18: The Missing Girl

12 August 2000

The air behind Deshapriya Park was thick with early morning humidity and the smell of wet dust from the overnight drizzle. The city was still in half-sleep - milk vendors on rattling cycles, muttering aunties with brass kalshis, and sparrows hopping across clotheslines like they had somewhere better to be.

Arjun adjusted the sleeves of his pale ivory kurta as he turned down the familiar lane. From any angle, he was just another middle-aged man fetching groceries before the morning news and his first cup of cha.

“O dada! Laal shorshe holo boro sundor aaj!” came the cheerful cry from behind a crate - The red mustard greens are especially fresh today!

The vegetable vendor smiled with a gap-toothed grin, nodding toward a carefully arranged pyramid of lau (bottle gourd), jhinge (ridge gourd), potol (pointed gourd), and shutki-covered dhoney pata (coriander still dusted in dried fish smell from the stall next door).

Arjun gave the man a subtle nod. “Ektu bandhakopi dao. Aar ... peyara ache?” - A bit of cabbage. And ... any guavas?

“Apnar jonne rekhechi!” - Kept just for you!

The act was smooth, almost boring in its perfection. There was nothing to overhear. Nothing to see.

The vendor handed over the jute bag, heavier than it looked. Arjun didn’t pause. He gave a customary grunt of thanks and continued walking.

Two lanes down, past a half-open gate and a rusting Contessa classic with a Kalighat temple sticker on the windshield, he slipped into the shade of a banyan tree. The smell of moonshade lingered faintly on the sidewalk.

There, concealed between pages of Anandabazar Patrika newspaper, was the day’s truth.

[INTERNAL FIELD REPORT – 12 AUGUST 2000]

LOCATION: Syndicate Safehouse (1.2 km from Sundar Residency)
TIME: 11 August, approx. 21:10 hours
EVENT: Riot instigated outside compound.
DETAILS: Group of beggars began hurling objects at front gate. Hostile. Chaotic.

3 guards injured attempting to subdue.

Source of provocation unknown. Group fled before police arrived.

Police report filed. Cause stated as “vagabond unrest.”

BREACH: Girl missing post-riot.
SUBJECT: Celina - Acquisition under Rekha’s Mumbai initiative.

Background: Model. Known figure in modeling circuit. Volatile reputation.

Transferred as debt repayment via known patsy contact.

Seen as a high-value product.

Noted: Exception to anonymity guidelines. Known face.

CONDITION:

Shackles found unfastened.

Blood present on the mattress and concrete floor.

No eyewitness confirmation of exit.

No vehicle identified.

Guards stationed at front engaged during the riot. Rear access unchecked for 4–6 minutes.

BUYER: Bansal (repeat client) - Syndicate Infrastructure Head

Reported major injuries. Beaten by Celina before her escape with a brass lamp

Demanding immediate reimbursement and personal compensation.

Blaming Rekha for “defective” delivery and breach.

CURRENT STATUS:

Girl unaccounted for.

Rekha unreachable (mobile off overnight).

Internal chatter subdued.

No matching patient admitted to local clinics/hospitals yet.

Continuing surveillance on med facilities.

EXTERNAL THREAT:

Satyabrata Roy (Calcutta Chronicle) sniffing near Regent courier links.

Currently lacks logistical capability for interference.

Escalation possible. Recommend increased scrutiny of his movement.

Arjun read the whole thing in silence, lips set in a flat line.

Celina. That was her name. He remembered now - Rekha’s voice boasting on the call a week ago about her latest prize. “A model. The industry knows her. She’s high-end.”

That had been the first mistake. Bringing in someone recognisable. Someone whose face lived in magazines and editor portfolios. It defeated the point of using ghosts.

He folded the paper, returned it to the lauki, and stepped back into the light.

His gate was only a short walk away now. A woman swept the pavement in front of the flats. Two crows fought over a biscuit wrapper near a school wall.

He adjusted his glasses as he stepped through the compound gate, nodding to a neighbor.

No one would ever think to wonder.

Not about Arjun. Not about the fresh vegetables. And certainly not about the girl - broken, vanished, and now stirring the embers of a fire Rekha might not be able to contain.

The line with Rekha went dead. Arjun placed the secure phone face-down on the teak desk. A soft click. No sigh. No furrowed brow. He simply reached for the next page in the file he’d been reading - a mundane land allotment proposal from Howrah - and scanned it while his mind moved elsewhere.

