1

  The sliding doors of the emergency unit burst open. A cold gust of antiseptic air was sliced by chaos.

  A stretcher rolled in—fast, urgent, shaking under uneven wheels. Blood dripped from its edges like silent punctuation marks against the sterile white floor. The man upon it—middle-aged, bare-chested, a gunshot wound bleeding through gauze pressed hastily over his heart—lay senseless. His face was partly obscured, as though the shadows themselves were reluctant to unveil him.

  The air quivered. Time staggered for a moment.

  Behind the stretcher came rushed footsteps—a knot of people, torn apart by anguish. Their cries were stifled by the hospital walls, but the tremble in their breath was unmistakable. Eyes—red, glassy, desperate—followed the stretcher’s path like tethered ghosts. The man must have been a famous figure.

  Doctors shouted instructions. A nurse stumbled. One of them pressed two fingers on the man's pulse, whispered something grim, and picked up pace. The stretcher disappeared through the double doors marked TRAUMA UNIT.

  But not everyone moved.

  At the far end of the corridor, in stark contrast to the chaos, a man sat.

  Quiet. Still. Unbothered. He didn’t know so much had happened.

  A wide-brimmed indigo hat shadowed most of his face. His coat was old but neat, folded precisely at the edges. In his hands, a book—its title catching the flicker of the hallway light:

  “The Irony of Life” – by Pritam Rathore.

  Next to him, a young man sat, fidgeting with a hospital token in his hand. His nerves betrayed him. But the man with the book didn’t flinch.

  He turned a page, stopped, and with a slow nod, said aloud: “Here, Mr. Rathore writes a very beautiful line…

  ‘One day, when chaos shall rise and fill,

  The peace of heart and silent thrill,

  I shall be lost in crimson seas,

  To answer the call of destinies.’”

  He closed the book gently, as if the page could shatter.

  “The man’s a brilliant author,” he added, voice low, deliberate. “Knows how to turn blood into poetry.”

  A scream echoed from inside the trauma unit. The young man beside him looked toward the chaos. But the man in the hat didn’t turn.

  He was still watching the book.

  Still listening to the silence between the screams.

  Still waiting.

  2

  In the heart of the city, tucked behind a veil of overgrown ivies and rust-bitten iron gates, stood an age-old mansion. It was a structure carved by time—its red bricks wore the weariness of memories, and its windows whispered stories to the breeze that often came uninvited.

  This was the home of Pritam Rathore.

  To the world, he was a literary giant—author of timeless novels, architect of award-winning screenplays, a man who walked red carpets and shared champagne with filmmakers. His shelves bore the weight of a lifetime: a Booker, a National Award, two Filmfare black ladies, and a line of certificates framed with a reluctant pride. Yet, in the stillness of his private world, Pritam remained simply... himself.

  The walls of his mansion were not painted with color, but with nostalgia. Photographs in black and white—some stained with age, others sharp in memory—hung like echoes. A younger Pritam with an unruly beard, shaking hands with old Satyajit Ray. Another, seated beside Gulzar saab, laughing over a cup of tea. There were paintings, mostly unfinished—brilliant strokes, moody shades—still hanging, untouched.

  Books were stacked like bricks in corners, under lamps, beside empty whiskey glasses. The study smelled of aged paper, burnt tobacco, and the slow decay of yesteryears.

  Pritam sat at the heart of it—curled on an old leather chair, his ashtray full, a cigarette glowing like the tail of an exhausted comet.

  Opposite him sat Samar, his childhood friend. Balding, spectacled, dressed in a cotton kurta—he was a man more grounded than poetic, but in Pritam’s presence, even his realism often found a rhythm.

  “You know what baffles me?” Samar asked, eyes twinkling. “You’ve had fame that others dream of. Money. A name. Respect. Yet you never thought of settling down? Of… companionship?”

  Pritam smiled, exhaling a cloud of smoke toward the chandelier. “Settle down?” He chuckled. “That phrase always sounded like a death sentence to me.”

  “But you loved Rekha. Truly. Why never again?”

  He grew quiet. His eyes drifted toward a painting—half-done, yet haunting. Brushstrokes of a woman standing in rain, her face half-turned. Rekha had painted it the day she left.

  “Some wounds,” he said softly, “don’t bleed. They just hum inside you… like an old tune. And you fear, if you play another song, the tune might forget its rhythm.”

  Samar shook his head, grinning. “Still the poet, I see.”

  “And besides,” Pritam leaned back, “solitude is the best fuel of an artist, Samar. It’s in the silence that characters visit me. They knock on my door, sip my whisky, lie on my pages. They… talk. When I’m most alone, I’m most surrounded.”

  “You’re mad.”

  “I’m a writer. Same thing.”

  They laughed. The chandelier trembled faintly with their laughter.

  Samar leaned forward. “Tell me then—what about that book? Your magnum opus. The life of… what’s his name? Princeton?”

  “Princeton Johannes,” Pritam nodded. “Yes… it’s a story unlike anything I’ve written. The skeleton's laid, but the flesh? The soul? Still forming. These characters are peculiar. They don’t obey. They’re unpredictable, breathing things. It’s slow.”

