14: A Promise Kept

11 August 2000

The city smelled like rain and intrigue.

Bharath stepped out of the auto rickshaw and pulled his borrowed cap lower, blending into the puddled shadows beside the narrow lane. The wet street gleamed under the flickering orange of a failing sodium lamp. A few vehicles clattered past, wheels slicing through monsoon run-off. A few beggars were huddled under plastic near a paan shop at the end of the road, chewing tobacco and watching everything.

Behind him, Priya adjusted her dupatta and slung a messenger bag across her body. Anya, in oversized glasses and a pastel kurti that softened her usual edge, kept her expression vague and curious — the wide-eyed rich girl on a reckless evening stroll.

They were less than a kilometre from Sundar Palace— the hotel that appeared to be the center of this whole affair. They had travelled along the hotel along Elgin Road until they were able to see landmarks that seemed to match what Anya had found out from Rafique - Rekha’s driver - and Celina’s clues in the dream.

“That has to be the place”, said Bharath as they converged close to the non-descript house. “Celina mentioned there was a shuttered bakery near the place she is holed up in”.

“Let’s check it out. Wait for my signal,” Priya murmured as they crossed the street.

The house didn’t advertise itself. It was tucked between a shuttered Ayurvedic clinic with a single dusty fan turning in the window and a bakery. A handmade sign on the door said Closed for Renovation. A lie, of course. The soft glow behind the acrylic curtains and the faint perfume of attar seeping through the cracks told another story.

Bharath’s jaw tightened.

They waited across the road, under the awning of a tea stall. A cat mewled somewhere above, scrambling across the sloped tiles of a crumbling roof. Rain threatened again, and a sticky breeze rustled the torn posters on the brick walls:

Amitabh Bachchan in “Lal Badshah.”

A New Dawn in Bengali Theatre.

Learn English Fast — Enroll Now!

A swarthy man emerged from the house. Thin. Cigarette hanging from lips. Phone pressed to his ear. A guard!

Bharath’s fists curled at the sight of him.

Anya touched his shoulder gently. “Not yet.”

“Let’s split,” Priya said. “I’ll take the tailor’s lane behind and circle to the laundry side. If there’s a rear exit, it’ll be there. Anya, take the steps up to the bookstore terrace — it overlooks the roof. Bharath, linger near the chai stand. You’ll blend in with the students.”

They nodded and split, melting into the Calcutta dusk.

Anya crouched behind a broken parapet wall, squinting through a pair of beat-up binoculars she’d bought for five rupees near Sealdah Station.

The terrace below was overgrown with moss and patched with tar. She saw a man open a side window and lean out — smoking, maybe. Then another.

Anya’s stomach churned.

She marked the angles, memorizing exits. Then slipped back down, her soft-soled slippers whispering over the wet stairs.

Priya’s path curved through a broken stretch of street once used by bicycle delivery boys. Now it was just tin sheets and rain-streaked walls. She paused by a garbage bin and noted two things.

One — a broken door padlocked hastily but poorly.

Two — there was only one guard near the door. It appeared that most of the guards were nearer the front door.

She jotted it down in her little notebook.

Then, from behind the shadow of an electric pole, she noticed a man watching her from inside the house. Not openly. Just a flicker of suspicion from a second-storey grill.

She turned, muttering to herself loudly like a disgruntled customer, and made her way back the way she came.

Bharath stood with a glass of cutting chai in hand at the tea stall, head lowered. He listened.

To two rickshaw pullers talking about “some rich function” in the lane behind.

To a man in a cheap suit telling another to be “discreet — they don’t like loud girls.”

And to the radio behind the chaiwala, which played a slow Talat Mahmood tune — Zindagi Dene Wale Sun...

It sounded like a prayer.

Then he saw Priya signal from across the street.

Anya joined them seconds later, cheeks flushed. “There’s movement. But quiet. Controlled. I counted five men. All with the same bored expression of violence.”