The midday sun filtered through high colonial windows. Somewhere down the hall, a clerk’s sandals slapped lazily against the marble. Behind Arjun’s desk, a dusty pedestal fan whirred in rhythmic bursts. He looked, as always, every bit the calm, mid-ranking IAS officer - pressed white shirt, grey slacks, reading glasses perched neatly.

No one here knew that a Syndicate storm was unfolding beneath his fingertips.

His morning briefing - folded inside a packet of laal shaak and pui leaves, delivered by the sabziwala outside his Lake Gardens house - had been exacting.

Riot. Chaos. A security breach at the Bankra safehouse.

The girl - Celina - gone.

No van. No confirmed exit route. No IDs. She was there when the riot started. By the time police arrived, she was not. A locked basement, now empty. The guards couldn’t say when it happened. They were too busy fending off rocks and bamboo sticks hurled by lunatics in rags.

Or mercenaries in disguise, Arjun thought grimly.

The official version being pushed was simple: local vagrants, enraged by mistreatment, had rioted spontaneously. But the scale of the attack, the way it targeted the perimeter and not the structure - it stank of orchestration. Someone had created a smokescreen. And amid that smoke, a high-value asset had vanished.

Not escaped. Vanished.

Rekha had offered a theory: the buyer - Bansal - had returned for revenge. Maybe sent his own men to take the girl after her “performance.” Humiliation often led to recklessness, and Bansal was known to mistake his entitlement for omnipotence.

It wasn’t implausible. But it wasn’t elegant either.

Bansal’s injury was real - a cut lip, bruised ribs. His pride, even more so. He was already demanding restitution: repayment, replacement, and silence. Arjun had no intention of obliging any of those. Let him bark. Let him bleed. The more urgent issue was the hole - who breached the perimeter, and how. Someone opened a door. Someone looked away at the right time. The Syndicate’s web had been too quiet for too long - and quiet, Arjun knew, was not peace. It was pressure. And pressure always broke from the inside.

He reached into his drawer and pulled out the secondary secure phone and dialed his PA.

“Sir.”

“Begin the internal sweep. Prioritize personnel over the last month - all roles. Get eyes on guards, runners, food handlers, even laundry pick-ups. Look for pattern shifts. Any sick leaves or disappearances since last night - flag them.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Also check unofficial shelters. Hospitals. Backdoor clinics. If the girl was injured as badly as the early chatter claims, someone treated her. Quietly.”

“Understood.”

Arjun didn’t need to say more. His PA would move like oil - slow, slick, penetrating every crack.

He leaned back and glanced at the folded newspaper again. The riot made page five: “Mob Violence Disrupts Local Property on Elgin Road.” Generic, unthreatening.

The name Celina didn’t appear.

But it would. Eventually.

She was too fair. Too beautiful. Too memorable.

Rekha had made a cardinal error, one he wouldn’t forgive easily. Known faces didn’t disappear cleanly. Not in Calcutta. Not in the world of whispers.

He closed the file, slid it aside, and stood. Smoothed down his shirt. In twenty minutes, he’d be at a small felicitation ceremony for sanitation workers - clapping, posing, offering lukewarm praise.

A clean man. A quiet man. And beneath that, the fire already simmered. If someone inside his web had betrayed him ... they’d burn before sundown.

13 August 2000

The old alleys of Bankra hadn’t changed. But the mood had. It hung like static before a thunderstorm - too quiet, too tense, like even the stray dogs knew to keep their heads down.

Priya walked like a stranger to herself - eyes lowered, dupatta drawn, bangles tucked into her bag so they wouldn’t clink. She turned left at the paan shop, crossed over a broken water pipe, and stopped just shy of the corner pharmacy.

From between two rust-stained shutters, Jhuma emerged, clutching a plastic bag of medicine. Her hair was oiled and tied. She walked briskly, like someone who didn’t want to be noticed.

Priya fell into step beside her without a word.

Jhuma didn’t look at her, but her voice was taut. “What are you doing here, didi?”

“I needed to see you.”

“You shouldn’t have come.”

“I had to.”

They walked a few paces in silence, the sounds of daily life rattling around them - a baby crying upstairs, someone slamming a steel tiffin, the bell of a cycle-rickshaw echoing faintly.

Finally, Priya asked, “Something’s wrong, isn’t it?”

Jhuma nodded slightly, her jaw clenched. “It’s bad today. People are jumping at shadows. Hard faces. No one’s saying much. But something’s off.”

