressed her face to the gap, voice cracking.
“Koi hai?! Madad! Abhiraj!”
Her scream was swallowed by the fields.
No answer.
Only the low murmur of the men, the clink of the bottle, the creak of the charpai as one sat.
She was alone.
Trapped.
And the night was coming.
The bulb had died minutes ago, leaving only slivers of dying twilight leaking through the cracked window.
The air inside was suffocating: damp mud, sour liquor, the metallic tang of fear.
Amisha crouched beneath the window, sharara torn to her knees, braid unraveling like a frayed rope.
Her left jhumka was gone; the remaining one dangled, cold against her neck.
Her dupatta lay clutched in her white-knuckled fist, the torn half fluttering like a surrender flag.
The men had stepped outside moments earlier.
“Paani laate hain… phir maze lenge,”
the lean one had sneered, slamming the door.
The bolt had scraped shut.
She dragged herself up, palms scraping the rough mud wall, and pressed her mouth to the tiny window slit.
“Koi hai?! Madad karo! Abhiraj!”
Her voice cracked, hoarse from screaming, barely carrying past the banyan outside.
Then:
Footsteps.
Not three.
Many.
Boots crunching gravel, urgent, purposeful.
She froze, heart slamming against her ribs.
Through the cracked mirror propped against the wall, she caught a glimpse:
Three men outside, heads bowed, hands raised in pleading.
Facing a towering figure in black, coat flaring like dark wings.
Abhiraj.
His back was to her, but she knew the set of his shoulders, the lethal stillness.
The lean one’s voice trembled.
“Nahi sahab, hamne toh kisi ladki ko nahi dekha… kasam se!”
Her blood roared.
Liars.
She screamed louder, pounding the door with both fists.
“ABHIRAJ! YAHAN HOON MAIN!”
The mirror reflected his head snapping toward the sound.
Even from here, she saw it:
his face twisting,
eyes black with rage,
jaw clenched so hard the muscle jumped.
He roared:
“PAKDO IN TEENO KO!”
Four security men surged forward, pinning the three against the banyan.
One tried to bolt; a fist to the gut dropped him.
Abhiraj moved.
Three strides.
Boot against the door.
CRASH.
Wood splintered inward.
Amisha stumbled back, hands clutched to her chest like armor.
He filled the doorway:
black coat, torn sleeve, dust on his boots,
eyes wild, scanning,
finding her.
She ran.
Three steps.
Crashed into him.
Arms around his waist, face buried in his shirt,
sobbing so hard her whole body shook.
He caught her:
one arm crushing her to his chest,
the other cradling her head, fingers tangling in her ruined braid.
“Shh… calm down. You’re safe now. Mere neeche ho tum.”
His voice was raw, trembling with barely-leashed fury, but for her: calm, steady, safe.
She couldn’t stop.
Tears soaked his shirt, her fingers clawing at his back like she’d vanish if she let go.
“Woh… woh log…”
A broken whisper.
He shrugged off his long coat in one motion, wrapped it around her shaking shoulders.
The fabric swallowed her: warm, smelling of sandalwood, gun oil, him.
It covered the torn sharara, the bruises blooming on her wrist, the terror in her eyes.
His thumb brushed her cheek, smearing dirt and tears.
“Koi kuch nahi karega. Main hoon na.”
Outside, the three men were on their knees, guards’ guns at their temples.
Inside, the only sound was her ragged breathing and his heartbeat:
thud-thud-thud,
steady,
alive,
hers.
He lifted her chin, eyes burning into hers.
“Ghar chalen?”
She nodded, still clutching his shirt,
and let him carry her out into the night:
safe,
shattered,
his.
The sky had bled into deep indigo, the last sliver of sun swallowed by the horizon.
Dust still hung in the air, lit by the Scorpios’ headlights cutting through the dark.
Abhiraj carried her.
One arm under her knees, the other cradling her back, coat wrapped tight around her like a cocoon.
Her torn sharara fluttered against his trousers; her ruined braid spilled over his forearm, silver jhumka glinting faintly.
Her head lolled against his chest, cheek pressed to the damp cotton of his shirt, lips parted in exhausted sleep.
She’d cried herself out.
The sobs had faded into hiccups, then silence, then the slow, even rhythm of breath.
Now she was limp, small, safe.
Her fingers still clutched a fistful of his shirt, knuckles white even in sleep.
He walked.
Boots crunching gravel, coat flapping in the evening wind.
Security men flanked him, silent, guns lowered but ready.
The three men were already gone—bound, gagged, loaded into the last Scorpio.
The lead car waited, door open, interior light glowing soft gold.
He didn’t stop.
Didn’t speak.
Just ducked inside, settling into the back seat with her still in his arms, her weight nothing against his.
The door shut with a soft thud.
The convoy rolled forward.
Amisha didn’t stir.
Her lashes cast shadows on her cheeks, tear tracks dried into faint salt lines.
One small foot, bare and dusty, peeked from under the coat.
Her breathing was deep, trusting, finally at peace.
Abhiraj stared down at her.
Thumb brushing the bruise on her wrist,
jaw clenched so hard it ached.
His heartbeat slowed to match hers:
thud… thud… thud…
The car hummed along the dirt track.
Headlights carved tunnels through the dark.
Outside, the village slept.
Inside, the only sound was her soft exhale against his neck.
He pressed his lips to her temple, barely a touch.
“Ghar,” he whispered into her hair.
“Bas ghar.”
And then:
blank.