AUTHOR'S POV.
INT. HOSPITAL – ICU WAITING AREA – NIGHT
White walls. Soft beeping from the monitors inside. The smell of antiseptic.
Shivaay paces outside the ICU like a storm barely held back. Dhairya stands beside him, arms crossed, trying to stay calm but alert.
The doctor—mid-40s, calm under pressure—steps out of the ICU, pulling off his gloves.
"Mr. Rathore." The voice of an experienced doctor reached their ears.
Shivaay turns instantly.
In a measured tone, the doctor spoke- "The forehead cut is deeper than we initially thought. We've managed to stop the bleeding for now. But her brain... it's still processing trauma."
He hesitates slightly.
"There were elevated cortisol levels even before the hit—high emotional stress. That could have affected blood pressure and coordination."
Dhairya blinks. Shivaay's face tightens.
Quietly, Shivaay asks the doctor, "What kind of trauma?"
"Something emotional, something intense. She was already experiencing that before the injury. The blunt hit just triggered her shutdown faster."
(And then adds something softly.)
"We're taking her into ICU for monitoring again. Next few hours are critical."
Shivaay nods, barely.
The doctor walks away.
And that's when it happens.
As Vasudha's ICU bed is wheeled past behind the glass, her face pale, oxygen mask on, bandages across her temple—
Shivaay's mind flickers back.
"I'll protect her."
"You can trust me, Mr. Rathore."
And then-
He turns, slowly, like holding a rage that could ignite even the ice.
Hanitra stood a few feet away, arms crossed tightly, jaw locked. She hadn't sat down since the ambulance arrived. Her shoulder had a gash, barely treated, but she hadn't said a word about it. All she had done was replay the moment in her head, again and again—how she had pulled his mother away from the chaos, how that sharp-edged fruit cart came out of nowhere, how she had shoved the older woman to the side —and how it hadn't been fast enough.
Silent. Still.
Eyes slightly closed. Exhausted.
Shivaay walks toward her.
Every step louder. Every thought darker.
Dhairya, who had gone with the doctor for a few further verifications, pauses in his tracks as he predicts what was going to unfold. Two seconds, and his talk with the specialist was over.
However, the bomb had already been dropped before he got to say his friend's name.
Shivaay stops right in front of her. She opens her eyes slowly, tired but calm.
And in a razor-sharp voice, he acknowledges her- "You said you'd protect her."
Hanitra's eyes widen slightly.
Shivaay continues further, voice lower yet infuriating. "You gave me your word. 'I'll protect her', remember? And I trusted that."
By now, Dhiarya had sprinted towards them, "Shivaay," he interrupts, "Control bhaii."
"Stay out of this, Dhairya!" Shivaay snapped at his friend, furious.
But Dhairya continues, calmly, ""She's not your enemy right now—"
"I SAID STAY OUT!"
She flinched. Silence again. The hallway echoed. Dhairya clenched his jaw but stayed put, eyes burning.
Then she tried. Just one more time.
"She slipped. She turned back to pick up someone's scarf—she shouldn't have, I told her to keep moving—"
Shivaay whirled around, rage lighting up his eyes like a matchstick to kerosene.
"Don't put this on her! You were the one responsible! You were with her!" He snapped in a tone that was too furious to be of a composed person like him.
Hanitra straightened. Her voice shook, but she held it steady.
"And I did everything I could. She was safe until—"
But he cut her off, shouting, "Until what? Until she started bleeding?!"
A nurse passing by paused, alarmed.
Shivaay raises his voice a bit. "You talk like this was a mission gone wrong! She's not a report, Hanitra! She's my mother!"
Hanitra blinked hard, swallowing the lump in her throat.
"I know that."
Shivaay growled again, now louder, angrier, "No, you don't! If you knew what it meant to see your mother lying in a hospital bed, you'd never let something like this happen."
"I didn't let her fall. Someone shoved us. I covered her. She turned back for a child's scarf—"
But Shivaay scoffs, mocking her. "Excuses. Strategy. Like this was some mission."
"I care—"
He cuts in, voice laced with venom.
"You care? If you cared, she wouldn't be hurt. But maybe... maybe you don't know what it feels like."
He was breathing fast now. And then—he said it.
"Don't you have a mother? Is that why you don't understand what it feels like to almost lose one?"
Silence. Deafening.
Hanitra froze.
A single tear betrayed her control, slipping past the corner of her eye.
Dhairya, voice low and sharp: "Shivaay."
Shivaay didn't look at him. Not yet.
The tear slipped down her cheek. She didn't wipe it.
At this, Shivaay stepped back slightly, the edge of guilt catching up—but it was too late.
The Education Minister walks towards his friend, now in a silent rage. "You want to talk about mothers?"
Shivaay looked at him.
Dhairya's voice sharpens, "You're lucky you even have one to yell for."
A pause of a millisecond echoes as Dhairya prepares himself to complete the sentence further.
He speaks, louder: "She doesn't have a mother."
