Chapter 29 Choreography of Violence
In the language of politics, survival is the only grammar.
- Vedashree Vardhan
Vedashree sat at the head of the long table in her office, the weight of the nation pressing down through the silence. Ministers and senior police officials waited, papers in hand, eyes lowered.
"Cause of the riot?" she asked, her voice even, almost clinical.
The Police Commissioner cleared his throat. "Student protest hijacked, Madam. Opposition-backed factions clashed with pro-government groups. A peaceful march turned violent. Infiltrators escalated it into arson and bloodshed."
Another minister spoke quickly, almost too eagerly. "Opposition has taken full blame. They've made it clear they will not align with the central government. A direct statement against Rashtradhara Party."
"He will be in jail by the end of the day," the Prime Minister said flatly.
A nervous voice rose from the far end. "But, Madam-"
"Listen to what PM Madam said," Sudarshan cut in sharply. "Clear the roads. Deliver a clean report with precise numbers as soon as possible."
Vedashree leaned back, her gaze sweeping over the room. "And you are going to leave the mob."
The words dropped like a stone in water.
Silence followed-stunned, uneasy. For twenty-four hours the state had been burning.
Media screens were filled with flames, the opposition was screaming incompetence, and the people were howling for justice.
And now, the Prime Minister was saying to release the arrested mob?
Vedashree took the file, flipped through the numbers, and paused at the final tally. Slowly, she uncapped her pen, wrote +1 at the bottom, then snapped the file shut and tossed it to the far end of the table.
"Special Force didn't reach the riot sites within the ten-minute response frame," she said, each word deliberate.
"News of the unrest was flashing by four.
By five, no one in this room claims to have known anything.
Strange, isn't it? I was on my way to leave the country, and in that one hour, a peaceful protest was transformed into a riot-with military precision.
" Her pen tapped twice against the table before she threw it aside.
A minister hesitated. "But, Madam... what about the press release?"
Vedashree's eyes flicked to Sudarshan. "Draft one. The Opposition takes the blame. For the victims, announce relief funds from the CM Protection Fund."
CM Mishra shifted uneasily. "But, Madam, collateral damage always happens in such situations-"
Her head snapped toward him, voice edged with venomous calm. "You're right, Mishraji. Thank you for correcting me." She turned back to Sudarshan. "Add another line. our chief minister is resigning, blaming himself for the failure. After all, collateral damage always happens."
The room fell silent, her words hanging heavier than the smoke still rising from the streets.
??? V ? A ???
Vritant stood by the tall window of his private office, gaze drifting to the garden below.
Adhrita sat cross-legged near the pond, Karma circling her in playful bursts.
She leaned forward, snapping pictures of the swans she had insisted on bringing home that morning.
Karma barked at her, indignant, and she laughed.
"Attention seeker," Vritant muttered under his breath, the edge of a smile tugging at his lips before he turned it into a sigh, scattering a few pigeons from the sill.
She was in a casual outfit-western, simple. No saree, no dupatta. For a fleeting second, the absence struck him more than the sight itself. She began feeding Karma, and with that quiet picture lingering in his mind, Vritant turned back to the desk.
He slipped on his Bluetooth earpiece. A private conference was already underway-PM and her ministers dissecting the riots. Their voices filled his ear as he lowered himself into the leather chair, pen in hand.
Scripted Flames? he scrawled across the page.
Routes rerouted?
Cause of Riots?
Student protest hijacked. Opposition-backed factions clashed with pro-government groups. Peaceful march turned violent. Infiltrators escalated into arson and bloodshed.
He wrote it all down, every word.
When the meeting ended, he slipped the earpiece out and set it aside. Silence pressed in, but not for long. He made a few calls, noted details, cross-checked them against his own sources.
He switched on the television. The news anchors were already parroting numbers-calm, clipped, rehearsed. A script dressed as truth.
Vritant's jaw tightened. The same lies he had just heard in the Prime Minister's meeting, now gift-wrapped for the public.
Per usual, the government had fed the nation numbers that fit the narrative, not the truth.
He glanced down at his own list again. His numbers bled heavier, rawer. They didn't save anyone; they condemned everyone.
For a moment, he let the TV drone on in the background, the polished voices sounding more like lullabies sung over a burning house.
A sudden wave of heat flushed through him. Sweat prickled his skin. Not again, he muttered under his breath. I spent the whole night like this.
He stumbled to the desk, yanked open a drawer, and retrieved a small bottle of pills. He swallowed two quickly, before the dizziness could take him under. Slowly, his pulse began to steady.