Priya flipped her notebook open. “Rear exit’s barely locked. There is only one guard around there. It appears most of the guards are focused on the front entrance. The house has rooms with tinted windows and no CCTV — not even dummy cams. It’s a holding zone.”

“She’s inside,” Bharath said quietly.

“Or was,” Priya corrected. “These places rotate the girls regularly. She could’ve been moved again.”

Anya crossed her arms. “Then we need to get in.”

Bharath’s eyes didn’t move from the guesthouse door.

“Tomorrow,” Priya said. “In daylight, posing as someone that can ask questions and stake out the inside more. Anya and I can pretend to be census takers — we can ask questions and see if they invite us inside while we figure out the exact manner in which the guards are deployed. Bharath, you’ll wait outside. You can stay here tonight and follow if they move anyone before we can figure out a way inside.”

Anya gave him a searching look. “Can we hold the rescue till morning?”

Bharath didn’t speak. But his gut screamed.

“She’s in there,” he said quietly. “She needs me now. I have to get her out”

Bharath looked around. The alley was too narrow for a car. Too quiet for a snatch and run.

“Distraction,” he said. “We need a damn riot. The beggars! Also, we need a way to escape if we do get her out.”

Anya and Priya understood immediately. They nodded at each other as they quickly walked towards the blue tarp across at the end of the road.

A cluster of ragged shapes huddled beneath the patchwork blue tarp at the far end of the lane — scavengers of monsoon life, bundled in torn shawls, eating from dented tins, trading warmth for survival. The air reeked of damp clothes, rusted coins, and old tobacco.

Anya strode toward them first, her hands visible, her voice lowered to a conspiratorial murmur. Priya trailed close behind, letting her street-hardened eyes do the talking.

One of the men looked up — middle-aged, missing several teeth, a beedi drooping from his lower lip. “Eh, didi? Lost your way?”

“Looking for trouble,” Anya said sweetly. “And hoping you’re the kind who can sell some.”

That got a few laughs. A younger boy — barefoot, ribs like railings — whistled low. “This one’s fancy. Must be mad.”

Priya crouched near the fire tin, tossing a folded ten-rupee note into the embers for effect. “We need a ruckus. Ten minutes. Big. Loud. Ugly. Enough to make the guards run out of that house and forget what’s inside.”

Four faces turned sharper. The one-legged man tapped his crutch once against the ground. “What kind of ruckus? How many bones are we breaking?”

“No bones,” Priya said. “But piss someone off. Really piss them off. Shout about corruption. Religion. Price of petrol. Anything. Tip a cycle cart. Block the street. Make it look like a scene out of Do Bigha Zamin.”

The oldest woman among them — face a web of creases, sari patched with plastic thread — spat sideways. “And what’s in it for us?”

Anya pulled a wad of cash from the hidden pocket inside her kurti. Not much, but enough to make eyes widen.

“Fifty each now. Another fifty if I hear shouting inside the guesthouse. Double if someone slaps you.”

“Double if we slap them back?” asked the boy, grinning.

“Triple,” Priya said dryly. “If you bite.”

They all laughed.

One of the women cracked her knuckles. “Time to earn our living the fun way.”

A gangly teen bolted down the street, calling for more. “Come! Chunni-ma’s starting a protest! Bring the cycle horns!”

Another pulled a rusted pan from her bag and banged it with a spoon like a war drum. “Roti maange, thali todenge!”

The man with the crutch got to his feet with a grunt, eyes gleaming now. “Just say when.”

Anya pointed toward the guesthouse with her chin. “When I yell ‘Jai Kali,’ you start. No sooner. No later.”

He tipped his chin. “And when do we stop?”

Priya smirked. “When the police come. Or when you see me wave a red scarf.”

The tarp erupted into motion — rags flying, beedis stubbed out, voices sharpening like knives honed on rage. A few of them were already slipping into character — muttering curses, adjusting torn shawls to look more disheveled, picking up discarded bottle caps and slingshots like props in an impromptu street play. For a bonus hundred rupees, one of the beggars got the girls a scooter cart from a nearby lane. He winked telling her that he borrowed it sometimes.

