Chapter 7 Ministry of Manipulation
In politics, loyalty is just betrayal with better timing.
- Vritant Vardhan
Udaipur shimmered below like a kingdom in a snow globe - quiet, beautiful, deceptive.
Vritant Vardhan stood by the arched jharokha window of the haveli, a silhouette in a black shirt, sleeves rolled just above his forearms. A silver lighter danced between his fingers - click, pause, flick, repeat. It wasn't habit. It was war preparation in disguise.
He didn't need flames. He needed clarity.
Behind him, the door clicked open.
"Rawat?" he asked, without turning.
"Yes, sir." The voice was crisp, but cautious. No footsteps dared too close. Not with Vritant in this state - calm, cold, and thinking.
"No change in her behaviour?" he asked, gaze still fixed on the dying light of Udaipur.
"She's quiet," Rawat said. "Didn't call anyone. No attempt to leave. Just... sits with the letter. Cries sometimes. Like she's trying to solve a puzzle that doesn't fit."
Vritant's jaw tensed.
"She still thinks she's the daughter," he muttered. "Not the debt."
He turned slowly, eyes sharp. He didn't speak like a man angry - he spoke like a man studying the battlefield before lighting the fuse.
"She doesn't know what her father traded to mine. She thinks she's here to honour a promise. She doesn't know she's the bargain."
He could have used that - steered her with the truth she wanted, said just enough to make her follow. But something in him refused.
Rawat hesitated before showing his phone. "The letter... Her mother had written it. Chose you for her. She's been clinging to that part."
Vritant looked at the screen but didn't take it. He didn't need to read it again.
He didn't need written proof that women in this world were always handing him burdens wrapped as blessings.
"She's not stupid," he said finally, "just... blindfolded by the people she trusted."
A beat passed. His voice dropped, quiet but firm.
Rawat hesitated. "And if she finds out?"
Vritant didn't look up. A pause.
"She'll trust the version her mother left behind... more than anything I say. Least of all from someone like me."
Rawat glanced at the untouched black coffee on the table.
"Do you trust her?" he asked.
"Adhrita?"
Rawat nodded.
"No," Vritant said plainly. "But I don't distrust her either. I just don't know what she'll do when she finds out the truth."
"And what if she walks away?"
He turned back to the window. The lakes below shimmered like liquid mirrors. Behind them - legacies. Beneath them - lies.
"She can walk," he said, quietly. "But I'll make sure she knows who put the floor beneath her feet."
The door creaked again - not cautious this time. Not like Rawat. This one opened with authority, as if the house bowed before her presence.
Vedashree Vardhan stepped in.
Saree crisp. Eyes unreadable. The kind of silence that made even the wind rethink its direction.
Vritant didn't move.
"I see Rawat still updates you before me," she said, glancing at the paused phone screen still in his hand. "How very democratic."
Vritant finally turned, expression blank - except for the flicker in his jaw.
"And you still enter rooms without knocking," he replied. "How very imperial."
Their eyes met.
No warmth. No masks. Just two blades measuring edge and intention.
Without a word, Vritant flicked his fingers once - a silent, practiced gesture.
Rawat understood. He didn't bow. He didn't question. He simply turned and left, closing the door behind him with the kind of quiet reserved for graveyards and war rooms.
Vedashree walked further in, her heels clicking against the marble like gavel strikes. "Is she still here?"
Vritant didn't answer immediately. His gaze flicked to the side - not out of hesitation, but calculation.
"She hasn't run," he said finally. "Yet."
Vedashree raised a brow, just enough to register. "Still expecting sense from someone raised on sentiment?"
He gave a soft exhale - almost a scoff. "I don't need to trust her. I only need to honour the promise made to her father."
She walked past him, picked up the untouched coffee, and took a sip without asking. "You sound like your father when you say things like that."
"That's unfair," he said, voice cool. "Papa doesn't waste breath stating the obvious."
Vedashree's eyes cut to him - sharp, precise. "Neither do I."
A moment stretched. Just the sound of a lighter's soft click and the weight of years between them.
Then she said, "She'll find out eventually. You can't protect her from everything."
He looked at her - really looked. "I'm not protecting her," he said. "I'm protecting what's left of her choice."
Vedashree didn't blink. "There's no such thing as choice in our world. Only consequences dressed as decisions."
"And you dressed mine in the tricolor," he said quietly. "Hand-stitched, ironed, and televised."
Vedashree took another sip. "You're still alive."
He smiled - but it didn't reach his eyes. "Some would call that your biggest failure."
She didn't flinch. "That depends on how you end."
Their silences said more than their words. In this family, language was a chessboard. And love - an outdated opening move.
Vedashree finally placed the cup down, perfectly aligned with the saucer. "Don't get too attached to her."
"She's not yours to warn me about," Vritant said.
"No," Vedashree replied. "But neither is she yours to save."