Then-ping.
The sound cut through the silence. A secure notification. That meant only one thing: something important.
He unlocked it.
His throat went dry. "So... that was the reason you married me," he whispered, the words bitter on his tongue.
Without hesitation, he dialed a number.
"When is Ashwin Adani reaching Delhi?"
"He's already arrived," came the reply. "Meeting with your father right now. He'll see your mother in two hours."
Vritant ended the call without another word.
He dialed another number, voice dry with irony.
"Rawat, PM sahiba is releasing the attackers. Roll out the red carpet, will you? Make sure they feel right at home."
He walked to his brother's photo frame and lifted it off the wall. Turning it over, he opened the back and pulled out a bracelet-the one etched with the initials VV.
Carefully, he set the frame back in place, adjusting the wire that ran discreetly to a small recorder.
"Thank you for keeping everything for me, Echo," he murmured, fingertips brushing the glass over his brother's face. His voice dropped lower, almost breaking. "I saw you in flames... and now I've seen her near flames. If something happens to her, Echo, I won't make it through."
He stepped away, sat at his desk, and reached for his phone. Searching quickly, he found the number he wanted: Dr. Radhika Mehta.
The line clicked.
"I need an appointment," he said flatly as soon as she answered.
"So finally you're ready to talk?" she asked.
"No," he cut her off. "I need an appointment for my wife."
Her tone sharpened. "What happened to her?"
"She's smiling and laughing like nothing happened."
"That doesn't sound like a problem, Vritant. Maybe the riots didn't affect her."
He let out a humorless chuckle. "Of course. My wife survives being strangled with her own dupatta, stabs a man in the neck, and comes home giggling with the dog. Totally normal. Maybe you do know her better than me, Doctor."
There was a pause on the other end. Then Dr. Radhika said carefully, "You sound more disturbed than she does."
"Disturbed?" he scoffed. "No, Doctor. I'm just a husband who can't decide if his wife is too strong or if she's already broken and hiding the pieces from him."
The silence stretched. Then she sighed. "Bring her tomorrow morning."
He ended the call without a word.
For a moment he sat motionless, the bracelet heavy in his hand. His gaze drifted back to Echo's picture on the wall.
"She laughs, Echo," he whispered. "But I can still hear the sobs she buried."
Then, sliding the bracelet onto his wrist, he muttered with dry finality, "Looks like between your flames and hers, I'm destined to burn twice."
He stepped out of his office and headed downstairs, only to spot her on the staircase with Karma trotting at her side.
He shifted his gaze away and continued walking.
"Where are you going?" she called after him.
"To cook something for myself," he said dryly, not even slowing. "Since my wife thinks I run on air and sarcasm alone, I thought I'd test the food theory tonight."
"It's almost dinner time. And what-" she began, but he was already striding toward the kitchen.
The moment he entered, the kitchen staff froze. Knives paused mid-chop, ladles halted mid-stir.
"Maharaj ji, Aasha tai," he announced as though delivering a royal decree, "I want to eat kothimbir vadi." He pulled open drawers one after another, hunting for utensils with the confidence of a man who had no idea where anything was.
(Maharashtian snack made from coriander)
Adhrita placed Karma gently on the big sofa and followed him in, exasperated. She glanced at Maharaj ji for help, but he only lifted his shoulders in a helpless shrug.
He grabbed a big pan, slammed it onto the stove, and stalked to the fridge. Pulling out a bunch of greens, he held them up with triumph.
"This is palak, Vritant," she corrected softly, taking it from his hand.
(Spinach)
"Of course I know it's spinach," he shot back, tone dripping with mock patience. "Aasha tai, maybe you can help since my wife clearly thinks I failed nursery-level botany. Give me coriander."
Aasha tai rushed to hand him the coriander. He grabbed a chopping board and a knife like a man preparing for battle.
Adhrita caught Aasha tai's horrified glance. When their eyes met, Aasha tai's silent question was clear: Does he know? Adhrita shook her head almost imperceptibly.
"Maharaj ji," Aasha tai finally muttered, "let him... cook." With that, she and the rest of the helpers retreated, leaving Adhrita alone with him.
She quickly stepped forward, took the knife from his hand, and pressed it flat against the board. "Sit."
He gave her a long look, then hopped up onto the marble slab, swinging one leg casually as if it were his throne.
Her eyes lingered on the knife-too long. The memory slammed back: the man she stabbed, the dupatta around her throat.
Vritant's voice cut through her silence, razor-sharp. "Politician ki beti ho, jhooth bolna toh default setting hai."