Anya stood back beside Priya, heart hammering, as the ragged theatre of chaos assembled itself behind them.

It started with a brick through the window.

A jagged crash of glass cut through the quiet lane like a gunshot. The guard at the front gate jolted, then ducked instinctively as a second brick hurtled past his ear and slammed into the doorframe, sending splinters flying.

Then came the shouting.

“CHOR! Chor log hai yeh! Thieves! These people are thieves!” screamed a woman in a torn green saree, hurling a dented steel thali against the locked front gate. The sound rang like a gong.

Another man — scarred, his beard wild — staggered forward with eyes bulging, dragging a burning tire he had lit at the nearby paan shop. “You took my mother!” he bellowed, voice cracking from both rage and smoke. “You think we don’t see what you do behind those walls?”

The tire was heaved forward and landed inside the compound with a whoosh of flame. It rolled briefly, kissed the fringe of the garden hedge, and caught. The dry monsoon-leached plants in the shade hissed, then roared to life.

Inside, chaos exploded.

One of the guards shouted, “Fire! Fire! At the gate!” and another bolted toward the perimeter with a sand bucket. But more bottles were flying now — beer bottles, wrapped in cloth, soaked in kerosene. Improvised molotovs. One landed near the veranda, sending a bloom of fire skyward. Another smashed against the front door, its contents igniting the jute welcome mat in seconds.

And then came the pots.

The beggars had raided the tea stall, arming themselves with anything not nailed down. Kettles, rusted pans, shards of crockery. One hurled a cracked pressure cooker like a discus. It slammed into a guard’s chest with a dull clang, knocking him flat.

“BACHAO! HELP!” the guards were screaming now. “Get the hose! Get the hose!”

One ran into the courtyard and slipped on the wet tile, crashing into a potted plant that shattered beneath him. Another guard fired a warning shot into the air — but it only made things worse.

The mob screamed louder. A child, barely ten, leapt up and hit the gate with a brick, howling in defiance. Behind him, a woman shrieked curses in Bengali and tossed chili powder through the bars.

“AAKH MEIN CHALA GAYA!” one of the guards screamed, dropping his baton, clutching his face. “My eyes!”

“RAAND KE BACHE!” howled another beggar, swinging a broken bicycle chain.

Smoke began pouring out from under the veranda roof where the flames had caught onto the plywood archway. Sparks danced into the air. Someone threw a bucket of dirty water at the flames — and missed, dousing two guards instead.

Inside the house, lights flickered. Panic set in. You could hear men yelling through muffled walls — “Check the back! Make sure they don’t get in from there!”

But the rear alley had already been breached.

Two beggars had slithered through the loose fence and were pounding on the rear exit with sticks. One lit a bag of trash and shoved it over the fence near the back door. Flames licked up quickly — and with them, screams.

The front gate swung open with a metallic screech as one of the guards finally unlatched it to chase the rioters away.

That was a mistake.

The beggars surged forward like a flood.

Some didn’t even go in — they just shouted and waved their weapons in the air, keeping the guards distracted, drawing them into hand-to-hand shoves and desperate swings. One woman slapped a guard so hard he lost his balance. Another spat paan into the face of a man reaching for his walkie-talkie.

Whistles blew. Shoes slipped. Tempers frayed.

Nobody noticed the back alley go quiet.

And nobody saw the two shadows — Bharath and Priya — slip in through the smoking rear fence as the flames licked higher into the grey, chaotic sky.

It was chaos incarnate.

And exactly what they needed.

Priya crouched at the alley’s edge as the shouts of the beggars rose into full-blown chaos. A second bottle smashed against the outer wall. Flames licked the gatepost. One of the beggars began howling something about stolen sisters.

Priya whispered, “Now.”

Bharath vaulted the rear fence in two fluid strides, his boots landing in a puddle with a splash he immediately absorbed into a crouch. Mud clung to his soles as he pressed against the guesthouse’s mold-slicked rear wall. The back door was flimsy. He pushed it gently, just enough to hear the old wood groan.