The words sliced through the atmosphere like a blade. Shivaay blinked. His posture stiffened, shoulders locking as if the weight of his own words had finally landed.
Hanitra didn't flinch. She just wiped the tear with her sleeve, voice quiet, calm, breaking anyway.
"I tried to hold her, Mr. Rathore. I pushed her behind me. I took the hit first. But she... she turned back when I told her not to."
Her voice cracked. "She turned back to grab someone's dupatta and... that's when it happened."
Shivaay stepped forward instinctively, regret blooming in his chest. But before he could say a word, she took a step back.
"It's okay. I shouldn't have expected you to believe me."
And then, she turned and walked away—quiet, but shattered.
The white lights of the ICU had dimmed slightly, casting a warm glow over the woman in the hospital bed. Vasudha stirred—fingers twitching before her eyes fluttered open. Her forehead, wrapped in gauze, throbbed, but her mind was clear. The seconds pass slowly, oh so slowly that an eternity feels its equivalent, but then, the lady opens her eyes, seeing her two kids, one sitting to her left, holding her hand, eyes closed. While the other? Jaw clenched, staring out of the window to her far right.
Shivaay, seated at her bedside, straightened instantly. Eyes laced with worry.
"Maa... you're awake. Zyada dard to nahi ho raha hai na?"
(It's not hurting too much, right?)
She blinked, focused on him, then looked around, her voice hoarse.
"Where is she?"
Shivaay blinked.
"The girl who saved me... Hanitra.. Vo kahan hai? I need to thank her."
(Where's she?)
At the window, Dhairya, arms folded, turned—expression unreadable.
Quietly but firmly, he speaks, "Bol Shivaay, badi maa kuch pooch rahi hain."
(Tell her Shivaay. She's asking something.)
Shivaay tensed. Vasudha looked between the two young men, reading the air instantly.
"Shivaay?"
But her son doesn't answer her question. He just quickly rises and places his hands on her arms, "Maa, you need to rest-"
She pushed his hand gently away, but her eyes didn't waver.
With a voice now growing stronger, she looks firmly at her son.
"No. I asked you something. Dhairya?"
"Tu khud batayega, ya main bataun?"
(Will you tell, or shall I?)
"Hua kya hai, koi mujhe batayega? Aur Hanitra kahan hai? Usse bhi to chot lagi thi?"
(What has happened? Will someone tell me? And where's Hanitra? Even she was injured.)
Shivaay stood abruptly, his voice rising. "Dhairya, don't. This isn't the time—"
But his friend cuts him in, voice loud yet firm.
"You don't get to decide the time, Shivaay. You had no right then. You have no right now."
"Tell me what's going on!" Vasudha asks again, growing alarmed.
Dhairya raises his hand, pointing at his friend, and steps forward.
"Puchiye isse badi maa, kya kiya hai isne corridor mein."
(Ask him, what did he do in the corridor?)
"SHIVAAY SINGH RATHORE. VASUDHA ABHIRAJ SINGH RATHORE NE TUMSE EK SAWAAL KIYA HAI, JAWAB DO."
(I'm asking you something.)
But the boy in question just lowers his gaze.
"Main batata hoon, badi maa.. Hanitra. Jisne aapki jaan bachayi, pata hai aapko isne kya kehekar usse vapis bheja hai?"
(I'll tell you. Hanitra, the girl that saved you.. Do you know how did he make her leave?)
Vasudha goes stiff as if already sensing the depth of the answer. A short, suffocating silence follows as Dhairya looks at his close friend, his partner, the member of the Core Seven, and then finally speaks, his vice controlled but furious.
"He asked her—'Don't you have a mother?"
Vasudha's breath caught. Her hands trembled slightly.
Stunned, she looks at her son. "You said that?"
"I.. I didn't know she.."
"That doesn't matter, Shivaay! You don't say that to anyone, even if they had ten mothers. But you said it to her. Her." He shouted at Shivaay.
This time, a feminine, soft voice interrupts him, "Who is she?"
Dhairya looks at his Badi Maa, voice breaking slightly.
"An orphan.
She doesn't have a mother, Badi Maa.
Not even a memory to hold onto."
The silence was ice cold.
"And Shivaay..." Dhairya continued, in a quieter tone, "he dragged that emptiness out of her. Threw it in her face. And when she tried to explain...
he didn't let her. He yelled. He kept yelling."
Vasudha turned to Shivaay, her voice trembling now with hurt. "You let your anger... crush the girl who protected me?"
Shivaay answers her, voice low, broken. "Maa, I really didn't know—"
Dhairya roars, cutting him sharply. "But you felt her silence, didn't you? You saw that tear fall, didn't you? Still, you let your words burn her."
Shivaay grits his teeth while saying- "She almost got my mother killed—"
"And she never had one!" Dhairya furiously cuts him through.
The air punched still.
Then, Dhairya begins again, but this time, slowly.
"Hanitra doesn't have a mother, Shivaay.
She never knew hers.
