The D-day arrived. The moment I opened my eyes in the Jaipur hotel, an uneasy weight pressed against my chest. Something was off—call it instinct or paranoia—but the feeling was too strong to ignore. I checked my watch every few minutes, pacing the room in circles. The air conditioning hummed softly, mocking my restlessness. My duffle bag sat by the corner, packed, the flight and train tickets folded neatly inside my wallet. I had prepared for every contingency, or so I thought.
By 11:00 AM, I could barely sit still. I kept glancing out the window, scanning the street below for her familiar figure. Was she coming? Had something gone wrong? My thoughts spiralled into worst-case scenarios until a gentle knock on the door yanked me back to reality.
I opened it to find her standing there, and for a moment, everything else faded away.
She looked radiant as if the weight of the world couldn’t dim her light. Her auburn dupatta was loosely draped over her shoulder, framing her delicate face. Strands of her hair escaped her braid, dancing in the soft winter breeze. Her smile was faint but enough to melt away my anxiety—momentarily, at least. Her eyes, though, betrayed a storm brewing within.
“You’re late,” I whispered, half-joking, as I stepped aside to let her in.
“I almost didn’t come,” she admitted, closing the door behind her. “But I couldn’t…not today.”
We stood there momentarily, locked in a tight embrace, our hearts beating wildly against each other. The fear, the longing, the inevitability of what lay ahead—it all poured into that hug. When our lips met, it was as though we were trying to etch those moments into eternity, knowing they could be our last.
Lunch was a blur, a formality neither of us cared for. By then, words felt unnecessary. We moved as if guided by some unspoken agreement, our bodies finding solace in each other one final time.
Afterwards, as she adjusted her dupatta, she turned to me with a look I would never forget—part resolute, part heartbroken. “If anyone knows I was here…you’ll be in danger. My family won’t spare you.”
“I don’t care,” I replied, my voice shaking. “Leave with me. We can go now. I have everything ready.”
She shook her head firmly. “No. My fate is sealed. I’m getting married, and that’s the end of it. You must promise to leave Jaipur today, no matter what happens.”
Her words cut through me like a blade, but I nodded.
As we exited the hotel, the bright afternoon sun hit us, making me squint. The street was busy—hawkers calling out to passersby, rickshaws honking impatiently, and the faint clatter of utensils from a nearby tea stall. I didn’t notice them at first—the group of men leaning against a jeep parked across the road.
We walked down the steps, and that’s when it happened.
One of the men gestured toward us, and in an instant, the scene exploded into chaos. The jeep’s doors swung open, and four men jumped out, revolvers drawn. Their movements were deliberate, calculated, as if rehearsed.
“Run!” she screamed, but it was too late.
The first shot cracked through the air, its echo drowning out every other sound. Before I could react, she stepped in front of me.
“No!” I shouted, reaching for her, but the second shot rang out, and her body jerked violently. The bullet tore into her upper chest, and blood started colouring her dress, blooming like a sinister flower. She staggered, collapsing into my arms.
The men didn’t stop. They advanced, their faces twisted with fury, guns still pointed at me. But then, they hesitated. She was their target now.
Through her gasping breaths, she clutched my hand, her fingers trembling. “Leave,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Don’t let my death go to waste. Run. Now.”
“I’m not leaving you,” I choked, tears blurring my vision.
“You have to,” she insisted, her eyes filled with pain but also determination. “Go…please.”
The men barked orders at each other, their voices sharp and urgent. One of them gestured toward the jeep, and before I could process what was happening, they lifted her limp body and loaded her into the vehicle.
I stood frozen, paralyzed by shock and fear. Then, as the jeep roared to life, I turned and ran. My legs felt like lead, my mind a whirlwind of panic and despair. I flagged down a taxi, shouting, “Ajmer!” as I collapsed into the backseat.
I froze, paralyzed by terror and disbelief, but her pleading eyes jolted me back to life. “Go!” she cried.
I fled, clutching my duffle bag like a lifeline. A taxi took me to Ajmer, where I sought solace in the Khwaja Garib Nawaz Dargah. I prayed for her soul, peace, and forgiveness—for everything I could not save.
The following day, the Jaipur newspapers carried the headline: Shootout in Jaipur. The article was sparse on details. Witnesses refused to speak. There was a photo of bloodstains on the ground but nobody. Some claimed the shooters had taken the victim in a jeep.
She was gone.
For the next month, I lived as a ghost, hiding in Ajmer, waiting for the storm to pass. I made no calls and spoke to anyone except a close friend who relayed a message to my office. I didn’t even dare mourn her openly.
When it finally seemed safe, I returned to Mumbai. But nothing was the same. The city felt hollow, its hum a cruel reminder of everything I had lost.
I was alive, but I wasn’t living. I wanted to be at Jaipur- but I was a coward.
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