Inside.

Stale air. Mildewed walls. A corridor that reeked of damp cloth, mothballs, and sweat. The ceiling fan rattled above, spinning without stirring the heat.

He moved like shadow — low, fast, silent.

To his right: a kitchen in disarray. To his left: a half-lit corridor lined with crates. He passed it. Something creaked behind him.

A guard. Heavy boots, keys clinking. Rushing down the far end.

Bharath ducked behind a stacked fridge, crouched low as the man passed — ranting to himself, muttering something about “bloody beggars.”

He didn’t see Bharath.

Not yet.

Bharath moved again, pressing forward. His heart beat fast, not from fear — from calculation. Every sound was a data point. Every wall a potential threat. He was playing midfield inside a house of wolves.

Then — voices. Two of them. Rounding the corner fast.

No escape this time.

He pressed himself against a storeroom door, eyes scanning for anything—anything—useful.

His hand found a rusted fire extinguisher.

The guards appeared, arguing about something. They stopped mid-step when they saw the dark shape moving at the end of the hallway.

“Who the—?”

Bharath surged forward like a spring released. The extinguisher connected with the first guard’s temple — a heavy, sickening thunk. The man dropped.

The second guard barely had time to turn around. Bharath drove his shoulder into the man’s back, and wrapped his forearm tight around the throat.

The man flailed — gasped — then went limp.

Bharath lowered him silently.

No gunfire. No alarms.

He moved again, faster now.

A row of doors. Then — one with a steel bolt across the outside. A flickering light underneath.

He knew this was the correct door.

He slid the bolt, slipped in—

Celina.

She was curled in the corner like a broken prayer. Her wrists were raw. Her lip split. Her eyes, bruised and fluttering open, widened slowly.

“ ... Bharath?” Her voice was barely there. A breath.

He knelt, his hand brushing her cheek. “I’m here.”

She flinched. Then grabbed him — hard — both fists clutching his shirt.

“You came,” she whispered, half disbelief, half surrender.

He didn’t know whether to cry or collapse. Her voice made the chaos worth it. So, he kissed her instead.

Not just to comfort her.

To remind her.

To promise her she was real, wanted, claimed, and saved.

He wrapped his jacket around her. She was shivering. Her voice cracked. “I don’t think I can walk.”

“Then don’t,” he whispered. “I’ve got you.”

He lifted her into his arms — gently, reverently — as if cradling something holy.

And then he ran.

Smoke curled along the ceiling now. Shouts from the front. Screams. Sirens in the distance. A chair crashed somewhere upstairs.

He ducked beneath a broken stairwell beam. Turned a corner. Froze—

Another guard.

Close.

Too close.

Bharath stepped sideways behind a curtain. The guard passed, distracted by the noise outside. Just seconds.

Bharath moved again, emerging into the back corridor. A smear of blood trailed behind him from Celina’s arm. He pressed on.

Priya was at the back gate, eyes wide. “Bharath?”

Bharath emerged like a phantom from smoke. Celina in his arms. Sweat glistening on his brow. Chest heaving.

“Open it.”

Priya yanked the latch.

Anya was already at the wheel of the ramshackle scooter cart, engine sputtering.

Meanwhile the police had finally arrived at the scene. A beggar screamed and threw a crate over a police jeep trying to enter the lane.

“Go, go, go!”

Bharath climbed into the cart, shielding Celina’s head as they bounced over potholes. She whimpered once, then went limp again.

But her hands were still gripping his shirt.

And she didn’t let go.

The scooter-cart rattled down the back lanes of Bhowanipore, lights off, engine coughing through the narrow streets. Celina lay across the seat, wrapped in Bharath’s shirt, her hair matted with blood and sweat. She clutched his hand like a lifeline.

Bharath’s face was locked in a furious calm, eyes scanning every turn. “We can’t go to a hospital with her like this.”

“She’d be reported,” Priya agreed. “Too many questions. Too many eyes.”