She was abandoned as a baby. Raised in an orphanage till she was six or seven.
Do you know how many birthdays she's spent pretending someone out there was missing her?
She doesn't know what it's like to lose a mother—
Because she never got to have one."
Vasudha mutters something quietly, almost to herself, "How must it feel... to be reminded of a mother you never had, right after you saved someone else's?"
She shook her head slowly, lips trembling. And then, looks at Dhairya and Shivaay, with a firm voice.
"I want to see her. She deserves so much more than a thank you. She deserves an apology. From both of us."
Shivaay nods, voice low, ashamed. "I'll... I'll find her."
"You'll be lucky if she even looks at you."
But the conversation was suddenly interrupted when Shivaay's phone buzzed, CM SAHAB. His Dad.
"Papa?"
"Biwi kahan hai meri?" The tone was urgent, scared and desperate.
(Where's my wife?)
A FEW MOMENTS AGO
Inside the CMO, A long mahogany table, political aides seated, state papers scattered. The Chief Minister of Rajasthan, Abhiraj Singh Rathore, dressed in a sharply pressed kurta-suit, was listening to a security update when-
His phone buzzes.
He glances at the screen. Radha. The color drains from his face.
He reads:
"There was a blast at the school. Bhabhi was hurt. Minor injuries. Safe. Shivaay aur Dhairya are with her."
His hand freezes midair. Time slows. He stands up, the chair scraping loudly behind him.
Abhiraj declares, interrupting the room, low but firm. "This meeting is over."
The officials look up, startled.
His Principal Secretary questions him, concerned. "Sir? CM-saab—"
"I said it's over."
He turns, already dialing.
Bluetooth on. The call connects.
END OF FLASHBACK, BACK TO PRESENT
"Dad, Maa is safe, stable. We're bringing her home."
"Thank God... Main nikal raha hoon."
(I'm leaving.)
"Papa, rukiye. Hospital ke cameras on ho sakte hein. This might be bigger. Aap bas chachu ko inform karo- this isn't just an attack, it's a breach. Sabko ghar par hi rakho.
(Dad stop. Hospital cameras might be on... You just inform chachu... Make everyone stay at home.)
"Understood." But the CM sounded tensed.
Suddenly, a female voice, soft but resolute, was heard in the background.
"Abhiraj, mujhe aap ghar le jaiye."
(Take me home.)
In the room, Shivaay looks at his mom—startled. Vasudha's face is calm but her eyes are ablaze. She doesn't even look at him.
Shivaay doesn't speak.
The air is heavy with the sting of what he said earlier to Hanitra.
Even Dhairya stays silent beside him, picking up the unspoken tension.
Minutes later, the caravan of the CM stopped at the entrance. Sirens. Flashes. Security pushes back the press.
Abhiraj's car skids to a halt.
He gets out.
No bodyguards. No convoy drama. Just him, sprinting inside like a man who doesn't care about his office—just his wife.
At the same time, Vasudha sits upright, her forehead bandaged, draped in a shawl. Poised, elegant even now.
Shivaay stands by the window. Dhairya is near the foot of the bed, holding her reports.
A nurse knocks slightly, eyes directing towards the man standing by the window, looking at his father stepping o. "Sir... CM Rathore just arrived."
Shivaay and Dhairya exchange a look.
Shivaay gently sets down the glass in his hand and speaks quietly.
"Let's give them a moment."
Dhairya nods.
The two men step out silently.
Four seconds later, the door opens.
Abhiraj steps in.
And for a moment, the CM fades.
He's just a man whose world shattered a little today.
Vasudha looks up.
Their eyes meet.
Years of strength. Years of love.
And in a second—
He strides forward and pulls her into a hug, cupping her head gently.
In a choked tone, as if finally taking a breath he was starved of for too long, he asks his love- "Theek ho na...?"
(You are fine right?)
She doesn't answer.
She just smiles softly and nods into his chest, holding him tighter than she has in years.
No cameras. No cabinet.
Just a husband and a wife.
In a world still reeling, they are home in each other.
Meanwhile on the other hand, Hanitra was in her temple room, sobbing from the harsh words she couldn't bear to digest. It was not the first time someone had questioned her mother, but the first time to be disgraced off for being an orphan like the way he had done.
"Why Kanha? Why did you let me be disgraced like that?? Maa hi to nahi hai, fir itna ko galat bolne diya aapne unhein?"
(I just don't have a mother, then why did you let him speak that much?)
She bursted into sobs again, trying to let out the grief she never got to feel.
"Kaash ki Maa hoti...."
(Wish I had a mother.)
But her thoughts got interrupted when her phone, that was still in her plazzo pocket, buzzed.
BABA.
She quickly wiped her tears, sniffs and then, picks up the call of the only person that is her family.
"Hello," she lets out in a raspy voice.
On the other side of the phone, Kasim looks at the caller id again and speaks, a bit confused and alert.
"Haani? Tu ro rahi hai?"
(Are you crying?)