“What kind of off?”

“The kind where even the guards don’t argue during lunch. The kind where the main door is bolted from the inside during daytime.”

Priya frowned. “Did anything happen?”

Jhuma shook her head. “Not that they told us. But some rooms were locked this morning. I saw the saheb from upstairs go out with blood on his sleeve.”

“Blood?”

“Could be nothing,” Jhuma muttered. “Or everything. I don’t know. But there’s fear, didi. You can smell it. Something’s broken loose.”

They reached a bend in the road where the alley opened up into traffic. Jhuma paused, eyes scanning the crowd.

Then, softly: “Please go. Before someone notices.”

Priya’s voice was low. “Did anyone ask about me?”

“No,” Jhuma said. “But today feels like a day people remember faces.”

Priya nodded.

And without another word, she turned and vanished into the crowd.

The city flowed around her like smoke.

She crossed to Shibpur, changed autos twice, bought a bag of peanuts she didn’t eat, and kept her head down - just another woman with errands and secrets.

But her mind was racing.

Something had happened. Something big.

Blood. Locked rooms. Guard silence. That wasn’t standard paranoia. That was the kind of panic that came when something slipped - and nobody knew how.

A girl had vanished. She didn’t need to guess which girl.

It had to be Celina.

Which meant the Syndicate would assume betrayal - or breach.

They’d start tightening the web. Looking inward. Watching.

Cleaning house.

She shivered despite the sweat on her neck.

If anyone suspected her ... if anyone had seen her speaking to Jhuma...

She took three more turns before heading toward the apartment. Just in case.

Near Southern Avenue, Calcutta

The smog caught the sunset in its teeth and dragged it down slow - streaks of orange smothered in grey. Priya walked briskly along the quieter lanes, one hand in her jhola bag, the other clenching and unclenching.

She didn’t look back.

She’d taken four wrong turns deliberately, stopped at a mithai shop for two pieces of cham cham she didn’t want, and paused to adjust the strap of her sandal by a temple wall she’d never prayed against.

And still - the feeling wouldn’t go.

Something is broken. And they don’t know how. That made it worse. When the Syndicate didn’t understand something, they didn’t investigate - they incinerated. Quietly. Efficiently. From the bottom up. And somewhere in that list of expendables, her name was likely hovering.

She crossed onto Southern Avenue, the sound of footballs being kicked in the Maidan echoing faintly across the dusk. The scent of frying begunis wafted from a roadside stall. Her stomach growled. She ignored it.

Celina’s face floated into her mind - bruised, frightened, but recovering. Bharath’s arm around her. Anya hovering protectively. Even Kim, now, beginning to belong.

They were a team. A family. Which meant she couldn’t afford to be reckless anymore.

And that brought her back to Satyabrata Roy.

The journalist who shouldn’t matter. The man who wrote about celebrity divorces and gala dinners. But he’d been near the right things. His photos caught the background noise. His columns had ghosts between the lines. And her instincts - honed through years of survival - had reacted the moment she saw him.

He wasn’t just guessing. He was looking. Which made him useful. But also dangerous.

Still, she needed a contact on the outside. Someone not in their circle. Someone who could blow a whistle if the rest of them were silenced. And she wanted to know what kind of man left the safety of press credentials to get ribs broken outside Howrah Station.

She bit her lip. How should she reach him without exposing herself?

The Chronicle’s office was out of the question - too public, too risky. But she remembered something Anya had mentioned absentmindedly one night - that Roy was covering a pop-up event at Bosepukur Cultural Centre sometime in the coming week.

Something about a classical music series sponsored by a saree brand. Priya allowed herself the faintest of smiles. Not glamorous enough for Rekha’s radar. Just visible enough to test the waters. She would find a way to be there.

Not as herself. Not yet. But close enough to watch. Close enough to decide. Was Satyabrata Roy her next mistake? Or their best chance?

The kitchen smelled of mustard seeds, curry leaves, and pure thirst.

Bharath stood at the stove in nothing but black shorts - tight enough to leave very little to imagination - and an apron he hadn’t been allowed to tie properly. Kim had yanked the knot loose within minutes. Anya had banned all shirts under the pretense of “ventilation.” Celina insisted Priya would call before entering.

Now, Bharath’s sculpted back - all corded strength and sinful geometry - shimmered with steam as he stirred the sambar with the concentration of a monk and the body of a god.

“Back up,” he muttered without turning. “I can feel all your eyes like lasers.”

