Some fires don't just burn homes — they burn the past, and birth a war."
Haridwar – 5:00 PM
The late afternoon sun in Haridwar felt like a heavy shroud. It was 5:00 PM. For fourteen-year-old Jeevika, it just meant five more minutes until the school bus. She stood, backpack slung over one shoulder, fiddling with the strap. A faint tune hummed on her lips.
Around her, the usual schoolyard chatter buzzed – excited shouts, the thud of a forgotten football, the collective sigh of freedom.
The familiar, slightly dented school bus rumbled to a stop, its air brakes hissing. Jeevika pushed through the throng.
She liked the window seat, especially on the right. It gave her an uninterrupted view of the busy streets, the small temples, the distant Ganges.
She found her spot easily, sliding in, leaning her cheek against the cool glass. The world blurred by.
A wisp of darker smoke curled above the rooftops far ahead. Jeevika blinked, then shrugged. Probably someone burning trash again.
The ride home was a ritual. Same turns, same shops, same old man sipping chai. She recognized the landmarks: the market square, the flower seller, the snarled intersection. Her stop was just after the old banyan tree.
The bus slowed near her lane.
"Alright, Jeevika, see you tomorrow!" Mr. Sharma, the bus driver, boomed.
She gathered her bag, mind on her new graphic novel. Stepping down, the familiar scent of woodsmoke and marigolds hit her. She turned, a wide, easy smile on her face, and waved.
"Bye, Mr. Sharma! Bye, guys!"
Her friends waved back. The bus rumbled off.
***
She took a deep breath, smile lingering, and started the short walk home. Their house, a cozy two-story, usually stood proud, cheerful blue. Papa's scooter would be out front. Maa might be watering plants.
Shivanya would probably be teaching Rudransh some wild dance move. Her haven. Her safe space.
But as she rounded the final bend, the smile froze. Her steps faltered, then stopped dead. The scent of woodsmoke wasn't comforting.
It was acrid, thick, mixed with something metallic and sickeningly sweet. The air wasn't hazy with dust. It was dark, swirling. A suffocating blanket.
Her eyes strained. The cheerful blue was gone. Replaced by a charred, gaping maw. Smoke, thick and grey, billowed from shattered windows.
The roof had caved in, a jagged, broken mess open to the sky. Ashes, black and fine, drifted lazily through the air, settling on the mango tree. The garden, usually bursting with Maa's roses, was a desolate, scorched patch.
It wasn't just a fire. It was… total annihilation.
A choked sound escaped her lips. A whisper, barely audible, as her backpack slid from her shoulder. Her mind screamed. No. This isn't real. This can't be real.
"My… my home," she croaked. The words raw, foreign, disbelieving. A bad dream she would wake from.
But the blistering heat, the overpowering smell of burnt plastic and wood, the chilling silence where laughter should have been – it was all too real. Her vision blurred, not from tears yet, but from the sheer, overwhelming unreality.
Then, the neighbors emerged. Faces etched with shock and pity. They moved towards her, slowly, like approaching a wounded animal.
Mrs. Gupta, her cheerful face streaked with soot and reached her first. Her arms wrapped around Jeevika. The smell of smoke clung to her.
"Jeevika beta… oh, Jeevika," Mrs. Gupta sobbed, her voice thick with anguish. The sound finally pierced the numbness.
The touch. The sound of her name. It shattered Jeevika's denial. The dam broke. A guttural scream tore from her throat, raw, agonizing. It was a sound of pure, unadulterated horror.
The lane fell eerily quiet. Even the fire seemed to hush, as if listening to her. Her voice cracked the stillness like shattered glass.
"NO! NOOOO!" she shrieked, voice cracking, dissolving into ragged, breathless sobs. Her fists clenched, beating weakly against Mrs. Gupta's shoulder.
"Maa! Papa! Chachu! Chachi! Shivanya! Rudransh!" Each name was a desperate plea. A cry for reassurance they were somewhere, safe.
But there was only the roar of the fire in her ears, the crackle of collapsing timber, the horrified whispers of the crowd. No answers. Just the silence of the consumed.
*****
She dropped to her knees. The rough asphalt dug into them, but she felt nothing. Only the crushing weight of emptiness. Her eyes, wide and unseeing, stared at the smoldering ruins.
The scent of smoke filled her lungs, tasting like loss and unshed tears.