She sniffs again, letting out fresh tears.
"Haan..." and clears her throat. "Haan.. Baba vo K3G dekh rhi thi.. aur fir aapki yaad aa gyi."
(I was watching K3G and then remembered you.)
He huffs. "He ladki bhi. Jab pata hai rona aata hai, to dekhti hi kyun hai? Paagal kahin ki."
(O God this girl. When you know you're gonna cry, why watch it then?)
Hanitra chuckles, softly. "Sab aapki galti. Amitabh ke itne bade fan to aap the, aur movie mujhe dikha di."
(It's all your fault. You are a fan of Amitabh, but make me match those movies.)
"Chal ye sab chhod, kal holi hai, plan bataiye madam ji."
(Leave all that. Tomorrow's holi, what are your plans?)
Holi.. The festival she loves too much.. Agra.. Those colours... Her Taj. Baba. Kanha..
But here she was now, in an unknown state, trying to uncover something that may turn out too dark.... Crying over a few words.
Haani, vo aadmi konsa tujhe roti deta hai, kehene de jo kehe raha hai. Ham kyun apne aap ko justify karein? Bhaad mein jaaye vo. Baba ke alawa kon important hai jo tu uski sune. Dekh, tu Holi miss kar rahi, worth it to bana, kya rona dhona laga rakha hai.
(HE doesn't feed you, let him say whatever he wants. Why should you justify yourself? Let him go to hell. Who's important that baba that you should hear him? See, you are missing Holi, your favourite festival, atleast make it worth it.)
"Kahan gyi aap devi?" An irritated voice cuts through her thoughts.
(Where did you just go?)
"Yahin hoon baba. Main kahan jaungi? Aap jaane bhi to nhi doge."
(Here only. Where will I even go? You don't let me.)
"Haan haan, main to baandhkar rakhta hoon uss pandit ki gudiya ko, haina?"
(O yeah. Like I keep you caged.)
"Hehehe."
"Has le. Has le. Jab main jaunga na kahin, tab dekhunga, kitne daant nikalegi."
(Laugh. Once I'm gone, then show these teeth.)
"Oho JANAB KASIM WAQAAR, ab aap kahan jaoge? Uparwale ka to koi plan nhi aapko invite karne ka."
(Where will you go? God has no invitation for you/)
"Tara, thodi der baad phone karta hoon, koi aaya hai."
(I'll call you later, someone's here.)
She got alerted in an instance. "Kon hai baba, itni raat gye?"
(Who's there, this late?)
"Gate par jaakar dekhunga na."
(I'll see once I reach the gate.)
"Baba agar koi anjaan ho, gate mat kholna. Kahin mere liye aayein ho."
(If it's a stranger, don't open the door. They might be for me.)
"Offf O, kitna darti hai, koi nahi aayega. Chal dhyaan rakhiyo apna."
(You get scared too much, no one will come. Okay, take care of yourself.)
"Jii... Bye Baba..."
And the line goes dead. Hanitra stands up again, wiping all those dried tears.
"Let's go back to work Hanitra madam."
On the other hand, there was a havoc in Shivaay's room, where Dhairya was reviewing a few documents his assistant had mailed. But his focus? Back to the hospital corridor. While Shivaay was sitting quietly, staring at his room ceiling.
"Don't you have a mother?" The line was haunting him devastatingly. For him, that girl was like a sister, young, aspiring, strong, yet the purest at emotions. Their meetings had always been professional, at award shows or seminars. But the way both had build a bond, it was deep to feel. They would tease each other, him like an elder brother, but her still not forgetting her formality. How both would discuss theories and rules on education. How, in drafting meetings, she would raise concerns over the kids, and the true essence and how he would question her for betterment.
And hearing his own best friend, his brother say such words to her, he was conflicted, angry, sad and much before.
Dhairya threw the file on the table.
Taking a deep breath, he speaks, finally. "You crossed a line."
"I didn't know—"
"That's the point. You didn't bother to know. She grew up in an orphanage, Shivaay. The man she calls 'father' now adopted her when she was seven. You think words don't scar just because you're angry?"
Shivaay sank into a chair, guilt clamping around his chest. He ran a hand through his hair. "I messed up."
"Of course you did! You were too busy yelling. She grew up without a mother, Shivaay. Don't throw that word around like it's universal. You wounded someone who never had what you threw in her face."
"Yaar.. Itna conflicted feel ho raha hai na... But fir maa ki vo state yaad aa jati hai, her forhead bleeding. Us ek moment pe, I remembered daadu and daadi.. How they.... left me.."
(I feel too conflicted. But then I remember mom's state.. At that moment..)
The minister takes a deep breath, closing his eyes for a second and then looking at his friend again.
"Bhaii, I understand yaar. Main bhi darr gaya tha.. but Shivaay, tune jo kaha na, galat tha..."
(I understand. Even I was scared.. but what you said was wrong.)
Before he could get an answer, his phone rang. NAUTANKI WALA.