“Oh, we’re not using eyes,” Anya purred, her fingers grazing his obliques. “We’ve upgraded to hands.”

“You’re being objectified,” Kim said cheerfully, propping her chin on his shoulder. “But in a spiritual way.”

“Like darshan,” Celina added reverently. “But for your abs.”

Bharath sighed, flicking water at the sizzling mustard seeds. “I’m trying to fry aloo.”

“We’re trying to fry you,” Anya whispered.

Celina, lounging on the counter in a tank top far too cropped to be legal, reached out and pulled gently at the apron strap hanging down his back. “This is decorative, right? Not functional?”

“Touch that knot and someone’s getting fed raw drumstick,” he warned.

Anya ignored him entirely, trailing her finger down the middle of his spine. “Have you seen yourself in this light? The yantra has officially upgraded your ass. It’s ... golden ratio level symmetry.”

Kim sighed dreamily. “It really is. Like a living diagram of divine proportions.”

“You’re all insane,” Bharath said, voice tight with effort. “And very lucky I love you.”

“Love us more and lose the shorts,” Anya teased.

He turned, spoon in hand, exasperated. “I’m already nearly naked.”

“‘Nearly’ is cowardice,” Celina said, eyes raking him up and down like he was dessert. “Also, those thighs? Criminal. Fully carved. Are you squatting Priya’s ethics books or what?”

Kim raised her hand like it was a board meeting. “Motion to rename his torso The National Treasure.”

“Seconded,” Anya said. “Also motion to make him serve sambar shirtless for eternity.”

“Denied,” Bharath growled.

“Overruled,” all three sang in unison.

He muttered something in Tamil that might’ve been a prayer or a curse.

Anya slipped behind him again and murmured against his neck, “I was still sore from last night ... until you started cooking like this.”

Kim nodded solemnly. “My legs are barely working. But my appetite’s alive and well.”

Celina licked her lips. “You ruined me in that dream, baby. I haven’t been right since. I’m officially addicted. And I haven’t even gotten round two.”

“You will,” Anya said sweetly. “Once we’re done eye-fucking him to death, you get to ride him all night.”

Bharath groaned and turned back to the stove. “I’m begging you. Let me cook.”

“Fine,” Kim said, stealing a kiss on his shoulder. “But only because we want the food. Not because we respect your boundaries.”

“I’m so glad I rescued you all,” he deadpanned.

“You didn’t rescue us,” Anya said, hopping onto the counter and swinging her legs. “You enslaved us with your thighs.”

Then the door clicked open.

Everyone froze.

Priya stepped in, windblown and visibly annoyed, her tote slung across one shoulder.

She took one look at the scene - shirtless, glistening Bharath, three gorgeous women draped around him, breakfast abandoned mid-flirt - and pulled off her sunglasses slowly.

“Seriously?” she asked flatly.

Kim and Anya stepped away like guilty schoolgirls. Celina stayed where she was, unapologetically licking her spoon.

Bharath opened his mouth.

Priya held up a hand. “Not. A. Word. I’m getting chai and pretending none of this happened.”

Celina leaned in and whispered, “You think she noticed the erection?”

Bharath dropped the spoon.

The girls howled.

“Well,” she said dryly, “I see a lot has changed while I was gone.”

Anya didn’t miss a beat. She strode over, grabbed Bharath by the waistband of his shorts, and yanked him back into her embrace, smirking at Priya.

“No regrets.”

Bharath turned crimson. Kim choked on her laughter. Celina tried to compose herself and failed spectacularly.

Priya sighed, dropping her bag on the table. “I go out once and it turns into a bloody honeymoon villa in here.”

Bharath was already hiding behind the pressure cooker.

And the laughter - this time - was truly uncontrollable.

By the time Priya had stripped off her sandals and washed her hands, the others had set the table - if it could be called that. Cushions were pulled to the floor around the low centre table. Plates were laid out messily, bowls of sambar and heaps of steaming rice in the middle, aloo fry glistening with mustard seeds and curry leaves. A small plate of sliced green chillies and raw onions sat to the side like punctuation.

Bharath tried to settle in and serve himself.

He didn’t stand a chance.

“Ah-ah.” Anya slapped his wrist with a spoon. “Chefs don’t serve themselves.”

“I made this,” he said flatly.

Kim, already cross-legged beside him, scooped rice onto his plate. “Which is exactly why you won’t be lifting a finger.”

