The house was filled with the mundane peace of a setting sun. Priti was folding clothes in the living room, a radio softly playing Assamese folk songs. Riya was lying on her stomach in the bedroom, diligently coloring a picture of the Brahmaputra River for school. The back door, which led to the small courtyard and the vegetable patch, was only secured with a simple bolt.
The peace ended with a sound that tore the air—a heavy, scraping sound of boot soles on the cement wall, followed by the sickening crunch of the back door being violently kicked inward. The cheap wood split, and four large, dark shapes filled the doorway, blocking the last sliver of evening light.
Priti's scream died in her throat, choked by paralyzing fear. Her entire world, once safe and contained within these four walls, had been brutally breached. She saw the malice in their eyes—a hunger that had nothing to do with theft.
"Quiet, bahu," Bimal, the tallest, hissed, his voice thick with liquor and menace. He grabbed her arm with a crushing grip, the shock of the foul contact making her gag. The others fanned out, their movements rough and invasive.
Riya, hearing the terrible noise, ran from the bedroom, clutching her favorite doll, her face a mask of sudden, childish confusion that instantly turned to terror when she saw the men and her mother's silent, struggling body.
Priti fought with the desperate, raw strength only a mother protecting her child possesses. She bit Bimal's hand, drawing a grunt of surprised rage, and managed to shove a chair at Debu, momentarily distracting them. "Riya, run! Go to Sanjay-kaka!" she managed to yell, but the escape was impossible.
The men descended into a furious, unbridled act of violence. They struck Priti down, silencing her resistance with overwhelming, physical brutality. They tore at her clothing, the fine cotton shredding easily under their rough hands. The clean, safe home became a scene of absolute violation and terror.
Riya, paralyzed by the horror unfolding before her, watched her mother's absolute subjugation. As the men completed their unspeakable acts, their attention turned to the small, innocent girl huddled in the corner. The same vile malice that had consumed Priti's dignity now focused on her daughter.
The brief moment of horrific violence was followed by a terrible, cold calculation.
"They saw our faces," Bimal grunted, wiping his mouth. "They will talk. Finish it."
The murder was swift, merciless, and designed to look like a desperate struggle ending in an accidental death. They used heavy stones brought from outside to ensure absolute silence, then wrapped the bodies quickly in old cloth they found in the house.
The house was left eerily silent, the only evidence of the destruction a few overturned items, a small, dark stain near the kitchen door, and the absence of life. They carried the bodies out the back, scaling the wall and disappearing into the darkness of the river bank, letting the cold Kolong erase their vile proof.