  “You’ve not been sleeping well, have you?” Samar asked, suddenly concerned.

  Pritam sighed, rubbing his temples. “Insomnia. Relentless. Like I’m trapped in a wakeful dream. Night bleeds into morning, and I just… exist. It has become painful for weeks.”

  “You need help, Pritam.”

  “I hired a compounder. Comes every alternate evening. Pushes a light tranquilizer. Just enough to dull the noise.”

  Samar frowned. “What’s his name? Joel, right? You mentioned him over the phone?”

  “Yes,” Pritam said, a smile crossing his face. “A strange boy. Gentle. Listens like a priest, talks like a philosopher. Knows how to untangle minds, I think. He helped me more than I expected. Said I suffer from a certain form of creative depression. Gave me reading lists, audiobooks, even cooked for me once.”

  Samar raised an eyebrow. “And you trust him?”

  “I do. Joel feels… safe. In a way most people don’t.”

  Just then, the doorbell rang. Pritam stubbed his cigarette. The echo of the bell resonated across the high ceilings like a note in an empty theatre.

  “Must be him,” he said, rising slowly. “On time, like always.”

  Samar watched him walk towards the door, his silhouette outlined by the flickering fireplace. Something about the moment felt still. Ominous. As if someone memorable had just entered the story.

  3

  The grandfather clock in the hallway struck nine, its low chimes echoing through the mansion like forgotten footsteps. Pritam stood by the window, watching the amber glow of the streetlights flicker against the evening mist.

  Samar adjusted his shawl. “I should leave before the night devours the city whole,” he said, half-serious.

  Pritam turned with a soft grin. “The city’s already been devoured, Samar. We just walk in its belly.”

  Samar chuckled, then placed a gentle hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Get some sleep. And tell that compounder of yours not to mess with your mind more than it already is.”

  “I will,” Pritam said, leading him to the door. “And Samar?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Thanks. For coming. For remembering I still exist.”

  Samar smiled but said nothing, and walked out into the fog.

  Moments later, the old oak door creaked open again. Joel stepped in.

  He was young. Mid-twenties, perhaps. Strikingly handsome, with sharp eyes that always seemed to be calculating—but never cold. His black turtleneck hugged his lean frame, and a dark brown leather bag dangled from his shoulder like a doctor from an old noir film. He walked with a casual grace, yet his eyes missed nothing.

  “Evening, Mr. Rathore,” he said, removing his coat. “You seem... heavier today.”

  Pritam collapsed into the chair. “Heavier with years. Or memory. Or nicotine. Can’t tell anymore.”

  “That man…who just walked away.”

  “Who? Samar? O’ he’s my old childhood friend. You met him?”

  “Yes, that Samar guy… I think I saw him somewhere. May be in the newspaper.”

  “Can’t possibly be. He and fame? They are poles apart.”

  Joel’s eyes darted to the ashtray. “So someone wished to die so badly, they can’t even give up cigarettes?”

  Pritam smirked. “Samar was here. He’s the criminal. I am innocent.”

  Joel raised an eyebrow. “Ah. And the half-burnt cigar between your fingers? Did that come by sorcery?”

  There was a pause. A playful silence. Then both men laughed—Pritam with weariness, Joel with charm.

  Joel unpacked the leather bag with practiced calm. Syringe. Tranquilizer vial. Swab. “This will sting for a second,” he said.

  Pritam extended his arm with a sigh. “Pain, O’ pain… we’re old lovers.”

  The cold sting of the needle pierced through.

  “I wish my own sons were like you,” Pritam said suddenly, his voice dropping to a tender murmur. “If they were, I would’ve been the happiest man in the world.”

  Joel didn’t speak. He placed the syringe back in the bag, then quietly took Pritam’s hand in his own.

  “Does blood define everything?” he asked softly. “If it does, then orphans must be the least human of all.”

  Pritam looked at him.

  Joel continued, “If you’d allow it, think of me as your own son. At least the one who listens.”

  There was something real in the words. Unadorned. Undramatic. Like truth uttered in a room that had heard too many lies. Pritam blinked away a moist heaviness from his eyes.

  “You’re not staying tonight?” he asked, almost hesitant.

  “No,” Joel replied, slinging the bag back over his shoulder. “Got guests coming over.”

  Pritam raised an eyebrow with mock suspicion. “Girlfriend?”

  Joel laughed. “Just a normal dinner with a few friends. Not all friends need to kiss you goodnight, you know. And not all people do have a luck like you.”

  Pritam chuckled. “But tomorrow I have that meeting with the director... you said you’d help with the reading. You know how I stammer when I’m nervous.”

  Joel clicked his tongue. “That would be risky.”

  “Why?”

  “Well,” he said with a mischievous smile, “I’m a Jew.”

  Pritam narrowed his eyes, smiling. “And?”

  “And thanks to Shakespeare and his beloved Shylock, the world still thinks we’re all greedy plotters with knives hidden in our coats.”