She turned to leave.
Before she reached the door, he spoke - voice low, final.
"Tell me, PM Sahiba. When she does leave... will you be relieved or disappointed?"
Vedashree paused, hand on the doorknob. "I'll be neither," she said. "But I'll be prepared."
And then - she left.
Leaving the room colder.
Leaving Vritant exactly where he'd always been - between loyalty and a loaded silence.
Then, Vritant gave a sharp two-note whistle.
From the corridor, padded paws approached. Karma - his silent shadow - trotted in.
Vritant crouched, fingers moving under the hound's collar. He unhooked the tiny recorder clipped there earlier - just a test. A precaution. He wasn't looking for secrets - only silence that made too much noise.
He walked over, plugged it into his laptop.
A few clicks. The file opened.
And then - nothing at first. Just soft ambient noise.
Then came a sound.
Her breath. Broken. Uneven.
Not words. Just the quiet ache of someone trying not to cry - and failing.
A sob, stifled under fabric.
A sniffle she didn't want anyone to hear.
Then Saanvi's voice - distant, annoyed, floating in from another room.
"Adhrita? Are you seriously not ready yet?"
"Everyone's asking for you downstairs."
"This is my sangeet, not just for the photos - for me."
"I left your lehenga on the bed," she continued.
"I'll be downstairs, okay? Come when you're ready."
The recorder caught a final sound - the click of a door closing gently.
And then: nothing.
A faint rustle, then a creak of the mattress.
Another pause - and then her voice, fragile but trying.
"Dogesh bhai," she whispered, her tone laced with a sad smile. "I wish Mumma were here to make it all less complicated."
Vritant froze.
The recording crackled softly - the sound of Karma letting out a breath.
And then, almost as if on cue, Karma - the real one lying at Vritant's feet - tilted his head at the name, ears perking up in confusion.
"Dogesh bhai?" Vritant muttered, glancing down. Karma blinked at him as if to say, I don't name myself.
"That's... aggressively Gujarati.," he added dryly, rubbing the hound's ear once.
Back in the recording, Adhrita's voice came again - soft, confessional.
"You like listening, don't you?" she murmured. "Not judging. Not answering. Just... being."
There was a quiet rustle, and then a fragile, accidental laugh. The kind grief allows when it forgets itself for a second.
"Don't tell anyone, okay?" she said. "But you're my favourite Vardhan."
Click.
The recording ended.
Vritant sat still. One hand resting on Karma's neck, the other still on the mouse.
"Traitor," he whispered, barely audible.
Not to Karma. Not to Adhrita.
Maybe to himself.
Karma simply nudged closer, head on his knee.
And Vritant - for once - let him stay there.
He reached up, unplugged the recorder. Didn't play it again. Didn't send Karma again.
He crouched, stroked the hound's head once.
"Enough," he said softly. "That's all I needed."
Karma rested beside him, still as marble.
??? V ? A ???
The music echoed off heritage walls that had seen centuries bow before them.
Lights danced across the courtyard of the Adani haveli - not loud, not blinding. Just enough to turn tradition into spectacle.
Everyone was here. Ministers, industrialists, film stars, foreign diplomats in silk and confusion. Smiles were staged, conversations curated, and not a single photo left the premises without Aaradhya Vardhan's seal.
No one dared post a thing. Even influence had a curfew when the Vardhans were involved.
Vritant Vardhan stepped in - black kurta, collar stiff, sleeves folded neatly at the forearms. Understated. Unbothered. Unapologetically late.
A dance performance was already underway - Aryan and Saanvi, the stars of the night. She twirled with ease; he matched her with charm rehearsed from birth. Applause burst around them like clockwork.
He scanned the crowd with deliberate calm.
Vedashree stood at the far end, flanked by political loyalists pretending to be guests.
His father was near the stage, smiling that camera-friendly smile.
Hansal Malhotra held a glass of something sharp and sweet.
Even Aaradhya was coordinating things mid-applause, earpiece in, ruling like a queen without a crown.
But Adhrita wasn't there.
And neither was her absence subtle.
He looked to the far end of the courtyard where Karma sat - obedient, alert, and most importantly, away from Vedashree's line of sight.
The hound didn't move. Just blinked once - like he knew what Vritant was thinking.
Through quiet corridors that smelled of sandalwood and stories, he walked. Past faded portraits and fresh flowers. Past rooms filled with noise that wasn't hers.
Until he reached her door.
It was ajar.
He paused - not out of hesitation, but reverence. Like he didn't want to disturb something delicate.
Inside, she sat at the dressing table.
The lehenga draped over her looked heavier than her body could carry.
Traditional Gujarati - red, gold, green - as if someone had tried to pour an entire culture into thread. Her long hair was undone, falling over her shoulders like she hadn't decided what to do with it yet.