“Open,” Celina commanded, pinching off a bite of aloo and rice with her fingers. “Say aah, jaanu.”

Bharath gave them all a deadpan look but obediently opened his mouth.

“God, you’re adorable when you pout,” Anya sighed, feeding him next. “Like a sambar-soaked teddy bear.”

Priya rolled her eyes but smiled despite herself, taking a long sip of water before speaking. “While you were playing feeding games, I was out risking my neck.”

Everyone quietened at once. Kim passed Priya a plate. Celina nudged the chutney bowl toward her.

“Anything?” Bharath asked.

Priya nodded slowly, mixing rice with sambar as she spoke. “I circled past the Bankra safehouse. Nothing overt, but the tension? Palpable. I found Jhuma - one of my girls - out on a break. Didn’t say much, but the fear in her eyes said plenty. Something’s wrong. They’re panicking. I think they’re trying to figure out if there’s a traitor inside.”

“Because of the escape?” Anya asked.

Priya nodded. “They know a girl’s missing. But no one’s sure how. No camera footage, no guards saw anything. That riot we started-” she glanced at Bharath meaningfully “-covered a lot.”

Celina had grown quiet, fiddling with her spoon.

Priya turned to her, assessing. “Well, at least we don’t have to worry about you anymore.”

Celina blinked. “What?”

Priya smiled - faint, but genuine. “You’re glowing. Your eyes aren’t sunken. Your colour’s back. You’re completely healed, aren’t you?”

Celina hesitated, then gave a slow, astonished nod.

The table stilled.

“Seriously?” Kim leaned in. “No fever? No dizziness?”

“I feel ... whole,” Celina whispered. Her voice trembled. “For the first time in weeks.”

She set down her spoon. Her throat moved as she swallowed. Then - unexpectedly - her eyes brimmed.

“I don’t think I got to say it properly,” she said. “Thank you.”

Anya, sitting across from her, tilted her head. “You’re here. That’s enough.”

“No, it’s not.” Celina’s voice cracked. “You have no idea who I was. How I acted. The things I said to you, Anya ... they were vile. Unforgivable. I was jealous. Angry. I saw you and hated how easy you made it all look. The way people loved you. Admired you.”

Anya reached over and flicked a grain of rice off her cheek. “Have you looked in a mirror lately?”

Celina gave a wet, laughing sniff.

Kim smiled. “We’re not keeping score.”

“I will,” Bharath muttered, and Celina laughed again, grateful tears falling now in earnest.

“Everything changed that night,” she said, voice soft. “After that ... that monster tried to take me. After Rekha came into that basement. Told me about my uncle.”

Everyone listened quietly as she spoke.

“I thought he sold me. That he gave me away for debts. And then ... when she said he tried to stop them ... that they beat him and left him in a coma...”

Her hands twisted into the hem of her dress.

“I stopped being me that night. I think ... I think I gave up. And then, when I dreamed - and Bharath came - it didn’t feel like a dream. It felt like a resurrection.”

Bharath didn’t say anything, but his hand reached across the table and found hers.

Celina gripped it tightly.

“And then ... you,” she looked around the room. “You fed me. Held me. Cleaned my wounds. You didn’t have to do that. None of you owed me kindness.”

“You’re one of us now,” Anya said simply.

Celina wiped her eyes. “You don’t know what that means to me.”

There was a pause, heavy but not sad - full of shared breath, of silent acknowledgment.

Then Celina straightened a bit. “I guess ... you should know the rest.”

The girls leaned in. Bharath stilled, waiting.

“I was raised by my uncle,” she said. “He was my dad’s younger brother. Took me in when my parents died in a car crash when I was seven. He was ... flawed. He drank. Gambled. But he loved me. Spoiled me. Protected me. Too much maybe. I got cocky. Wild. I thought the world owed me. I was pretty, I was wanted - I used it. Abused it. Got kicked out of two schools.”

She smiled wryly. “I was a handful. Modeling agencies loved my face, hated my mouth. My uncle tried to manage it. Took loans to keep my lifestyle up. I didn’t know how bad it got. When he got into debt ... I thought we’d manage. Then one day, we got a call - a chance in Calcutta. Big break, they said. Showcases, photographers, the works.”

Her eyes darkened.

“I should’ve seen the signs. But I was stupid. Reckless. And now...” her voice grew quiet. “I don’t even know if he’s alive.”

Bharath shifted closer. “We’ll find out.”

Anya nodded. “We have people. Priya can start checking. Quietly.”