  Pritam laughed out loud. “Oh please. That was Victorian England. This is a new age. We’ve changed.”

  Joel tilted his head. “Have we?”

  Then, as if a strange wind passed through the room, he said with theatrical calm, “If tomorrow you’re found in this very study, a bullet lodged clean in your chest, smeared with blood—who do you think they’ll suspect first?”

  Pritam blinked. “What sort of question is that?”

  Joel zipped his bag, then turned toward the door.

  “A man like me… is always the perfect villain.”

  With that, he vanished into the corridor’s shadows, his footsteps fading against the marble like whispers in a cathedral. Pritam sat still for a long time.

  The injection began to work slowly, pulling his eyelids down like curtains on a play. But even as he drifted toward sleep, his mind remained restless. The image of Joel’s smile lingered.

  Was it just a joke? A strange attempt at gallows humor? Or a line written by a character too well-developed for the story to remain safe?

  4

  The hour was well past ten.

  Kolkata's restless veins—its bustling streets, honking taxis, food stalls steaming with joy—had gone quiet in this corner of the city, where the air felt thinner, older. Gentle breezes swayed the peeling streetlight wires, and a dog howled somewhere, as if rehearsing grief for a funeral not yet declared.

  Joel walked briskly down this forgotten street, coat brushing his knees, collar upturned against the wind. His silhouette cut across puddles of moonlight. A cigarette danced on his lips, unlit.

  He paused.

  There it was.

  A pulsing throb of bass, leaking through cracked walls and graffiti-soaked doors—a pub, with neon letters barely clinging to life: "Club Calypso." The rhythm was catchy, perhaps from a vintage vinyl spinning out of breath.

  But then, it came—the dissonant note, the scream. A woman’s voice, raw, desperate. Not part of the music. Pain never syncs with beats.

  Joel turned toward the window, dusty and cracked. He peered inside.

  What he saw jerked the smoke right out of his breath.

  Inside, a dimly lit room with torn leather couches and broken beer bottles. A group of thugs—six, maybe seven—towered over a woman, striking her, laughing, crushing cigarettes near her face.

  She sat slumped on the ground, blood at the corner of her lips, her hair a wild cascade of darkness, eyes defiant even in horror. On her wrist, clear even through the chaos, was a tattoo: Jasmine.

  Joel’s hand twitched.

  “Of all the nights to play a hero,” he muttered, then walked to the door.

  It wasn’t locked. He kicked it open with such flair, one of the goons near the door dropped his drink.

  “Evening, gentlemen,” Joel said casually, brushing imaginary dust from his coat. “Am I late for the party, or just perfectly fashionably heroic?”

  One of the gangsters stepped forward, tall, scarred, the kind of face that made people flinch twice. “Who the hell are you?”

  “I’m your conscience,” Joel replied. “A little late, slightly sarcastic, but annoyingly persistent.”

  Another laughed. “You drunk?”

  Joel stepped further in. “Only on injustice, my dear caveman.”

  Two of them lunged. Joel ducked, kicked a chair forward, sending one flying into a table. A bottle crashed. The music skipped.

  The leader tried to grab Joel, who side-stepped with dancer's grace and said, “You ever heard of Muhammad Ali?”

  “What?!”

  “Good. Neither did I.”

  He elbowed the man in the gut, then flicked a beer glass into another’s face. The girl on the floor stirred, her eyes struggling to focus.

  “Hold on, Jasmine,” Joel said, yanking a curtain off the wall and whipping it like a matador. One thug tripped and crashed into a jukebox. Another pulled out a knife.

  Joel’s eyes lit up. “A blade! How... intimate.”

  He grabbed a cue stick, swung with flair, and hit the knife-wielder square on the nose. “Snooker... always wanted to play this outside of prison,” he quipped.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

  Then, as the chaos peaked, he grabbed Jasmine’s wrist and yelled, “Run!”

  They bolted through the backdoor into the alley, their breath merging with the wind, echoing in the empty corridors of the sleeping city.

  Behind them, muffled shouts. But no one followed. They stopped beneath a broken streetlamp.

  Joel looked at her. Blood on her face, but fire in her eyes. “You okay?”

  She nodded, panting. “Who are you?”

  Joel wiped his brow and smiled. “Just a compounder with a bad habit of gate-crashing hell.”

  She looked down at her wrist. He followed her gaze. The tattoo. Jasmine.

  "Pretty name," Joel said, gently. "But I have a feeling there’s a storm behind it.”

  She didn’t reply. The silence between them was brief, thick, like the pause before a thunderclap.

  Then her voice, soft but certain: “They’ll come for me.”

  Joel tilted his head. “Then it’s a good thing I don’t sleep much.”

  5

  The wind howled like a hungry ghost.

  The shutters of the old Rathore mansion creaked with a melody only the dead might hum. Lightning cracked open the sky like a fractured promise, momentarily illuminating the massive library of books lining the room, each a silent sentinel of stories past.

  Pritam Rathore stirred in his sleep.

  Something... something pulled him awake. Not a sound, but a silence—thicker than air, sharper than a whisper.