Her brown eyes scanned the jewellery tray, pausing, uncertain.
She held the two jhumkas up, side by side. One was all pearls, the other had a blood-red stone dangling like punctuation. Her fingers paused midair.
And then - She felt it.
A shift. A presence. Not loud, not intrusive - just there. Like the air had suddenly remembered its own weight.
She didn't turn. Just tilted her head slightly and looked into the mirror.
He was already looking at her.
Leaning against the doorframe. All black kurta, no expression. She blinked once - startled but composed - and the jhumka slipped from her fingers, landing with a metallic gasp on the dresser.
He didn't speak. Just walked in.
Deliberate steps. Slow, steady. Like he wasn't sure if this was a conversation or a confrontation.
Then he sat - right across from her - at the vanity table.
His eyes flicked to the mess of jewelry scattered on the vanity. Then to her dress. Then back.
Without asking, he picked up a jhumka - not the ones she'd been weighing - but a third. Silver. Minimal. With green enamel that caught just enough light to echo the border of her dupatta.
He held it out.
She stared at it. Then at him.
"No red?" she asked, half a whisper.
He shrugged, setting it gently beside her hand. "Too loud for someone trying to disappear."
She didn't smile. Just... softened. In the kind of silence that knew how to thank without saying it.
She picked up the jhumkas and clasped them on - one, then the other. The faint clink echoed between them like a punctuation mark.
Then her fingers moved - slow, thoughtful - toward the tiny tray of nose pins. She chose one. Subtle. Silver. Pressed it against her nose with quiet precision.
And then came the next dilemma - the bindis.
Rows of colour. All so small, yet suddenly so loud.
She hovered over them, undecided.
Then looked up.
At him.
Not a word. Just a glance.
His answer was just one word, low and certain:
"Black."
Her fingers obeyed.
She picked the smallest black dot. Pressed it gently to her forehead.
Vritant watched, arms folded, but didn't speak.
A beat passed.
Then - casually, almost like a reminder he didn't really want to give -
"Five minutes," he said, rising from the vanity stool. "Otherwise Saanvi will come with a dhol."
Her eyes flicked up to meet his - caught between a sigh and a smile.
He didn't wait for either. Just walked out.
??? V ? A ???
Vritant stood at the edge of it all, a glass of whiskey in hand - untouched, more accessory than indulgence.
Beside him, Aryan laughed, raising his glass as one of his actor friends broke into a wildly choreographed garba-meets-Bollywood performance on stage. The crowd roared.
"God, I needed this," Aryan grinned. "Just friends, bad dancing, no press, no paparazzi - for once, just fun."
Vritant's eyes followed the stage lazily, then drifted across the garden - scanning.
Adhrita wasn't there.
And neither was Karma, who had been silently curled in a corner earlier, away from Vedashree's line of sight. Both absences were noted, filed, and locked behind his expressionless face.
He took a slow sip - didn't swallow.
Beside him, Aryan clapped off-beat, wholly invested in the chaos onstage. His grin, his laughter - all of it unfiltered joy.
"You ever dance, V?" Aryan asked, elbow nudging playfully. "Like... actually dance? Not Vardhan-style surveillance with rhythm."
Vritant didn't turn. Just smirked faintly.
"Only when I need to distract someone."
"Romantic or political?"
"Same thing," he replied, voice bone-dry.
Aryan laughed again - a loud, real sound that didn't belong to this family's way of surviving.
Then -
A hush in his mind. A pull.
There.
A flicker of crimson and green from the corridor that led to the private wing.
She stepped out - framed in fairy lights like an unintentional metaphor.
Her lehenga wasn't grand by Vardhan standards, but it carried history in its folds. Traditional Gujarati - deep red, subtle green, hints of gold. No attempt to modernize it. It didn't need help. It belonged.
Her eyes scanned the crowd once - didn't land on him. She adjusted the dupatta near her shoulder, and as she walked, the silver jhumkas he'd chosen shimmered with each step.
Then she saw him.
Only a flicker in her gaze gave it away - no smile, no gesture. Just a subtle flick of the eyes to the glass in his hand.
Whiskey.
For a second, her lips parted - perhaps to shake her head, to say something across the crowd with just her eyes.
But she didn't. She just turned her face toward the stage, composed as ever.
She's learning, he thought. Faster than expected.
Just then, Shweta Malhotra waved at him from a group by the fountain - manicured and radiant, surrounded by producers and page-3 stylists.
He gave the glass away without a second glance, handing it off to a passing waiter like he'd never meant to drink it.
"You're such a Vardhan," Aryan muttered behind him. "Every gesture rehearsed like a cabinet draft."
Vritant smiled, but didn't turn.
And then - a voice.
"She's looking like a proper Gujarati girl, no?" Shweta said, beaming as she leaned toward Neeta Adani.