(Politician's daughter... so lying is your default setting.)
She flinched.
"Vritant, I am fine," she said quietly, eyes dropping to the chopping board.
He leaned forward, snatched the knife back, and tossed it carelessly onto the slab with a clatter. His smirk was thin, dangerous. "Fine. Of course. Because every perfectly fine person keeps freezing at the sight of a kitchen knife."
He jumped down from the slab and walked out of the kitchen, leaving her standing there with the knife and the echo of his words.
How could he say that? Heat rose in her chest-anger, sharp and immediate.
"Politician ki beti ho, jhooth bolna toh default setting hai."
He said it like he'd never been a politician's son, as if manipulation were a crime imported from someone else. She felt the word lodge there-manipulator-and whispered it to herself like a bitter prayer.
Aasha tai appeared with a quiet smile and hands that knew the kitchen by memory.
Adhrita straightened, forced a small smile, and said, "Basa," as Aasha tai beckoned her to sit in Marathi.
The old woman's movements were sure: she fried the kothimbir vadi, and ground the thecha until the fiery aroma filled the kitchen.
(Sit)
Adhrita took the tray and glanced around for him. Maharaj ji shrugged-he'd gone to the garden. She stepped outside and found him sitting by the pond, Karma dozing in his lap. The dusk softened his profile; she couldn't see him clearly, but she sat down beside him anyway.
"Aasha tai made this," she said, offering the plate.
He took it without looking away from the water, broke off a piece, and held it out to her. She watched his hand, the way it moved near her mouth, then opened hers and bit into the vadi. Warm coriander, the crunch and the faint bite of chilies-the taste filled her like a small, tender revenge.
"It's my favorite," he said, surprising her with an offhand softness. Then, with a small smile, he pushed the thecha toward her. "Try the thecha."
(Maharashtrian chutney kind of)
She did-and then she ate with unabashed pleasure, making a little, stupid, honest sound of delight.
She offered him another piece. He took it.
"What did you mean-'Politician ki beti... default setting'?" she asked between mouthfuls, steadying her voice.
He watched a pair of swans glide across the pond before speaking. "I pressed too hard. I was frustrated, acted impulsively. I shouldn't have said that." His voice was flat, not defensive.
When she didn't immediately respond, he added quietly, "Your silence after... it felt like my words couldn't touch you-neither hurt nor heal."
She picked up another piece of vadi, her movements slower now. "You're wrong," she said, meeting his eyes. "You did hurt me."
He looked at her then, properly, and there was something like remorse and something like calculation in his face. "I know. I pressed hard because I didn't know how else to get out my frustration. I was trying to manage a chaos I couldn't control-and I let you feel it."
"So you understand now-you don't have to hurt someone just to make them speak?" she asked quietly.
He chewed in silence, then set the plate down, eyes still on the swans.
"Yeah," he admitted after a pause. "Probably I didn't make you comfortable enough to share your thoughts with me.
I know we don't have a normal husband-wife relationship.
You were... pushed into this, maybe even forced.
We don't share romance-but we did have comfort, and trust. And now, it feels like there's a crack in that. "
"There isn't a crack," she said firmly. "I want to believe I have someone who worries for me.
Someone who stands by me while I save myself.
Not someone to fight my battles-but someone who would teach me how to fight my own.
Someone who wouldn't make me bury my demons alone, but who'd dance with me when I beat them.
" Her voice softened. "I'm not going to let fear make heavy work of my days.
Also-new discovery: my husband likes kothimbir vadi and thecha. "
He didn't answer, just reached for another piece of vadi and handed it to her.
He blinked, a corner of his mouth lifting. The tension in the air thinned, if only a little. For a moment the riot, the slaps, the lists of numbers-all of it-felt very far away, replaced by coriander and chili on a plate.
"Why Swans?"
"Swans? I love them," she said softly, glancing at the pair sleeping near the pond. She set the plate aside. Karma stirred, and Vritant shifted him off his lap before leaning back on the grass, hands braced behind him.
She watched the swans for a moment before speaking again.
"There's a folklore from Rajasthan. Once, during a drought, a pair of swans went searching for water.
They kept chasing mirages-what they call mriga trishna-and again and again, it turned to nothing.
Finally, after so much wandering, they found a few drops near a well.
But instead of drinking, they kept insisting the other drink first. In the end, neither of them did.
Just by saying, 'You first,' again and again... both of them died."
She paused, her voice dipping lower. "Sometimes love isn't about sacrifice. Sometimes it's about surviving together."