  He blinked.

  The curtains flailed like possessed spirits. Rain lashed against the windows. The air smelt of ink, old wood, and something faintly metallic—blood or memory, he couldn’t tell.

  A photograph lay shattered on the floor. Its glass fragmented like frozen tears. He picked it up slowly. It was from years ago—his first literary award, him standing proud with the jury, holding the golden quill. He sighed and turned to close the windows.

  And then, he froze.

  A figure stood by the far bookshelf.

  A man.

  Not spectral, not ghostly—real, tangible. Dressed in an old English waistcoat, polished shoes, and an aura of poised elegance. He had a thick, well-kept beard, and the kind of eyes that held stories, not just glances.

  “Who are you?” Pritam asked, voice steady despite the tremor in his hands.

  The man smiled, warm but unsettling.

  “You truly don’t recognize me?” he said in a crisp British accent, his eyes glinting like polished mahogany. “I am the one you breathed life into... the one whose destiny lies incomplete, thanks to your slumber.”

  Pritam stepped back slightly. “Wait...”

  “Yes,” the man said, voice calm, “I am Princeton Johannes.”

  The name hit him like cold thunder. His pen’s most complex creation—an aristocrat with a mysterious past, born out of grief and fire, walking the tightrope between savior and sinner. But... Princeton wasn’t real. Was he?

  “You... you’re just a character,” Pritam whispered.

  “Am I?” Princeton stepped forward, slow, elegant. “Then what makes you real?”

  Pritam, ever the host even in madness, gestured to the armchair. “Sit... I... I need a drink.”

  “I’ll stand, thank you,” Princeton replied. “And I’ll pass on the drink. Spirits are for those who drown in regret. My heart—” he placed a hand over his chest, “—has not yet known grief, or heartbreak, or the weight of a dying memory. You haven’t written them into me yet.”

  Pritam chuckled nervously, pouring himself a glass of whisky. “Well, that’s quite fortunate, then. Most of my creations carry more sorrow than soul.”

  Princeton stepped to the window, watching the storm outside.

  “Do you know, Mr. Rathore,” he said, “there are millions who wait for you? For your words. Your stories are the lifelines of so many—people battling cancer in hospital beds, prisoners clinging to hope, lovers searching for closure, fathers trying to forgive. You can’t just... pause.”

  Pritam looked down. The ice in his glass clinked. “Do you... do you hear them too?”

  Princeton turned, his eyes gentle, almost fatherly.

  “I hear what you hear. Because I am you,” he said softly. “Your thoughts, your wounds, your desires—I bear them in fiction’s skin. You wrote me, but in truth... I was always within you. You just gave me a name.”

  The words felt like thunder etched in ink.

  Pritam stared at him. “You speak like a mirror...”

  “I am one,” Princeton whispered.

  Suddenly, a gust of wind slammed open the window. Papers flew. The candle flames flickered. The shadows danced like witches in prayer.

  And just as Pritam blinked, Princeton stepped back into the darkness.

  One with the storm. The room fell silent, save the gentle dripping of rain from the windowsill. Pritam sat slowly on his desk chair, hand trembling, pen resting between his fingers.

  The clock struck midnight. He looked at the empty pages of his manuscript.

  6

  The sun fell generously upon Calcutta that day, gliding through the dust-speckled air like a curious child peeking through curtains. The streets buzzed with the chaos of life—hawkers singing their wares, tram bells ringing like forgotten lullabies, and the scent of roadside tea mingling with exhaust fumes.

  Among the crowd, two figures walked side by side—one dressed plainly in an old white shirt and rugged trousers, sleeves rolled, leather bag slung across his shoulder. The other, a beautiful woman with sharp eyes, a floral scarf, and a past stitched with shadows.

  Joel and Jasmine.

  They walked without purpose, the best kind of walking.

  “You work for Pritam Rathore,” Jasmine said, her voice casual but laced with intent. “One of the most famous writers in the world, isn’t he? No heir. Limitless property. One stroke of the pen and he could name you the prince of his little kingdom.”

  Joel chuckled, not looking at her. “And here I thought I was walking with a girl, not a lawyer from the inheritance court.”

  Jasmine grinned slyly. “Oh come on. If you keep the old man happy, maybe he’ll leave you the mansion. It’s simple math.”

  Joel stopped at a sugarcane cart, bought two glasses. Handed one to her. Then calmly said, “See, that’s the difference between you and me.”

  “And what’s that?” she asked, sipping.

  “I was taught to earn, not to wait for people to die and inherit their property.”

  Jasmine raised an eyebrow.

  “I’m not the kind of man who sharpens knives behind backs, Jasmine,” he continued. “Pritam is like a father to me. Not by blood, but by something deeper—understanding.”

  He looked at her sharply now.

  “But I suppose emotions are meaningless to girls who’ve been raised in the labyrinth of men and money.”

  Jasmine's smile faded.

  There was silence between them, filled only by the distant sound of a tram bell and a rickshaw puller yelling in Bangla.

