CHAPTER 1: THE ORDINARY LIFE

  The Delhi Metro hummed with its peculiar, electric silence, a sterile tube cutting through the chaotic bowels of the ancient city.

  Vikram Rathore stood near the doors, one hand gripping the brushed steel pole, the other clutching a worn leather briefcase that contained the sum total of his professional existence: a laptop, a tiffin box smelling faintly of dried pickle, and an umbrella he hadn’t used in three years.

  He was thirty-four years old, and he was invisible.

  To the college students scrolling on their phones, he was just another uncle in a checkered shirt.

  To the exhausted laborers dozing in the corner, he was just another 'babu' going home to an air-conditioned bedroom.

  They were wrong about the air-conditioning.

  It had broken two days ago, and the repairman was asking for three thousand rupees that Vikram didn’t want to spend until next month's salary credited.

  "Next station is Lajpat Nagar," the automated voice announced, first in English, then in Hindi.

  The doors hissed open, and the humidity of the capital slammed into the carriage. Vikram allowed himself to be pushed out by the tide of bodies, stepping onto the platform.

  He checked his watch. 7:45 PM.

  If he walked briskly, he would be home by 8:00 PM.

  Priya would be heating the dal.

  Aanya would be waiting to show him her drawing homework.

  The routine was his religion.

  Wake up at 6:00 AM. Chai.

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Drop Aanya at the bus stop.

  Metro to Noida.

  Code for nine hours.

  Tolerate the manager’s passive-aggressive emails.

  Metro back.

  Dinner.

  Sleep.

  It was a small life, a suffocatingly small life, but it was safe.

  In a city where road rage could end in a gunshot and women were told not to venture out after dark, safety was the only luxury Vikram cared about.

  He exited the station and merged into the market crowd.

  The noise was deafening—hawkers screaming prices for knock-off jeans, rickshaw wallahs blaring horns, the eternal drone of traffic.

  The air tasted of dust and frying oil.

  Vikram kept his head down, clutching his bag tighter.

  Eye contact was dangerous in Delhi.

  Eye contact invited engagement, and engagement invited trouble.

  He turned into the narrower lane leading to his apartment complex.

  The streetlights here were yellow and flickering, casting long, jumping shadows.

  Ahead, near a closed shutter of a dry-cleaner shop, he saw a commotion.

  A black SUV, windows tinted darker than the law allowed, was idling with its engine purring like a large, predatory cat.

  Three men stood outside it, circling a young couple.

  Vikram’s step faltered. He was fifty meters away.

  The boy was on his knees, hands clasped, pleading.

  The girl was crying, her dupatta pulled by one of the men who was laughing—a jagged, ugly sound.

  "Bhai, please, let us go," the boy sobbed. "I won't say anything."

  One of the men kicked the boy in the chest. It wasn't a fight; it was a humiliation.

  The boy sprawled backward into the dust.

  Vikram stopped.

  His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird.

  Do something, a voice whispered in his head.

  Yell.

  Call the police.

  Throw a stone.

  Then, the other voice spoke, the voice of the Delhi middle class.

  If you stop, they will see you.

  If they see you, they will mark you.

  You have a wife. You have a daughter. Walk away.

  The man holding the girl slapped her.

  It was a sharp, cracking sound that cut through the traffic noise. The girl screamed. Vikram flinched physically, his knuckles white on his briefcase handle.

  He looked at the scene, really looked at it, for one second. Then he turned his head away.

  He crossed the street to the other side, quickening his pace. He didn't run—running attracted attention—but he walked with the desperate speed of a coward.

  The girl’s screams faded behind him, blending into the city's apathy.

  Shame burned in his gut, hot and acidic.

  He told himself he was being smart. He told himself he was being a responsible father.

  By the time he reached the third-floor walk-up of his apartment, he was sweating profusely.

  He unlocked the door with trembling fingers. Inside, the warm light of the living room greeted him.

  The TV was on. Aanya ran to him, hugging his legs.

  "Papa! You're late!"

  Vikram dropped his bag and fell to his knees, hugging her so tight she squeaked.

  "I'm here," he whispered, burying his face in her hair. "Papa is here."

  He was safe.

  He was home.

  But as he looked at his clean hands, he felt a phantom stain on them, the grime of the city he couldn't wash off.