“Do we have a safehouse we can take her to instead?” Anya asked, trying to control the steering while looking over her shoulder at them in the back.

“No,” Priya muttered. “We didn’t plan this far.”

“Brilliant,” Anya said. “We storm a Syndicate house without an exit plan.”

“This is not the time,” Bharath snapped. “We need a quiet place. Dark. Untraceable.”

Celina stirred faintly. “Don’t fight...”

“We’re not fighting, jaan,” Anya said gently, brushing her fingers over her forehead. “We’re just being idiots.”

They pulled over near a shuttered shop, the sputtering engine ticking in the dark.

A dog barked somewhere far off. The city throbbed around them, oblivious.

“She can’t stay on the streets,” Priya said. “And my safehouses are too far from here. Someone will see the three of us with her.”

“Then we hide her in plain sight,” Bharath said suddenly. “Our apartment.”

Priya hesitated. “It’s risky.”

“Which makes it safe,” he replied. “Who’d think we’d bring her to the one place people already know we live?”

Anya met Priya’s gaze. “We can keep the curtains drawn. Bharath’s barely seen during the day anyways. I’ll handle the neighbors.”

“I’ll prep the divan in the living room,” Priya said. “Lock the balcony. No sunlight on her face till the swelling goes down.”

“Think she can walk?” Anya asked.

Bharath looked down. Celina was trying to sit up, trembling. “She doesn’t need to. I’ll carry her.”

They nodded.

No more arguing. No time to waste.

Kim was just stepping out of her hostel’s common room, her clipboard clutched to her chest, when her phone buzzed.

Unknown Number

She frowned. Bharath hadn’t messaged her all day — and last night, the dream hadn’t come. No Anya. No him.

Her stomach was still twisted with questions when she picked up.

“Hello?”

A pause. Then—

“Kim? It’s me. Bharath.”

Her heart jolted. “Bharath?”

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice rough. “I didn’t want to call unless it was urgent.”

Kim stepped into a quieter corner, the corridor humming with tube lights. “Is everything okay?”

“No. We need your help. It’s Celina.”

Kim blinked. “Celina Singh? From the gala?”

“Yes,” he said. “She’s ... she’s been hurt. Badly. We just got her out of a place. She’s alive, but not stable.”

Kim’s chest tightened. “What happened?”

“She was taken. Beaten. It’s bad, Kim. Really bad. We can’t take her to a hospital — too many questions. But she needs treatment. Now.”

Kim was already walking fast. “Tell me what you need.”

Bharath listed it off — antiseptics, antibiotics, painkillers, fluids, gauze, anything to stabilize trauma and fight infection. “We’ll explain more later. Please. Come to our apartment in Ballygunge. Can you write down the address?”

“I know where it is”

“You do?”

“Yeah. I kind of got that information from the club admin today.”

Kim scribbled it all down on the back of a torn flyer from her folder, nodding even though he couldn’t see.

“I’ll get what I can. Might take some time. An hour?”

“Text me when you’re close,” Bharath said. “Anya or Priya will let you in.”

Kim paused. “Why didn’t you tell me this was going on? I thought I was part of this now.”

He hesitated. “You are. We just ... didn’t want to drag you into something dangerous. Not yet.”

Her throat tightened. “So you decided for me?”

“I’m sorry, Kim. We were focused on getting Celina back. That’s all.”

She didn’t answer.

“Please,” he added. “Celina needs you. I need you.”

That landed harder than anything else. She steadied her voice. “I’m coming.”

He exhaled — grateful, desperate. “I knew I could count on you.”

The call ended, but Kim stood still for a moment, the hallway suddenly too quiet. Celina. The Celina. The third name Bharath and Anya had talked about. The stormy gorgeous apsara that could stop time itself with her beauty.

They didn’t dream with her last night. Because they were chasing someone else. Celina. How could she compete with someone as beautiful as Celina?

She shook these maudlin thoughts away and moved fast. The infirmary wouldn’t have everything. But there was a compounder near Park Circus who owed her for tutoring his niece. If she played the right card, bent the story a little...