  “You think girls like me choose the dark?” she said, voice lower, not defensive—just honest. “We’re pushed into it. Sold. Trapped. Decorated like gods’ statues during the day, desecrated like dust at night.”

  Joel sighed, looked ahead.

  “Then break the mirror.”

  “What?”

  “The one they hand you. Break it. The world gave you a broken compass. Doesn’t mean you walk in circles.”

  Jasmine stared at him.

  Joel smirked. “Also—if you think becoming rich by flattering an old man is a shortcut to life, you clearly haven't read enough books. Or lived enough pain.”

  “You think too highly of yourself,” Jasmine said.

  “No,” he said, eyes twinkling. “I think highly of possibility. You? You’re smart. You’re beautiful. But you wear your past like a tattoo you refuse to hide.”

  She said nothing.

  They walked some more. A boy sold roses by the footpath. Joel bought one and gave it to an old woman on the bench instead. Jasmine watched.

  “Your dialogues sound rehearsed,” she said.

  “I rehearse them in my poverty. Makes me feel rich.”

  She smiled, despite herself. “You’re... strange.”

  “No,” Joel replied. “Just...unowned.”

  Their pace slowed.

  “You really admire this Pritam, huh?” she asked softly.

  Joel’s tone changed—less witty, more human. “I lost my parents in a train crash. Eight years old. No relatives. Government shelter. Then one day, I saw an old man in a library, searching for a book he’d written twenty years ago. I helped him find it. He asked my name. I lied. Told him I was his fan. He laughed and said, ‘Then become the story I couldn’t write.’ That’s how I met Pritam Rathore.”

  Jasmine looked at him—differently this time.

  “So he became your father?”

  Joel nodded. “In every way that mattered.”

  She looked down.

  Joel smiled. “So, since I’ve now bored you with my emotional backstory and tragic parental loss...”

  Jasmine rolled her eyes. “I didn’t say I was bored.”

  “Well, then,” he said dramatically, “You must meet the man who saved me from becoming just another conman in Bowbazar.”

  Jasmine smirked. “And what if he doesn’t like me?”

  Joel winked. “Then I’ll write a story about a girl named Jasmine, who changed one man’s opinion with nothing but a scarf, a stare, and some savage sarcasm.”

  Jasmine chuckled. “You’re impossible.”

  Joel adjusted his bag. “Good. Now let’s go buy you a book that’s not written by a man who’s dead.”

  And as they walked away, the camera of fate zoomed out, recording the first hints of love—not through roses or confessions, but through sarcasm, scars, and sugarcane.

  7

  Aromas of biryani, kebabs, and curd floated through the air like unsent letters from a forgotten time. The restaurant buzzed with the cheerful clinks of cutlery, snippets of laughter, and waiters balancing platters of steaming delicacies. But in a far corner—tucked away like a footnote in an epic—sat Pritam Rathore, sunglasses shielding his eyes, fingers drumming impatiently on the wooden table.

  He wasn’t dressed for publicity. A faded Nehru jacket over a crisp kurta, with his salt-peppered hair neatly brushed back—he looked more like a lonely philosopher than the man whose name adorned bookshelves across continents. Every tick of his vintage wristwatch seemed heavier than the last.

  Then the restaurant door opened—and for a moment, time adjusted itself.

  Rekha.

  Graceful as ever. The years had gifted her not wrinkles, but a deeper poise. Draped in a navy-blue silk sari, with silver embroidery glinting like distant stars, she walked in with a quiet dignity, the kind that comes from heartbreak endured in silence.

  She spotted him instantly and walked towards the table.

  Neither smiled. Neither stood. Neither needed to.

  She sat opposite him, placing her clutch on the table as if it were a boundary line drawn in some ancient battle. The waiter approached, but Pritam gestured him away.

  “You look… just the same,” Pritam said quietly, his voice gruff with memories.

  “And you look exactly like a man who still thinks sunglasses can hide guilt,” Rekha replied, removing her dupatta from her shoulders.

  “I won’t take much of your time,” he began, the words rehearsed, the tone unsure.

  “You never had much of it anyway,” she cut in, with the grace of a blade wrapped in velvet. “Not for me. Not for the boys. But somehow always enough for the world outside. For your fame. For your applause.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “Fair?” she laughed—a laugh that carried no joy, only irony. “Fair was what I expected from a man who wrote about love in ways that made strangers cry, but couldn’t offer truth to the woman who shared his bed.”

  Pritam looked away, his fingers tightening around the edge of the table. “You walked away, Rekha.”

  “And wasn’t I right to?” Her eyes narrowed. “Eleven years of marriage, and I find out you were sending money—monthly, secretly—to a woman named Sifra. A past lover? A charity case? Or were you just writing your own story behind my back?”

  “I never cheated on you,” Pritam said softly. “Sifra was from a time long before you. I sent money because no one else would.”

  “And no one else should, Pritam,” she said bitterly. “You don’t carry old ghosts into your marriage and then act surprised when the walls crumble. I couldn’t sleep in the same bed as you clinging on to that woman’s memories.”

  “I was wrong. I should’ve told you.”