"You know so much about Rajasthan?" he said dryly, and her mouth fell open.
That-that was what he took from her entire story.
Of course it was. And of course she knew why he was taunting her with Rajasthan-maybe he was still bitter about how she could have been someone else's daughter-in-law there.
"Well," she smirked, recovering, "India ki bahu hoon toh har state ka pata hona chahiye na."
(I'm India's daughter-in-law-knowing every state is practically part of the job description.)
That broke both of them; laughter slipped out, lightening the air.
"Alright, then," he leaned closer, eyes glinting, "what's the connection between your story and our conversation?"
"Aah, Mr. I-am-so-smart doesn't know?" she teased. "Find it out yourself."
"There is no connection," he whispered, almost to himself.
She laughed, triumphant.
"But you laughed-and that wasn't fake. So it worked." He smirked at that, conceding without words.
She got up, dusted off her clothes, and circled behind him. Dropping to her knees, she wrapped her arms around him, lips brushing his ear as she whispered, "Politician ke bete ho... manipulate karna toh default setting hai."
(You're a politician's son... manipulation is your factory setting.)
Before he could react, she bit his cheek, laughing, and darted away-just fast enough to escape his grasp.
She darted off, laughter spilling into the night air. He didn't chase-just sat there smirking, like a man who always got the last word without moving a muscle.
And that's when it hit her. From the moment in the kitchen, to the swans, to his whisper about "no connection," all of it-every word, every silence-was nothing but manipulation. Not lies, not truth either. Just the way Vritant Vardhan worked.
She slowed her steps, her smile faltering as the thought pressed down. He hadn't let her win. He had only let her think she did.
??? V ? A ???
Aasha tai entered Vedashree's room and handed her a glass of water.
"What's the status?" Vedashree asked while sipping.
"Too calm," Aasha tai replied. "Laughing and eating kothimbir vadi and thecha with his wife. I know you slapped him-but he's too calm. Riots, a slap, and then someone touching his biggest fear... his wife near flames."
Vedashree's brow furrowed. "He hasn't touched kothimbir vadi in years." She set the glass down. "Too calm. Working from home. No anger. No tantrums. Not even that sarcasm laced with bitterness."
"Most of the time, he was in his private office," Aasha tai added.
Vedashree's voice dropped. "If he's spending hours near his twin... he's up to something. Ashwin Adani gave his daughter to us. If this riot rattled him, imagine what it could do to him."
"Tai, maybe he really isn't doing anything," Aasha tai ventured carefully.
"He only told Aaradhya not to run riot news. He had social media trends about the riots pulled down. No mention anywhere of his wife being caught in it. And he never went to Shaurya either," Vedashree's eyes narrowed.
"He was with his wife, I'm sure of it," Aasha tai murmured.
As Vedashree sank onto the bed, her eyes caught a sealed cover lying there. Frowning, she opened it. Inside was a single sheet of paper.
Cause of Riots - "Simple protest turned violent." (Really?)
Below it, numbers-casualties, arrests, incidents-all different from the official figures she'd been shown in the meeting.
Scrawled in Vritant's unmistakable hand at the bottom:
Opposition took the blame before Rashtradhara party even pointed fingers. Only a person with a jellyfish brain would buy that.
Moral of the story:
My wife should not be dragged into politics. Not by the PM, not by the CM, not even by the Rashtradhara Party... heck, not even by God himself. And anyone thinking of using her as a pawn-please, I insist, try.
??? V ? A ???
Vritant was asleep, Adhrita resting beside him.
In his dreams, the riots returned-the chaos, the screams, her fear. He jolted awake, heart pounding, only to see her peacefully sleeping next to him.
He drew a long, steadying breath, switched on the night lamp, and took a sip of water. Pills. He swallowed them, then reached into the drawer and pulled out the bracelet.
Gently, he took her hand and slipped it onto her wrist-a delicate chain with the initials 'VV' dangling in the center. They adjusted the covers, cocooning themselves, and he took her palm in his.
Hugging her from behind, he carefully brushed her hair aside, making sure he wouldn't sleep on it. Quiet. Still. Protective.
Adhrita stirred slightly and turned toward him in her sleep. Without a word, Vritant shifted, letting his foot gently nudge hers, dragging them closer until they were intertwined. His leg rested lightly over hers, a quiet, possessive tether, locking them together without disturbing her rest.
He tightened his arms around her, careful but firm, keeping her close, as if the world outside-the riots, the chaos, the fear-couldn't reach them here. His thumb traced small, soothing circles over the back of her hand, grounding himself as much as her.
