"The fire of the silent burns the most violent."
The night was darker than usual, most of the lights killed or dimmed enough to keep my weary, bleeding body hidden from prying eyes. I crawled through the mud, pebbles scraping against my torn feet, each movement tearing into me anew.
I knocked on the door of an old man—one I knew would not leave me unattended. Not in a state like this. I knocked again, and this time the door creaked open.
He stood there holding a lantern in his frail hands. The light trembled, and so did I. My strength finally gave way, and I collapsed at his feet.
Without a word, he dragged me inside and gently laid me on a squeaky bed. He rummaged around, searching for anything—anything at all—that could slow the bleeding.
My vision blurred. The lantern's glow faded. My eyes grew heavy, and soon, I slipped into darkness.
"Wake up. Wake up."
My ears forced my eyes open. A girl stood over me, staring. Her face was softer than the old man's, yet she carried the same fierce demeanor. I met her gaze—dark brown eyes catching the morning sunlight, turning into tiny, sparkling stars.
A small smile crept onto my face, as if my body had stopped obeying me.
She puffed her soft cheeks, tightening them until they looked like little balls.
"You should be ashamed," she snapped. "Troubling my ailed grandfather in the middle of the night. Do you even know how much work he did to keep you alive? And here you are, smiling like a donkey."
Her anger sounded strangely sweet.
"What is your name?"
A weak voice—mine—rose with genuine curiosity and echoed in the room.
Her eyes widened, as if she were about to turn me into ashes.
"Let him rest, Kanchan."
An old man's voice.
We both turned to see him slowly walking in, a bag of medicines clutched in his hand. Kanchan stuck her tongue out at me and ran away, her anklets jingling as she disappeared.
"What a beautiful girl," I muttered. My tongue had become shameless.
The old man glared at me for a moment, then smiled.
"Girls grow up too fast," he said softly. "It feels like only yesterday she was born—tiny and pale."
He placed the bag beside me and sat on a stool.
"Sorry," I said. "I don't know why, but my tongue is out of control."
"It's alright," he replied gently. "The medicines are taking effect."
I felt a little shy—but praising a beautiful girl is nothing to be ashamed of.
Suddenly, his face darkened.
"What happened?" he asked.
I narrated everything. He let out a heavy sigh.
"That demon has begun showing his true colours. Venkatesh made a grave mistake making him his son-in-law."
I tried to sit up, but he pressed me down gently.
"Lie still. Your wounds are still raw. Let them heal."
I raised my little finger.
He smiled knowingly.
"There's a small pot near your bed. For… other relief, Kanchan will help."
He stood up and wrapped a shawl around himself.
"Kanchan is growing fast. Soon I must arrange her marriage into a good family. Only Lord Murugan knows where I'll find the dowry—or whether I'll live long enough to see it."
He walked out slowly.
A few minutes later, Kanchan hopped back into the room. She may look mature, but she was still a child.
"I'll wait outside," she said firmly. "You must wash yourself."
I smiled at her innocence.
She threw an apple and a plastic bottle toward me.
"I can't light a fire or cook. You'll survive on fruits until my grandfather returns."
"I can cook," I said, raising my eyebrow twice.
She smiled.
"Then you'll have to go to the market first."
She tossed another apple at me.
"This one's mine. You can have it. I'll manage with berries."
Before I could protest, she hopped away.
I looked at the apple. Half-bitten.
I smiled, took a bite, and finally fed my starving body.
I lay there for a long while, my thoughts circling endlessly.
Meera. Sarla. Sumeet. Cathy. Lorenzo. And now, Kanchan.
So many people had entered and exited my life in just a few months. Was it destiny? And if it was, then it was a cruel one. The pain in my body was nothing compared to what my mind and heart were enduring. Deep within, I could feel a cold, dead soul lying motionless inside the shell that still breathed.
Was love always meant to remain distant for me?
Why?
What had I done? I had been kind—never intentionally hurting anyone. Yet I was the one wounded the most. My heart had been broken so many times that even the strongest emotions now felt numb, lifeless.
First Survi. Then Ankita. Cathy. And now Meera.
A vicious cycle I desperately wanted to escape.
Is patriotism so unforgiving for a lover? Is there no love reserved for a soldier? And if that is true, then what does patriotism even mean? Isn't it love—for one's country, one's people?
Would I spend my entire life avenging the women I lost? And if I did, would that even be a life? Or just a prolonged sentence?
Why do I survive every time—only to be tormented by agony and misery? Wouldn't it be easier to die and claim the afterlife promised by every damn religion in this scrupulous world?
Is there a religion that answers questions like mine? Or better yet—is there a religion for the unfortunate lovers?
Because this pain felt more real than anything else. Bigger than world hunger. Bigger than poverty. Even bigger than the desperate search of cancer patients clinging to hope while their lives decay.
Maybe this, too, was a kind of cancer.
Heart cancer.
The deadliest of all. It eats you slowly, every single day, inflicting unbearable pain without leaving any visible mark. No symptoms. No mercy.
If such a disease exists, then I was its most severe victim.
Does death cure it?
Or does something worse await—emptiness, or perhaps self-hatred?
If there were a gun beside me, and if my body obeyed my mind, maybe I would have tested the answer right then. But like everything else in my life, my body refused to cooperate—even with my suffering.
And yet… why should I end my life like a coward?
Was I weak?
Yes.
But a coward?
No. Never.
They say the brightest days follow the darkest nights. Clinging to that thought, I dragged my lifeless body through the dark, suffocating forest of obscurity. I wasn't brave—just too weak to abandon hope entirely.