  “You think?” she said, her voice sharp, but her eyes—those eyes still held shadows of once-upon-a-time. “Anyway, say what you must. I didn’t come here for tea and tears.”

  Pritam cleared his throat, reached into his coat pocket, and placed a folder on the table. “My next book… it’s going to be big. A global release. Publishers are excited. I want its royalties to be transferred to our sons’ names. As a gift from their father.”

  Rekha stared at the folder like it was a relic from another lifetime.

  “Our sons?” she whispered. “You mean my sons. Because I buried your memory in their childhood. I taught them to walk without the crutch of your surname. I told them their father was dead.”

  Her words hung in the air, cruel yet certain.

  “I deserved that,” Pritam admitted, eyes lowered. “But they don’t deserve my silence.”

  “They deserve peace. And your words, Mr. Rathore,” she rose, her sari swaying like history itself, “have only ever brought pain to those closest to you.”

  She turned to walk away. Paused.

  Then said, without looking back, “You may have a gift with words, Pritam. But you lost your right to be heard in my home.”

  And just like that—Rekha walked away. Not with anger, but with the solemnity of a chapter finally closing.

  Pritam sat back, motionless.

  In a room filled with warmth, delicacies, and laughter—he felt like the only man waiting at a table that would never be visited again.

  8

  The drawing room of Pritam Rathore’s lavish bungalow looked like a scene carved out of royalty. Victorian arches, Persian rugs, chandeliers whispering secrets, and walls adorned with portraits of long-forgotten muses. But at its heart sat the man himself — cross-legged in a high-back armchair, wrapped in a wine-hued robe, fingers delicately holding a half-burnt cigar as if it were a relic of power.

  Outside the grand windows, Calcutta moved with its usual rhythm — honks, hawkers, and the murmurs of a city built on history and contradiction.

  Inside, cameras flashed.

  A swarm of journalists, all curated and handpicked, had gathered for the book launch of The Author’s Tale — a literary marvel already being hailed as “psychologically radical” and “dangerously brilliant.” Pritam exhaled a plume of smoke before rising, adjusting his collar, and standing like a monarch delivering a royal proclamation.

  “My book,” he began, “is not merely about words stitched into chapters. It’s about hallucinations stitched into reality.”

  A pause. Attention.

  “The Author’s Tale is the story of Princeton Johannes — a celebrated author who lives within the pages of his own fiction, slowly blurring the line between what he writes and what he lives. Madness, betrayal, lust for recognition… but most of all, it’s about how fiction becomes the realest trap of them all.”

  Flashes. Pens scribbled. Heads nodded.

  “One may even say,” he smirked, “it’s autobiographical. But then again, aren’t all books?”

  A reporter raised his hand, “Sir, we heard rumors about a film collaboration?”

  Pritam leaned back against the polished mahogany table. “Yes. Christopher Nolan’s team approached me last week. They want to adapt this into a screenplay. A psychological mind-bender. I’ve given my nod. Hollywood Titan meets Howrah’s brilliance, I suppose.”

  Soft laughter. Another question. Another nod.

  Soon, handshakes were exchanged, compliments flowed like fine wine, and one by one the press members left, leaving the room echoing with applause that now seemed like fading thunder.

  And then — the door opened again.

  Joel stepped in, his sleeves rolled up, a half-smile stretched across his face that betrayed how tired his morning had been. Jasmine followed, dressed modestly in a pastel shirt, eyes scanning the lavishness around her like a child lost in a palace.

  Pritam turned, surprised but pleased.

  “Finally,” he said, arms opening. “The hero of my household.”

  Joel grinned, “I would’ve come earlier… but apparently, I was hosting a riot this morning.”

  Pritam’s eyes narrowed behind his gold-rimmed glasses. “Riot?”

  Joel let out a dry laugh, “A few neighbors decided to pay tribute to Shakespeare… by trying to kill me and burn my home down.”

  “What?”

  “All for sheltering a Hindu girl. Same old Victorian garbage. As if human beings come stamped with religion on their foreheads.”

  Pritam’s glance shifted to Jasmine. “Is this… the girl we spoke about on call?”

  Joel nodded. “Yes. The one who’s made me a wanted man and a better one at the same time.”

  Pritam walked toward Jasmine and extended his hand. “So, this is the infamous lady. Welcome to my humble fortress. Joel’s told me quite a bit.”

  Jasmine smiled, politely. “I’ve heard much about you too, Mr. Rathore. Joel says you’re like a father to him.”

  Pritam chuckled as he strolled toward the bar counter. “Did he now? I wonder what kind of fatherly sins he’s accused me of. Shall I prepare something for us? A drink, perhaps?”

  As he poured whisky into a crystal glass, his voice danced across the room, casual, teasing.

  “And what exactly did this little rascal tell you about me?”

  There was a pause. A silence too pregnant.

  Pritam turned slightly, just in time to hear the unmistakable click of metal. The gentle sound of a safety lock being opened. A cold voice followed — soft, poised, but deadly in intent.

  From behind, Jasmine spoke:

  “That you’re going to die today.”