"This little Hritquake... somehow braver than her big, fearless husband."
??? V ? A ???
The next morning, she woke up alone in the bed. As she pushed back the blanket, something cool brushed her skin. She looked down and froze.
A bracelet. His bracelet. Sitting snugly around her wrist.
Her brows knit in surprise-she didn't remember putting it on.
When did he...? She shook her head, unable to find the answer, a small unsettled smile tugging at her lips.
He was unpredictable like that-silent gestures that never let her figure out whether he was protecting her, warning her, or staking his claim.
After getting ready, she reached for her journal in the drawer. As she was about to slip it into her bag, a pressed, dry lotus slipped out from between the pages.
She paused, carefully opening to the place where she had last written:
I don't know why he calls me brave when I am the weakest link in the Vardhan chain.
Below it, in his handwriting, was an answer:
After enduring so much, if all the pieces of your soul are still intact-if you haven't lost yourself-you're braver than you think.
She picked up the dry lotus, noticing something faintly inked onto the brittle leaf. Her name-Adhrita-scrawled in Gujarati. She couldn't help but laugh softly before tucking the lotus back into the diary and slipping it into her bag.
It was already half past ten. Everyone must have gone to work by now, she thought.
But when she came downstairs, Vedashree was still at the table finishing her breakfast, and at the far end, Vritant sat calmly, sipping his tea.
Shaurya entered a moment later, coming to stand beside her.
She leaned close and whispered, "Papa, what's happening?"
"Have breakfast with me. Leave them alone," he murmured, guiding her to the sofa. Soon a butler arrived with their trays, and she sat down, though her eyes kept drifting toward her husband and mother-in-law.
"So you mean to say," Vedashree asked, "someone knew the schedule of all four of us?"
"Strange, isn't it?" Vritant's voice was light, almost mocking. "You flying abroad, me in Nepal, Papa in Mumbai, and Adhrita scheduled at the new hospital-perfect timing. And yet, the riots followed a different path." He gestured, and the butler carried a file over to Vedashree.
She opened it and frowned at the neat map. "It started near the old hospital and ended at the new one. But this isn't the usual route. Anyone traveling would take the highway straight through. The rioters chose an alternate path."
"So yes," Vritant said smoothly, "someone orchestrated it. But anyway, the CM of Delhi is already resigning-it must be in the news by now."
"Mr. Nilay Deora will be the new CM."
"You've already decided on his replacement?" Vedashree asked sharply.
"I've asked Mr. Nilay Deora to take the chair," he said casually, as though discussing the weather.
"So you knew everything beforehand?"
He smiled faintly. "Not everything. Just the important details. You might have votes, but I still have notes." With that, he rose, and on his way upstairs, caught his father and wife listening. He only nodded at Shaurya before climbing the steps without another word.
"Papa, how can you be so calm?" Adhrita asked, still chewing her poha. "That didn't sound like a normal conversation."
Shaurya leaned back, his smile thin, dangerous. "I was tense until yesterday. Now the other person should be tense. Because he made a grave mistake."
Her brows furrowed. "What mistake? Did he leave any proof?"
"The mistake," Shaurya said, his voice dropping into steel, "was forcing Vedashree and Vritant onto the same page. Separately, they're dangerous. Together? One lives for her party, the other for his wife. And the mastermind touched their biggest fears."
He chuckled darkly, finishing his tea. "So yes, beta-your papa is calm. Very calm. Because by now..." He leaned closer, his tone almost playful. "The clock is ticking for whoever thought they were clever."
When he came back, she had just finished her breakfast. As they walked together, he suddenly stopped. Leaning in closer, her breath hitched-then he unclasped her mangalsutra.
"Vritant... no," she whispered, about to protest, but the chain was already dangling from his palm.
"You don't need this to prove you're mine," he said coolly, sliding the mangalsutra into his pocket. "Now, let's go."
She stayed rooted to the spot.
"What?" he asked.
"My mangalsutra?" she held out her hand expectantly.
"Fine," he muttered. But instead of returning it, he caught her wrist and led her straight to the house temple. Without another word, he opened the vermilion box, pinched a bit of sindoor, and filled her partition with deliberate care.
Her lips curved into a smirk, eyes gleaming.
He stepped back, watching her. "I already gave you my bracelet. Consider it your real mangalsutra," he said, voice dripping with finality.
After that, he took her hand and both left. Riots, resignations, and party games could wait-for now, the grand manipulator had already won the only battle that mattered: his own kitchen.
────────── ?? ? ?? ──────────