[42]VIEOD CALL
The winter night was sharp outside, but inside the old haveli the rooms were warm with thick blankets and the lingering scent of dinner’s ghee and elaichi.
Amisha stepped out of the bathroom, steam curling behind her like a soft ghost.
She had bathed slowly, letting the hot water ease the day’s aches (the slight back pain that had started in the afternoon, the swollen ankles, the constant heaviness of her four-month bump).
She wore the simplest clothes she owned:
a soft cream cotton night-kurti that fell to mid-thigh, long sleeves, nothing tight anywhere,
a light-pink cotton gagra tied loosely below the bump,
and over everything a thick, hand-knitted maroon shawl that Dadi had wrapped around her shoulders earlier saying,
“Raat ko thand lag jaati hai, meri bahu ko.”
Her hair was still damp, hanging loose down her back.
No jewellery except the mangalsutra and the little black thread Dadi had tied on her wrist for protection.
She glanced at the brass clock on the wall (11:51 p.m.).
Abhiraj must be free by now, she thought.
His flight had landed hours ago, and he always finished late meetings by 11.
He had promised a call, but she couldn’t wait any longer.
The bed felt too big, too cold, too empty.
She slipped her feet into fluffy slippers, wrapped the shawl tighter, and padded down the corridor to his home office (the one room that still smelled faintly of his cologne and the sandalwood incense he sometimes lit).
The office was dark except for the moonlight spilling through the big window.
She turned on only the small brass lamp on the desk, sat in his huge leather chair (it swallowed her whole), and opened the laptop.
Mihir had taught her this morning:
“Green button dabana, bhabhi. Bas. Bhaiya ka naam click, aur video call chala jayega.”
Her fingers trembled a little with excitement as she found his name and pressed call.
Ringing… ringing…
Then the screen lit up.
Abhiraj.
He was in his Jaipur office cabin, sitting in a high-backed chair, white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled high.
The city lights twinkled behind him through the glass wall.
He looked tired (dark circles, stubble heavier than usual), but the moment he saw her, his whole face softened.
“moti…”
His voice came through the speakers, low and warm, like he was right beside her.
Amisha’s heart did a little flip.
“Abhiraj… aap theek ho na? Khana khaya? Soe nahi the abhi tak?.
He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk, smiling that small, private smile he saved only for her.
“Khana khaya. Sandwich.
Aur soya nahi tha… tera wait kar raha tha.”
She pouted, pulling the shawl tighter.
“Jhooth. Aap toh kaam mein doobe rehte ho.”
He chuckled, the sound rumbling through the laptop.
“Ab kaam khatam. Bas tere aur baby ke liye free hoon.”
Amisha’s cheeks warmed.
She placed a hand on her bump, rubbing gently.
“Baby ne aaj bohot kick maari. Aapko sunna hai?”
Abhiraj’s eyes instantly dropped to her belly, hungry.
“Haan… dikhao.”
She adjusted the laptop angle, lifted her kurti just enough to show the curve, and pressed the phone she had ready against her skin.
Thump-thump-thump-thump…
Strong, fast, perfect.
Abhiraj’s face changed completely (every hard line melted, eyes went soft, lips parted like he was hearing music for the first time).
“Kitna zor se maar raha hai…” he whispered, voice thick.
Amisha giggled.
“Haan… bol raha hai, ‘Papa jaldi aao’.”
He swallowed, nodded once.
“Das din… bas das din.”
They talked for twenty minutes (little things, silly things).
She told him Dadi forced her to drink two glasses of badam-doodh.
He told her the hotel pillow smelled wrong and he missed her hair on his chest.
She teased him about looking like a tired uncle with the stubble.
He teased her that the shawl made her look like a little old lady.
Normal.
Loving.
Safe.
Amisha never noticed the tiny red flecks on the lower part of his white shirt (out of frame).
Never saw that his right hand (the one resting below the desk) was still curled loosely around the grip of a Glock, knuckles bruised, a faint smear of blood drying on the trigger guard.
Never knew that four men lay dead on the marble floor just three feet behind his chair (bound, gagged, executed minutes before her call came in).
She only saw her husband (tired, smiling, telling her he loved her more than air).
And he only saw his wife (glowing, safe, waiting for him at home).
The call ended with soft good-nights and promises of tomorrow.
Screen went black.
Abhiraj stared at the blank monitor for five full seconds.
Then he looked down.
At the gun in his hand.
At the blood on his shoes.
At the four bodies cooling on his office floor.
He exhaled slowly, set the gun on the desk, and wiped his hand on a handkerchief already soaked red.
Ten days.
Nine left.
He would clean this up, finish the rest, burn every bridge that needed burning.
And when he walked back into the haveli on the tenth morning, his hands would be clean again (at least on the outside).
Because some devils do their killing far away,
so their angels can sleep peacefully under moonlight and marigold garlands.
Then the mask slipped.
His face turned to stone again.
He reached for the internal line, pressed one button.
“Vikram.”
A voice answered instantly, low and professional.
“Ji, sir.”
“28th floor. Abhi.
Saaf kar do. Poora.
Koi nishaan nahi chahiye.”
“Ji, sir. Fifteen minutes.”
He hung up without another word.
Stood.
Picked up his charcoal suit jacket from the sofa (untouched by blood), slung it over one shoulder.
The Glock went into the concealed holster at his lower back.
One last look around the cabin (four bodies, blood drying dark on the marble, the metallic smell thick in the air).
He stepped over the nearest corpse without breaking stride, shoes leaving faint red prints that would be gone in minutes.
The private elevator opened the moment he pressed the button.
Down to the basement.
A black Mercedes S-Class waited, engine running, headlights off.
The driver (same man who had flown with him as “security”) opened the rear door without a word.
Abhiraj slid in.
Door shut.
The car pulled away smoothly, gliding through the empty late-night streets of Jaipur.
Streetlights flickered over his face in passing flashes (blank, calm, unreadable).
He leaned his head back against the leather, closed his eyes for the first time in twenty-four hours.
Fifteen minutes to the hotel.
Shower.
Change.
Sleep (maybe).
Tomorrow there were four more names on the list.
And every night, at exactly this time,
he would call his wife.
While the devil in the suit finished what he came here to do.
Ten days.
He would keep his promise.
And when he walked back into the haveli,
his hands would be clean,
his conscience quiet,
and his family safe forever.
The car turned into the hotel’s private entrance.
Another night survived.
Nine more to go.