  9

  Flashback – Twenty years ago

  The pale morning sun of Calcutta hadn’t yet found its confidence. A chilly breeze floated through the narrow alleys of Bowbazar, the city still yawning in sleep. Amidst the rhythm of temple bells and the clinking of chai cups, a cycle bell rang sharp — once, then twice. A boy on a rusty bicycle flung a rolled-up newspaper towards the balcony of a two-storeyed house. The paper, spinning mid-air like a secret, landed straight into the waiting hands of a man standing above.

  Samar caught it effortlessly.

  He was younger then. Sharp eyes. Tight jaw. Hair slicked back and shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows, exposing forearms that told stories of fights and fire. He unrolled the paper, but not for headlines — inside was a thin, crumpled note, coded with the night's developments.

  He read. And frowned.

  Without a word, he stepped inside the dim-lit room. There, reclined in a plush velvet armchair, swirling wine like a patient demon, sat Pritam Rathore. No glasses then. No wrinkles of fame. Just a lean face and a stare too calm to be clean.

  He looked up as Samar entered.

  “What’s the news, Samar?” Pritam asked, lazily, as if asking about the weather.

  Samar’s face was stone. “Not good.”

  He threw the note onto the table.

  “Two units at St. Peter’s Street shut down last night. Police raided both. The entire machinery—dismantled. The ones at Bowbazar and near Maidan are under radar too.”

  Pritam sipped slowly. “And the dealers?”

  “Losing their minds. Cocaine runners want their money back. They’re threatening to hand us over if we don’t repay within this week.”

  The glass clinked as it rested.

  “Debts,” Samar said grimly, “big ones. Either we pay… or we rot behind bars.”

  Pritam leaned forward, the wine in his eyes deeper than the drink in his hand. “You know, Samar… from the day I stepped into this world, I’ve only ever played one game — and I’ve never learnt how to lose.”

  Samar shook his head. “Then tell me how we win. The empire is cracking.”

  Pritam’s lips curled into something that resembled a smile but stank of sin.

  “I’ve been approached,” he said, “by a Portuguese dealer. Rich. Dangerous. The kind of man whose money could wipe out our entire debt in a single night.”

  “And?”

  “He wants something.”

  “What?”

  Pritam stood now, walking to the window, watching the distant cross at the old St. Peter’s Church glint faintly. He didn’t turn as he spoke.

  “A girl.”

  Samar narrowed his eyes. “Which girl?”

  There was silence. Then Pritam turned, the devil gleaming behind that polished charm.

  “Sifra.”

  Samar’s heart skipped. “What?!”

  He stepped forward, stunned. “Are you out of your mind? Sifra? You— you love her, Pritam. You told me that. You said you’d marry her.”

  “I did love her,” Pritam said, his voice calm as ice. “Like hell. But hell has no room for fools, Samar. Business first. Always.”

  “You’d sell the woman you love?”

  Pritam smiled. A smile that didn’t belong to the man Samar once trusted.

  “I’m not selling her,” he said softly. “I’m saving us.”

  Samar turned away, his fists clenched, lips trembling with the disgust of betrayal. Pritam walked back to his chair, sipping the wine of his own decay, his silhouette merging into the darkening walls of that old house — a house that would soon become the cradle of sins no history book would ever dare to print.

  10

  Present day. The drawing room of Pritam Rathore.

  Velvet curtains rustled in the breeze. The room reeked of cigar smoke and self-pride, a habitat of a man who thought he had buried his sins beneath bestselling pages. But not tonight.

  Jasmine stood still. Cold. A pistol aimed directly at the man once worshipped by millions — now just flesh wrapped in guilt.

  Pritam turned slowly, his face drained of arrogance, baffled, his fingers still wet with scotch. Joel stood behind Jasmine, wide-eyed, disbelief tearing through him like a thunderclap.

  “Do you remember the cries, Pritam?” Jasmine's voice cracked, but her hand didn’t.

  “The cries of a woman,” she continued, “as you dragged her out by the hair. Into a car. Into a nightmare. Into the hands of beasts... for what? A few bags of cocaine and a ledger saved?”

  Pritam’s jaw tightened. “What… what are you talking about…?”

  “Sifra,” she spat the name like fire, “was carrying your child when you sold her off to those men.”

  The room froze. Joel gasped, eyes darting from her to Pritam. “Wait… what? Jasmine—how do you know all this? Who are you?”

  Pritam’s trembling lips moved, “Sifra…?”

  Jasmine nodded, the corners of her eyes glistening.

  “Yes, I’m Sifra. I knew you’d forget,” she said, almost laughing. “Twenty years is a long time, isn’t it? Enough to turn a monster into an ‘author’, and sins into stories.”

  “But—” Joel stammered, “Twenty years back… you’d have been a child! That doesn’t make sense—”

  Jasmine turned to him gently, a strange calm overtaking her.

  “I suffer from Progeria,” she said. “A rare disorder… that halts aging. I still look the same. That’s how I remained hidden. A face frozen in time. My face fooled the world, even the man who once—” she paused, her eyes burning into Pritam, “—sold me.”