He picked the video call and- "KYA HAAL DHOKEBAAZ?"
(How are you, traitor?)
VIVAAN YADUWANSHI, the Strategic Advisor to the Minister of Defence.
CORE SEVEN BOY.
CERTIFIED SASSY.
DRAMA LOVER.
"Kya hai? Cheekh kyun raha hai?"
(What? Why are you shouting?)
"MAIN CHEEKH RAHA HOON?"
(Am I shouting?)
"Nahi, tera bas speaker loud hai."
(Nope. You just have aloud speaker.)
"Vo to hai- Kon bola?"
(So do I hav- who said that?)
Dhairya switches the camera.
"SHIVAAY? TU SHIVAAY KE GHAR HAI? SAALE TERRORIST. DESH DROHI."
(You are at Shivaay's home? Bloody Terrorist. Traitor.)
"Tu dheere bolega. London nahi hai hum." Dhairya speaks irritated.
(Will you speak slowly? We're not in London.)
"PAR TU VAHAN HAI... JAIPUR... MUJHE BINA BATAYE..."
(But you're there.. without telling me.)
"Tu iski wife hai kya? Har khabar chahiye kya tujhe?"
(Are you his wife? Want every update.)
"HAAN. ISKA BANDA HOON MAIN.. BOL, KYA KAREGA?"
(Yeah. I'm his man. What will you do?)
"AUR MAIN ISKA RAKHAIL, MAIN NHI DENE DETA KHABAR. BOL."
(And I'm his mistress. I won't let him update you.)
But the man in question? Has himself face-palmed, muttering something between curses, Hindi idioms and Sanskrit shlokas.
"Vivaan, kya kaam hai tujhe? Yahan mera batwara mat karo please."
(Vivaan, what do you want? Don't fight over me like that.)
"Arey haan yaar. Iss kutte Shivaay ne bhulwa diya. Main kehe raha tha, main Jaipur aa raha hoon, kal shaam ko."
(Oh yeah bro. This bitch Shivaay made me forget. I was saying that I'm coming Jaipur, tomorrow evening.)
"Aur kis khushi mein? Mera ghar dharmshala nahi hai."
(And what for? My home is no pilgrimage.)
"PAR MERE LIYE HAI, AFFIDAVIT BANA RAKHA HAI MAINE."
(But it is. For me. I've an Affidavit.)
"Par main tujhe invite nahi kar raha."
(But I'm not inviting you.)
"Oho Shivaay. Tujhe konsa mardon wala dard reheta hai, jab dekho tab irritated."
(What disease are you suffering from? Always irritated?)
A laugh, A WILD LAUGH by none another than the Education Minister."
"Tumhari shakal hi aisi hai, irritate ho hi jaata hoon."
(You got that irritating face.)
"Haan haan, ham konsa vo... Hanitra hain, jo tujhe ham achche lagein."
(Oh yeah.. Afterall, we are not tha.. Hanitra that you'll feel good.)
Silence, dead silence.
"Kya hua tum dono ko? Tumhara camera freeze hai kya? Hello? ZINDA HO?"
(What happened to both of you? Is the camera freeze? Are you alive?)
And Dhairya lets out a heavy sigh.
"Sach mein kuch hua hai. D. Update de."
(Something really has happened.)
And he tells, in a serious tone, deadpan face, occasionally staring at Shivaay.
Vivaan, the chaotic number 1, speaks in a tone, too serious and too polite to be of Vivaan Yaduwanshi. "Shivaay ko phone diyo."
(Give the phone to Shivaay.)
And Dhairya does, both men sitting on the couch, phone in the hand of the other.
"TU APNI CRUSH PAR HI BHADAK GAYA? PAAGAL AADMI."
(You yelled at your crush? Mental piece.)
"She's not my crush."
"She's not my crush." both speak in unison, like synched schoolgirls, in a mocking tone.
"You look at her like she's the monsoon and you've been walking through a drought for years." Vivaan speaks.
Dhairya smirks.
"And your face the day she said, 'do you behave with every girl in the same way'—bro, that expression deserves an award. Like someone ran you over and backed up again."
Shivaay grits his teeth.
"Okay fine. I like her. Happy?"
"OH MY GOD! Ye kya bola?" The Drama Queen speaks, clutching his chest, "Kya—kya record kiya maine yeh? Dhairya, this moment goes in the Tragedy-Love Archives."
(What did you say? Did I record it?)
"Maine yoon hi kahan tha, tumhari satisfaction ke liye. But filhaal, all I need is forgiveness."
(I said it in the flow, just for your satisfaction. But currently...)
Vivaan waves his hand. "Alright, alright, let's deploy Protocol Redemption."
(He gets up, starts pacing dramatically in the frame.)
"Step one: dramatic apology.
Step two: handwritten letter.
Step three: white lilies, because symbolism.
Step four: public speech maybe? Banquet invite?"
At this, Dhairya cuts him, flatly.
"NOPE. She'll throw those lilies on your face.
And probably report the letter for bad handwriting."