The world spun, a dizzying carousel of black and grey, punctuated by silent screams. Her family. Where were they? Why wasn't anyone answering? The silence, broken only by her own ragged sobs, was the loudest sound she had ever heard. Her childhood, her world, reduced to ashes around her.
Minutes blurred. Or was it hours? The wail of sirens ripped through the quiet lane, sharp and intrusive, tearing her from her catatonic state.
Red and blue lights flashed, painting the smoke-filled air with an eerie glow. The Fire Brigade. Police. Emergency vehicles swarmed, their presence a stark, horrifying confirmation of her worst fears.
Hands, many hands, were on her. Gently pulling her away from Mrs. Gupta, guiding her back. She resisted weakly, her gaze locked on the inferno.
"No! Leave me!" she rasped, her throat raw. "Maa! Papa! They're inside! Please! They're inside!" Her voice was a pathetic plea against the rising cacophony.
Firefighters, grim-faced, moved with practiced urgency, unrolling hoses, shouting commands. The air filled with the roar of water battling fire, the frantic crackle of collapsing timber.
Uniformed officers began pushing back the growing crowd of neighbors, their faces a mix of horror and morbid curiosity.
***
Then, the sleek black sedan pulled up, its tires hissing softly on the wet asphalt. A stark contrast to the chaos, it glided to a stop near the police tape. The back door opened.
First, Mrinalini Singh stepped out. Jeevika's Bua ji, her father's younger sister. Her usually composed features were a mask of shock, her eyes wide with disbelief. Behind her, Chaarumati Singh emerged. Jeevika's Tayi ji, her father's second elder brother's wife.
Chaarumati's face was already streaked with tears, a hand clutched to her chest. Both women stared at the inferno, their breaths catching in their throats.
The sight of their family home, a symbol of their lineage, reduced to a smoldering wreck, hit them like a physical blow.
Their gazes swept across the devastating scene, finally landing on the small, crumpled figure of Jeevika, kneeling amidst the rubble and swirling ash. Their expressions twisted from shock to raw anguish.
They moved quickly, pushing past the periphery of the crowd, their silk sarees a blur against the grim backdrop. Mrinalini reached Jeevika first, dropping to her knees beside her.
"Jeevika beta! Oh, my child!" Mrinalini's voice was a choked whisper, thick with uncomprehending grief. She pulled Jeevika into a tight embrace, her grip trembling.
Chaarumati followed, her own sobs already audible. She knelt, her arm wrapping around both Mrinalini and Jeevika, forming a desperate huddle.
"Jeevika… my little one. What happened? Tell us, what happened here?" Chaarumati's voice cracked, eyes searching Jeevika's tear-filled face for answers. Her fingers, usually adorned with rings, brushed Jeevika's soot-streaked cheek.
Jeevika pulled back slightly, her eyes vacant, fixed on the ruins. Her voice was raspy, barely a whisper.
"I… I don't know, Tai ji. I don't know." Her head shook slowly, a gesture of profound confusion and despair. "I went to school… when I came back… it was like this. All of it. Gone." She pointed a trembling finger at the smoldering remains.
"Shivanya… Rudransh… they didn't come to school today. They were… they were here." Her voice trailed off, a fresh wave of sobs racking her body.
The mention of Shivanya and Rudransh, her younger cousins, sent a fresh jolt through Mrinalini. A different kind of grief, sharper, more personal, ripped through her. Her eyes widened, a horrifying realization dawning.
"Shourya! Oh, my Shourya!" Mrinalini cried out, a guttural wail escaping her lips. "Shourya, my son! Where is my Shourya?" Her voice rose to a frantic, piercing shriek that cut through the sounds of the fire brigade.
Her hands instinctively flew to her face, then desperately clutched at Jeevika, as if seeking an answer there. She too had lost a child in this inferno.
Chaarumati, equally distraught, looked between Mrinalini's anguish and Jeevika's numb despair. Her gaze frantically scanned the faces in the crowd, then the house, as if a miracle would appear.
The silence of not seeing anyone emerge, of no cries answering Mrinalini, was a heavy, suffocating blanket.
The night deepened. The fire was mostly out, replaced by a lingering stench and the hiss of cooling embers. Jeevika, numb and hollow, was gently led away from the ruins by Mrinalini and Chaarumati.