  “I… I didn’t know—” Pritam choked, “I thought you were lost in the dark world or probably died—”

  “You hoped I did,” she cut him. “You killed me that night. Not physically. But everything that could've been human in me.”

  Silence. The pistol clicked as her finger found the trigger.

  “Jasmine, please—” Joel stepped forward, hand trembling, “I know what he did was monstrous. I know. But this—this isn’t justice. It’s vengeance.”

  “He deserves it,” she whispered. “He built a palace on my bones.”

  “But you survived,” Joel said, his voice growing stronger. “And that survival… it matters. It means something.”

  “He left me to rot!” she screamed.

  “I know. But by killing him, you don’t heal. You just inherit his darkness.”

  Jasmine hesitated. Joel’s voice softened. “You want to escape your past? Then don’t become what it made you.”

  Tears brimmed in her eyes, her hand trembling. “He… he doesn’t deserve forgiveness.”

  “No,” Joel agreed. “But sometimes… forgiving isn’t about them. It’s about us. Let him live. Let him crumble under the weight of his guilt. That’s worse than death.”

  Jasmine stared at Pritam.

  A man once untouchable. Now, just a ghost wrapped in silk. She slowly lowered the pistol.

  Pritam collapsed to the floor. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Only sobbed.

  Deep, aching sobs. The cries of a man who saw the shadow of his sins returned, not as bullets — but as mercy.

  Joel and Jasmine walked away, her footsteps light yet heavy with a million scars.

  And behind them, Pritam Rathore sat alone. Sobbing. Screaming. “I’m sorry!”

  The room echoed with the cries of a man too late for forgiveness, and far too early for salvation.

  11

  White light drenched the old hospital room, the kind that looks too pure to be real. On the bed, Pritam Rathore lay still — a bullet wound painted delicately on his chest, IV drips dangling like fragile ornaments, eyes closed like a man on the edge of life.

  Outside, people stood in candlelight vigil, praying. Hope flickered on every waxed flame.

  “And… Cut!”

  A loud clap echoed.

  The bustle of the set returned instantly — technicians laughed, grips unclipped cables, makeup artists rushed in.

  The director removed his headphones and grinned. “What a shot! What a shot! Mr. Rathore, I told you, you’ve got acting in your bones! What a hidden talent!”

  Pritam opened his eyes slowly, smiled weakly. “All thanks to you, Sir,” he said, lifting himself on the pillow. “If you hadn’t stopped me on that bridge that night… I would’ve ended everything.”

  The director, nodded, folding his arms. “You were ready to jump. And now look at you — playing Peterson Johannes, the wounded hero of your own novel. Isn’t that something?”

  Pritam chuckled. “Life gave me a second draft. This time, I decided to rewrite myself.” He stared at the ceiling for a moment. “The NGO... the kids, the laughter, their sketches... they heal me in ways no applause ever could.”

  Nolen smirked. “You wanted Christopher Nolan. But got Nolen Mukherjee instead. Life’s the strangest scriptwriter of us all.”

  They both laughed.

  “I’ll be back in a while,” Nolen said. “Hospital permission stuff. Rest. No fan meets today.”

  As the crew stepped out, silence filled the sterile room. The monitors beeped, mimicking a life still rehearsing.

  Pritam reached for his phone, a playful glint in his eye.

  Text to Rekha: Hey! I’m about to die. Won’t you come see me one last time?

  Reply: I know it’s a film shoot you’re in. Hey! Busy now. Can we talk in the weekends? You’re not dying anytime soon, Drama King.

  Text: Fine by me. How’re your sons?

  Reply: They’re fine. By the way…they’re yours as well.

  He smiled and locked the phone.

  Just then, the door creaked open. A silhouette entered — tall, slim, a tilted indigo hat casting a shadow over half his face. His coat swung gently with each step.

  In his hand, a pistol.

  Pritam sat upright, startled. “Who are you? What do you want?”

  The man didn’t blink. “I’m your biggest fan, Mr. Rathore. I live in your books. I breathe your words. I sleep with your characters whispering in my ears. You are my god. My Author.”

  Pritam’s hands trembled. “But why the gun?”

  The fan smiled, his eyes wild. “O’ that’s because, In The Irony of Life, you wrote:

  'When you see me chained to bed,

  In unseen pain, in stains of red;

  Know that my end is near,

  Shoot! Shoot me without a fear!'”

  “Y-Yes,” Pritam stammered. “But… that was fiction, you fool! And this is an act, a film shot.”

  The fan stepped closer. “O’ is it?”

  “It wasn’t real! None of it was! Please… just put it down—” Pritam screamed, “HELP! ANYONE! PLEASE! There’s a mad man in my cabin.”

  But the walls, once buzzing with actors, had turned to tombstone silence. “I loved you enough to obey your final line,” the fan said. “This is devotion, Mr. Rathore. I’m setting you free. Free from your unwelcomed destiny.”

  The trigger clicked.

  A gunshot.

  Darkness.

  And nothing but silence.