Shivaay stands in front of the mirror, arms folded, lips moving.
He tries, but fails.
"Hanitra, I... I'm sorry I yelled at you... No, no. Too weak."
Vivaan adds support. "Maybe— 'Dekhiye Miss Hanitra...?"
"No. Ghanta." He gets cut by Dhairya.
Shivaay sighs. Starts again, gritting his teeth.
"You saved my mother. And I still... Maine tumhe..."
He groans. Pulls off the blazer and throws it on the couch.
"Then what do I do?"
"Filhaal to Lakshay ko bula." Vivaan says.
(Call Lakshay currently.)
"Ussey bada pata hai."
(As if he knows everything.)
"TU BAS CALL MILA."
(YOU JUST CALL HIM.)
And he does. Five seconds, and the call gets answered.
"Hello," the answer comes, in a sleepy tone.
"So raha tha kya yaar?" Dhairya questions.
(Were you sleeping?)
"Nahi. Jagrata kar raha tha."
(Nope. I was having a holy concert.)
"To prasad dene ham bhi aa jaiye prabhu."
(Then give us some prasad too.)
Hearing this tone, Lakshay stands, grinning. "Vivaan Bro?"
"Haan haan, main hoon, tu jaldi Shivaay ke room mein aa."
(Yes it's me. Come fast in Shivaay's room.)
The three boys count to nine and the door opens, slowly and softly, as Lakshay yawns.
"Bolo, kya hua.."
(Speak. What's wrong?)
Dhairya eyes Shivaay, clearly ordering him to ask.
"Lakshay... how do you apologize?"
Lakshay blinks hearing the question, all that sleep now gone.
"Sorry. Main to yahi bolta hoon."
(Sorry. That's how I do that.)
Vivaan closes his mouth, but laughs anyways..
"Gadhe.. How do you apologise to someone who is.. umm.. kaise samjhaun..."
(You fool..) (How should I explain that..)
"She likes Tulips. pink ones..."
Shivaay stares, blinking too slowly while the drama queens go chaotic at their third member.
"This man is not a secretary. He is bhavishya-vakta!" Dhairya goes theatrical.
"Sach me Hanitra ma'am ka hi case hai?"
Vivaan nods. "Aur tu solution laya hai."
(And you brought us a solution.)
But Shivaay, he was suspicious.
"Tujhe kaise pata?"
(How do you know that?)
"TU JAANKE KAREGA BHI KYA? EK TO VO TERI HELP KAR RAHA HAI, PAR NAHI, HUM TEHRE DHEET, NIKAMME."
(What will you even do after knowing? He's here, helping you but you are all stubborn.)
Shivaay grits his teeth.
"I. Just. Want. To. Say. Sorry."
Beat. The room falls still. Even Dhairya stares.
But then- Lakshay begins, softly.
"Then say it, bhai. Not as Rathore, nor as a CFO. Just as.. a man who knows he's wrong."
Dhairya nods, gathering all the seriousness he could.
"Hmm.. And get Tulips. And maybe, don't say anything at all."
Vivaan concludes his partner. "Haan. Let her see it."
NEXT MORNING
It was Holi, the festival of brightness and vividness of the colours. The whole Pink City was now painted colourful, with every shade being a symbol of happiness, joy, laughter.
Inside the Rathore Mansion, the family was laughing loudly. This year, it was just family, no poltical figure present. The Rathores were occupied with creating novel memories. Vasudha had just gone inside the kitchen, to get more Thandai for the kids of the chaotic zoo.
But was this laughter going to last for the entire day? Nope, that was the answer fate had choosen.
Lakshay, dressed in a white kurta and blue jeans just got a call and his face went pale. He dashed out of the room, too swift that the wind itself felt slow.
"BHAII. SHIVAAY BHAII." The voice ripped through the music like an arrow. The dhol stuttered, stopped. A fistful of red powder slipped from someone's hand and drifted to the ground in slow motion.
His voice echoed from the first floor into the entire house, loud enough that everyone, scattered across the front lawn and inside the home, came running.
"BHAII KAHAN HO AAP?"
Lakshay was a blur of white kurta and sweat, his hair plastered to his forehead, Holi powder streaked across his chest from where people had thrown it earlier. But there was no laughter on his face now — just raw urgency.
His footsteps were faster at the staircase, as he spotted the person he was shouting for. Dressed in a light blue kurta with embroidery, Shivaay was standing at only a few steps away from the last stair. The family had now rushed in, it was unusual to hear their beloved boy shout like this.
He charged down the marble steps from the upper wing, feet slipping on the scattered powders. He stumbled — almost fell — and Vasudha's sharp cry split the air:
"Lakshay!"
But he didn't stop. Didn't even glance at her.
The house parted for him like water around a rock, all eyes turning to follow the straight line between him and Shivaay.
Lakshay reached him, hand clutching his shoulder like an anchor, his chest heaving.
"...Shamsher Warehouse..." he gasped. "Burnt... all weapons... gone... every sector... every chamber..."