Maybe that weakness was my greatest strength.
Or my greatest foolishness.
Who knows?
All I knew was that I was either blessed—or cursed—with it.
The soft jingle of Kanchan's anklets pulled me back from my thoughts.
I looked around to see her cleaning the room. I had made quite a mess the night before. She bent down and began sweeping the floor. When I tried to rise, she raised her hand.
"You don't have to act chivalrous," she said. "I can do my work myself. Lie down. And don't say a word."
"I was just trying to get up," I replied. "You know… hygiene."
She sighed. "Wait. Let me finish first."
She sped up and soon left the room. I slowly picked up the pot and relieved myself. It was large and heavy. How much does that old man think I pee?
My eyes wandered to the paintings on the wall. They weren't Picasso, but there was a quiet ingenuity in them.
Kanchan returned, this time with a glass of milk and some bread. She set them beside me and sat close. Gently, she helped me drink, blowing on the milk to cool it. She dipped the bread into the glass and pushed it toward my mouth.
"I hope this will keep you full till evening."
I nodded like a child. A faint smile crossed her face.
She covered her mouth and took a slow breath.
"I know who you are," she said softly. "You were Meera di's lover. I heard the rumours—about her visiting your room at night."
My face darkened.
"Don't mind me," she added quickly. "I'm just an idiot. I'm sorry for your loss."
I forced a small smile.
She leaned closer. "Did you truly love her?"
I lowered my eyes.
"I don't know."
Her brows tightened. "What do you mean, you don't know?"
"If my love were true," I said quietly, "she wouldn't be dead."
She sighed, her voice trembling.
"Love can never defeat death. I loved my parents too… and they died."
"How?"
The word slipped out before I could stop myself.
Her eyes filled with tears.
"My father worked for Meera di's father. When she married Sarla and came to this village, my father was among those who were killed that day. My mother was pregnant with my little brother. When she heard the news… she died of shock."
"Sarla has killed many," I said, my voice hard. "He will pay."
She stared at me, as if searching for something inside me.
"Will you make him pay? Will you end that demon?"
Her voice was soft—but the fire in her eyes was fierce.
"I can't promise easily," I said. "Sarla is not weak. A man who can sell his own wife to his enemy for revenge is beyond evil. But he will die. And so will all who have sinned."
She took my hand, gripping it tightly.
"Promise me. Tell Sarla my name before you take his soul."
I placed my other hand over hers.
"He will know your name," I said. "And I promise—it will be the last thing he hears."
I rose slowly from my cot. The air outside still carried the bite of the early cold. Every step sent a dull ache through my leg as I limped toward the door, pressing my frail body against it before pushing it open.
The old man lay on the ground.
For a moment, I thought he had dozed off. He often slept in strange places. But then I saw the blood pooling beneath him — dark, thick — and the empty bullet shells scattered across the floor.
My heart faltered.
I rushed to him and turned him over. His eyes were open, but there was nothing behind them now. No breath. No warmth. No life.
Beside his hand lay a folded piece of paper.
I picked it up.
Hope you slept well.
It amazes me that these roaches had the courage to shelter my enemy.
You killed Anthony. I don't care — I never liked him anyway.
But I know you carry a burning desire to end me. Believe me, I share the same desire.
So come to me. Let us settle this once and for all.
The old man has paid his price. Tomorrow morning, his granddaughter will begin to pay hers — at the same place where you killed my brother.
If you move fast enough, you might still save her.
The paper trembled in my hands. I clenched it until it crumpled, then let it fall.
I lifted the old man's body carefully and carried him inside. I laid him upon the cot he once slept on. My movements were steady — almost mechanical.
I gathered wood and placed it beneath the cot. The smell of kerosene filled the room as I poured it over the wood, over the sheets, over him.
I bowed before him.
No tears came. No prayers left my lips. Only silence.
When I struck the match, the flame flickered for a second — hesitant — before catching. Fire climbed slowly, hungrily, consuming the cot, the cloth, the frail body that had once offered me shelter.
I stood there and watched.
The cold outside no longer touched me.
"My father used to say: Never let fear become your master. A man does not die when his breath leaves him — he dies when fear takes his spine.
For years, Sarla has ruled over you like a king without a crown. Ruthless. Untouched. Unquestioned. He has stripped you of peace, of dignity, of hope. He sold your women. He butchered your brothers. He buried your children — and forced you to bow your heads while he did it.
And you survived.
But survival is not living.
I am not from this village. Some will say this is not my war.
But tell me — is the fight against oppression ever someone else's war? When evil walks into a home, does it ask for permission? When injustice takes root, does it care whose soil it grows in?
This is not my village.
But this is my fight.
I cannot bring back the dead. Their names deserve more than anger. But Kanchan — I swear before all of you — I will lay down my life if it means she lives.
And understand this clearly:
Today we are not fighting for one girl.
We are not fighting for revenge.
We are fighting for your right to stand without bending your neck to another man.
For your right to breathe without asking permission.
For your right to live as men."
The room fell into a silence so heavy it pressed against the walls.
They looked at me — uncertain at first. Shame lingered in their eyes. Years of submission do not vanish in a moment.
But then something shifted.
Their backs straightened.
Their jaws tightened.
The fear Sarla had planted in them had ruled for years.
Now it was cracking.
And in the cracks, something fierce was rising.
Not rage alone.
Pride.
And pride, once awakened, is far more dangerous than vengeance.
Soon, that fire would not only burn fear.
It would burn him...