The world outside felt deafeningly silent, even with the police chatter and the distant sounds of the city. Her home was a tomb.
Her family, seemingly all gone. And in the chilling silence, a new, terrifying chapter of her life had truly begun. The ashes were still warm, but the future felt impossibly cold.
Mrinalini Singh and Chaarumati Singh still held Jeevika. Their bodies trembled with the shock of the ruins, but they clung to the girl, their silent embrace the only anchor in the swirling chaos.
Jeevika, though numb, felt the distant comfort of their presence. The wail of sirens was fading, replaced by the hushed whispers of the crowd and the hissing of water on hot ash.
Suddenly, movement. Far away, beyond the flashing police lights, two figures emerged from the gloom of the lane. An older man, his form distinct even from this distance, and a smaller, familiar shape beside him.
Jeevika's eyes, red-rimmed and swollen, focused. Her breath hitched. That hair. That gait. Her heart, which had felt like a dead weight, pulsed with a sudden, desperate surge of adrenaline.
"Shivanya!" she shrieked, a raw, unbelievable sound. It tore from her throat, cutting through the heavy air.
She ripped herself from Mrinalini and Chaarumati's grasp. Her legs, unsteady just moments before, found a frantic energy. She ran. Stumbling over debris, weaving through hushed neighbors, her gaze locked on the small figure.
"Shivanya! Shivanya!" she cried again, the name a prayer, a desperate plea for reality.
The ten-year-old girl, dusty and wide-eyed, looked up. Her face was pale, streaked with what might have been tears or simply exhaustion. Her eyes met Jeevika's
In a blur of desperate motion, Jeevika reached her. She threw her arms around Shivanya, pulling her into a fierce, bone-crushing hug.
She buried her face in Shivanya's hair, inhaling the faint, familiar scent of her little sister. Tears, fresh and hot, streamed down Jeevika's face, a mix of agonizing relief and continued despair. Shivanya was here. Alive.
A collective gasp of relief rippled through the onlookers. Mrinalini and Chaarumati, who had watched Jeevika run, felt a wave of sheer, overwhelming gratitude wash over them. A spark of light in the crushing darkness. A small, fragile piece of their family was safe.
They rushed forward, reaching the two girls, their faces etched with a fragile hope.
"Shivanya! Oh, my Shivanya!" Chaarumati exclaimed, her voice thick with emotion, tears now openly flowing down her cheeks. She knelt, reaching for the child, her hands trembling.
"Where were you, beta? What happened?" Mrinalini asked, her voice hushed with disbelief and relief, her hand already reaching out to touch Shivanya, as if to confirm she was real. "How did you… how did you get out?"
The older man, who had accompanied Shivanya, stepped forward. He was Pandit Harinarayan Shastri, the temple priest. His face was solemn, his traditional attire smudged with dust.
He looked from the devastated house to the grieving women, his eyes filled with sorrow.
"Her parents dropped her off at the temple this morning," Pandit Harinarayan said, his voice quiet, heavy. "For dance lessons. They said they'd return after aarti." His gaze drifted to the charred remains of the home. "They never came."
He paused, a profound sadness in his eyes. "When it got late, I brought her here… and we saw this." His voice was laced with an unspoken tragedy, a confirmation of the horrors inside the house.
Shivanya, still clutched by Jeevika, didn't cry. Her eyes, wide and unnervingly dry, were fixed on the smoldering skeleton of her home.
Her face was blank, unreadable. The chaos, the sirens, the weeping adults – none of it seemed to penetrate the protective shield she had built around herself.
A distant memory, a whisper from her mother, Prachi, echoed in her mind:
"No matter what, Shivanya… don't let your tears come. Be confident. Your strength will dry them off all."
Her mother's words, a mantra of resilience, held her in a strange, unyielding grip. Shivanya blinked once, her gaze unwavering on the ash and smoke. No tears. Not yet.
Her small body was a vessel of shock, but somewhere deep inside, a quiet strength was beginning to solidify. A strength her mother had taught her. And it was all that was left.
Her home was a tomb. Her family, seemingly all gone. And in the chilling silence, a new, terrifying chapter of her life had truly begun. The ashes were still warm, but the future felt impossibly cold.
Jeevika clung to the miracle of Shivanya, while in Shivanya's unnervingly dry eyes, a silent truth lay hidden, a secret whispered by the flames, waiting for the world to finally listen.
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