Neeta smiled softly. "She is her mother's daughter, after all. Hardcore Gujarati. Right down to emotional restraint and extra mirch in everything."
Vritant's steps slowed - just for a second - as he passed them.
Hardcore Gujarati.
Dogesh bhai.
Sobs into Karma's fur.
Nicknames, noserings, nervous silences.
He kept walking. Posture calm. Expression unreadable.
But inside - something shifted.
A few minutes after the crowd roared for another toast, Vritant slipped out the back entrance of the haveli - a narrow corridor flanked by sandstone pillars and memories older than any of them.
He spotted him - Ashwin Adani, standing near the jharokha balcony overlooking the lake. A glass in hand. The Chief Minister looked like a king off-duty. But Vritant knew better. No one in this world was ever off-duty.
He didn't call out - just met his eyes and tilted his chin, a silent instruction to follow.
Ashwin obeyed.
They stood under the arches, away from the noise and the lights. Here, where secrets could breathe.
Ashwin raised the bottle slightly. "Wanna drink?"
Vritant didn't take the glass.
Instead, his voice cut clean through the silence. "Thanks... for helping my father."
Ashwin's brow lifted. "So he told you."
"Yeah. You helped him locate the terrorist group."
"I did what I could," Ashwin replied, quietly.
Vritant nodded, but his eyes didn't soften. "Still. Thank you."
Ashwin took a slow sip. "No need to thank me," he said, his voice lined with something unreadable. "I already took what I needed from your family."
Vritant's jaw tensed.
"CM's chair," Ashwin continued, his gaze now steady. "And protection. For my daughter. That's all I asked for."
A beat.
"You could've told her that," Vritant said. "That it was a deal. That her safety came at a price. But instead... you gave her a lie. Why fake the letter?"
There was a pause.
Then Ashwin's fingers tightened just slightly around the bottle.
"How do you know?" he asked, a flicker of unease slipping into his voice. Not fear - not yet. But something close.
??Vritant didn't answer directly. He stepped forward, slow and controlled.
"You became a politician in your thirties," he said, voice quiet but thick with something ancient. "I was born into it."
Ashwin blinked.
He stepped closer.
"I was taught to smile at people I don't trust," Vritant said quietly, but his words cut. "To love a nation that broke me - not once, but twice. I cremated my brother before I even understood what loss meant. Before I could mourn as a child, I had to become the man who held the pyre steady."
He looked away, jaw tightening.
"I've stood next to my mother while the flames still burned and then rewritten her speech for Parliament like grief was just another edit."
His gaze snapped back to Ashwin - sharp, unblinking.
"You think you've played the game, Mr. Adani?"
His voice dropped.
A pause.
"It's my mother tongue."
Ashwin looked away for a second - just one - and Vritant caught it.
"I know the scent of political theatre. The fake concern. The softer tones before the stab. And that letter - that entire performance - reeked of design."
Ashwin said nothing.
"She wouldn't have come otherwise," he admitted at last. "Not unless she thought... it was her mother's wish."
Vritant let out a slow breath - something almost like a laugh, but colder.
"So you weaponised her grief."
"I protected her."
"No," Vritant said. "You controlled her."
Ashwin's face hardened. "She's not like us. She doesn't understand how brutal this world is."
"No," Vritant corrected, voice softening. "She does. She just hasn't let it rot her yet."
Ashwin exhaled. "I didn't write it."
"But you handed it to her," Vritant replied. "That's worse."
There was silence.
Then Ashwin murmured, almost breaking, "She read it... and she looked at me with her mother's eyes. That softness. That... hope. And I couldn't say it. I couldn't tell her it was a lie."
He swallowed.
"I've never been a good father," Ashwin said after a pause. "But I've always been a desperate one."
Vritant's jaw shifted - just slightly. A flicker of something passed through his eyes, but it didn't stay long enough to be named.
"She was never supposed to stay," Ashwin whispered. "Just long enough for me to know she was safe. Long enough for you to bring her where my reach couldn't."
He looked up, finally meeting Vritant's eyes.
"I don't trust the world I live in," he said. "But I trusted you."
A pause. Then softer: "And your family. I knew your mother wouldn't let anything happen to her. Not after... what happened with Vedant."
The silence turned sharp. Ashwin noticed. Vritant didn't blink.
"You stood by us when it counted," Vritant said. "I owe you that much."
He took a step closer, calm, cold.
"But don't confuse gratitude with forgiveness."
Ashwin let out a breath - the kind men exhale when they've accepted being the villain in someone else's story.
Vritant turned to leave. Then, with his hand on the door, he paused - not for drama, just deliberate pause.
He didn't glance back as he said, "Gratitude's fragile. So is my patience. Walk carefully."
He walked out before the silence could respond - leaving behind only the weight of what wasn't said.
Truth was danced around. Lies were dressed in sherwanis. And Vritant - as always - clapped at the right moment.
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