Celina smiled, small and grateful. “I just want to see him. Even if he’s still in the ICU. Just ... to tell him I’m okay.”

“You’ll get your chance,” Kim said gently.

“And when you do,” Priya added, “you’ll walk in like a goddess. Not a product.”

Celina blinked hard. Then sat up straighter, lifting her chin.

“I want to help,” she said. “Not just with whatever you’re doing. I want to bring Rekha down. I want to tear this whole thing apart.”

Anya raised her glass of water. “Now that’s the Celina I wanted to see.”

They clinked their glasses together - water, sambar, and the promise of vengeance thick in the air.

But for today ... they sat together, one family forged in pain, love, and stolen moments of peace.

The divan had turned into a human wreath around Bharath.

Kim was tucked under his left arm, her cheek against his bare chest, legs drawn up beside him.
Celina sat on his lap like it was her natural perch, tracing little circles across his shoulder with her fingers, grey eyes sleepy but wicked. Anya lounged across his right side with proprietary ease, head nestled in the crook of his arm, playing with his stubble whenever she wasn’t stealing kisses from his jaw.

All three wore barely-there clothes after the morning’s “exercise” and shared shower, and Bharath - wearing only shorts and an apron as punishment for denying them eye candy earlier - was doing his best to look serious while being slowly loved to death.

Then Priya sat up and crossed her legs, wiping her hands on her kurta.

“Alright. Now that I’ve scared everyone half to death...”

Bharath gave her a look. “We needed it.”

“Which is why I’ll say this once, clearly. No one does anything reckless. Especially you, Celina. Understood?”

Celina nodded.

“I’ve got two days,” Kim said. “I already texted my professor that I’ve ‘embedded’ myself for intensive observation and proximity readings.” She looked at Bharath with a smirk. “Which, frankly, is the truth.”

Bharath chuckled. “You’ll need to call the hostel too.”

Kim nodded. “I’ll tell them it’s for fieldwork. It should be fine.”

“I’ll call the club this evening,” Bharath said. “Tell them the strain’s healing. I’ll be back on the pitch in a couple days. I don’t need to leave the house. Plus the 15th is Independence Day - which is also a holiday. So I’m good.”

Priya pulled a notebook from the shelf. “Let’s talk logistics.”

She went around the room jotting:
- Kim’s hostel call
- Bharath’s update
- Celina’s full home confinement
- Anya and Priya’s evening outing

“We stick to normal routines. Anya and I will go out tonight. Smile for the cameras, keep up appearances.”

“Will that Roy fellow be there?” Bharath asked.

“Possibly,” Priya replied. “If he is, I’ll feel him out. No commitments, just ... see what he’s about.”

Kim raised her hand. “I’m starting the next round of observations tonight. Energy levels, aura shifts, dream patterns. I also want to go deeper into mythological texts. Celina, you in?”

Celina blinked, surprised. “You want my help?”

Kim smiled. “You’re literate. Bored. And you owe me for being annoying at the shoot and the Gala.”

Celina giggled. “Fine. I’ll be your sexy research assistant.”

“And what do we do when the week is over?” Celina asked suddenly. “What’s the long-term plan?”

The mood quieted.

Kim looked thoughtful. “I’ll need to decide what I want to tell my family. I ... can’t leave this. Not anymore.”

“You mean us,” Anya said.

Kim nodded. “Yes. All of you.”

Celina gave her a little nudge with her shoulder. “Then make it official. What’s the plan, Miss Research Assistant?”

Kim took a deep breath, thumbing her rotary-style cell. “They can’t know anything. Not yet. They’ll panic.”

“Can’t you just say you’re staying with a friend?” Bharath asked.

“I’ve never stayed over with anyone before,” she replied. “They’d come up to check. Or call every five hours. I need a buffer.”

She opened her contacts and dialed the landline.

“Ma?” Her tone turned bright, breezy. “Everything’s fine ... yes, I had lunch ... No, no, the hostel’s fine. It’s just-” she laughed softly, “they’re doing some maintenance work. Telephone lines are going to be down for a couple of days. Nothing major. But if you don’t get through to the hostel landline, don’t panic, okay?”

She rolled her eyes at the group.

“Yes, I’ll call every evening from a payphone ... Yes, Ma ... No, I’m not going anywhere alone ... Promise.”

She paused, eyes misting just a little.

“Love you too.”

She clicked the phone shut, exhaling.

“Done.”

Anya whistled. “Smooth criminal.”