The words hit like stones. Conversations died mid-breath. Yuvaan's glass slipped from his hand and shattered on the floor. Holi reds on everyone's faces suddenly felt like blood splatter.
"It was Shekhawat..." Lakshay's voice was steel now, anger sharpening each syllable. "They dared to do it again."
Shivaay's jaw worked once. Dhairya, standing a step behind, was already moving forward without needing an order.
"Ye aadmi marega aaj...", Shivaay said, low and final, stepping forward like the earth had just tilted toward violence.
(This man is dying today.)
But then—
"Ruko, Shivaay."
(Stop Shivaay.)
A voice. Calm. Feminine. Immovable.
Every head turned toward the source.
Radhika Singh Rathore, the youngest daughter-in-law of the family, stood at the far edge of the hall. Her saree was dusted with colors, her bangles still chimed faintly from the Holi dancing, but her eyes... her eyes were not in the festival anymore.
"I'm coming," she said evenly, stepping forward. "Alone."
Vasudha's hand rose instantly.
"Radha nahi..." Her tone was sharp, the weight of elder authority in it.
Radhika's voice cut clean through the space between them.
"Nahi jiji... iss baar had paar ki hai unhone. Pehle Aarambh... aur ab yeh... nahi jiji, main chup nahi baithungi."
(No sister, not this time. First, it was Aarambh and now this? No, I won't stay quiet.)
Vasudha's eyes narrowed, her voice softer but heavy, as though each word carried history.
"Tumhara bhai hai vo, Radha."
(He's your brother.)
Silence. A single pinch of green powder slipped from someone's fist and floated down between them.
But Radhika's gaze didn't waver.
"Rathore khaandaan ki chhoti bahu hoon main, Jiji... aur jo mere parivaar ka dushman hai, vo mera dushman hai. Dev Shekhawat mere bhai sa the... par ab nahi."
(I'm the younger daughter-in-law of the Rathores. The enemy of my family is my enemy. Dev Shekhawat was my brother, but not anymore.)
A muscle in Devendra's jaw twitched as he stepped forward.
"Radha—"
But before he could finish, another voice came, deep and measured.
Abhiraj Singh Rathore, standing just beside his wife, spoke without looking at his younger brother.
"Vo Shekhawat nahi, Rathore hai, Devendra."
(She's not a Shekhawat, but a Rathore.)
The words were a blade. And they cut.
Radhika didn't pause. She walked straight past Devendra, the Holi powders on her saree now looking less like celebration and more like war-paint.
Shivaay watched her approach, neither inviting nor stopping her.
Lakshay adjusted his stance. Dhairya's eyes sharpened.
Without another word, the four of them — Shivaay, Dhairya, Lakshay, and Radhika — turned toward the gate.
As they stepped out, the music in the haveli had not returned. The dhol remained silent.
Halfway down the drive, Shivaay's phone buzzed. A message from his father:
"Apni chachi ko safe rakhna."
(Keep your aunt safe.)
Shivaay read it once.
No reply.
No change in expression.
The Holi colors on his skin were fading under the dust of the road ahead.
The drive to the Shekhawat mansion was silent except for the hum of the engine. Holi powder still clung to Shivaay's sleeves, but the brightness of it had dulled under the dust of the road. The car doors had barely clicked shut when he turned to Dhairya, voice low but edged.
"Dhairya... chachi ke saath hi rehna. No one should even touch her."
(D. Stay with chachi.)
Dhairya's nod was sharp, wordless.
But Radhika didn't wait for them. She was already striding toward the Shekhawat mansion gates, the place she had once run through as a little girl — barefoot, laughing, calling it home. Her heels struck the marble steps with sharp, echoing notes as she crossed the threshold of the place she had once called her own.
The heavy wooden doors opened, and the first thing she saw was the grand lobby she'd grown up in. The chandeliers still gleamed. The furniture still sat in the exact same positions. Even the faint smell of sandalwood and rosewater hung in the air.
At the far end of the lobby, a tall man rose from his armchair. His hair was more silver now, but his voice was the same.
"Guddu..."
She didn't flinch. Didn't smile. Didn't even slow down.
"Aapke bete kahan hai?" she asked flatly.
(Where's your son?)
And then her voice rang out through the halls, sharper, louder— "Dev Shekhawat... neeche aaiye!"
(Dev Shekhawat, come downstairs.)
A stillness fell over the lobby. Then — footsteps.
Footsteps echoed above. In the shadowed curve of the staircase, Dev, the second eldest among the four siblings, emerged, his face unreadable — until he saw her.
A smirk.
"Dekhiye, papa" He begins stepping down the stairs "..kaun aaya hai... iss ghar ki chhoti beti... Radhika Shekhawat—"
(Look dad, who's here- the youngest daughter...)
The last word never finished. Her palm cracked across his face before his foot touched the marble floor.
Her finger shot up, eyes blazing.
"Khabardaar... mera naam mat lijiye aap."
(I dare you. Don't you utter my name.)
From the right hallway, a younger man — her second brother, Vijay —came rushing in. His eyes darted from Dev's reddening cheek to Radhika's raised hand.
"Guddu... yeh kya kiya tune—"
(What did you do-)
He stepped forward, arm lifting to strike her—
But a hand caught his wrist mid-air.
Shivaay.
His voice was ice.
"Radhika. Radhika Singh Rathore. Rathore khaandaan ki bahu hai yeh. Aur meri chachi. Sambhal ke... 'Chotte Mama ji'."
(She's the daughter-in-law of the Rathores. And my aunt. Be careful..)
The younger Shekhawat froze, feeling the weight in Shivaay's grip, before pulling his hand back.
But Radhika's eyes hadn't left Dev's face.
"Mana kiya tha na maine... dushmani HUM aapas mein nibhayenge, parivaar par koi aanch nahi aani chahiye."
(Hadn't I warn you? WE will follow enemity, family will not be involved.)
A beat.
"Par har baar... har baar aapne ulta hi kiya. Pehle Abhiraj Bhai-sa... fir Aahan... uske baad meri jiji."
(But everytime.. you did the opposite. First Abhiraj, then Aahan and then my sister.)
Her voice drops, colder than steel.
"Ye mat bhooliye... kis aurat ka khoon hain ham Jaan deni nahi... sirf leni seekha hai."
(Don't you forget whose daughter I am. I learnt only to take lives, instead of giving my own.)
"Radhika—" her father's voice cut in, heavy, layered with authority.
Her father's voice carried authority, the kind that once could stop her mid-sentence. But now it only made her turn, slowly, until her eyes locked on him.
The air between them thickened.
The man who had raised her saw nothing of the little girl who once sat on his knee — only the Rathore daughter-in-law, standing with her shoulders squared, the weight of two powerful surnames in her blood.
"Kho chukein hai aap ye haq, Shekhawat Sahab."
(You've lost that right...)
The silence that followed the sentence was deafening. Every man in the lobby was staring at the only woman, only fire among them. But their emotions? Mixed. Three held pride, two held a longing too deep while one? Ego, for having the same woman in the house who had once, for the first time in her life, had yelled at him, shot him.
They start to turn away — Shivaay flanking her, Dhairya and Lakshay watching the exits — when Dev's voice, laced with mockery, rings out.
A sinister smirk crossed his face, when he spoke, his voice screaming in the lobby like an announcement.
"Papa! Behen pehli baar pag fere ke liye aayi hai. Welcome toh banta hai!"
(Our sister's here first time after her wedding. She deserves a welcome.)
The slow sound of boots. Shadows moved. Within seconds, armed men closed in from every side, boots circling, weapons glinting. The four Rathores' backs touched in a perfect square—Shivaay's gaze scanning for exits, Lakshay's fists tightening, Dhairya shifting his stance to cover Radhika.
Radhika's laugh was low and scornful. "Itna neeche gir gaye aap?"
(Have you gone too low?)
Dev's smirk sharpened. "Utha hi kab tha?"
(When did I not?)
There were no voices for a few milliseconds and then- BOOM!
The ground shook as smoke burst from the western wing. The west wing of the Shekhawat basement explodes, rattling the walls.
Dev's head snapped to the side just in time for—BOOM!—another explosion, this time from the east. Men scattered, some shouting, others reaching for radios.
A third BOOM! rattled the chandeliers. The west wing again.
Radhika's eyes never left Dev.
"RADHIKA DEVENDRA SINGH RATHORE HAIN HUM," she said, voice cutting through the chaos.
(I am...)
"Dushmani aur rishte, dono achche se nibhate hain. Aap hame ek tohfa de rahe hain..." She tilted her head toward the smoke. "Ek aur tohfa ham bhi saath laayein hai... Bhai Sa."
(I know how to maintain both, enmity and relations. You are giving me a gift and I brought you a gift.)
Dev's hand went to his pistol, the muzzle lifting to her chest.
She stepped forward. "Bhooliye mat... agar hum mare, toh marenge aap bhi. Hamara toh blood aur blood group, dono hi same hai, Bhai Sa. Soch... kaise na hogi."
(Don't forget, if I die, so would you. We both have the same blood and even the blood group. Why won't our thinkings align?)
A man tried to rush her from behind, but she pivoted—twisting his arm until bone cracked, then shoving him forward so he stumbled at Dev's feet.
Her voice was ice. "Chaar minute hain aapke paas. Ya toh hame maar dijiye... ya apni jaan bachaiye."
(You've four minutes. Either kill us or save your lives.)
They walked out without looking back—Shivaay's hand subtly guiding her to the SUV as Dhairya and Lakshay flanked.
Their silhouettes framed by the flicker of flames as, behind them, the Shekhawat mansion begins to burn, flames licking higher, smoke curling into the sky..
Dropping her home, the three men leave to visit the warehouse that was now shattered, to an extent.
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