The vivid reds in wedding symbols of celebration , Happiness and Joy . But what will happen if the same red colour change into the colour of blood betrayal and the symphony of despair.
Meera sweet little innocent girl end up being the pawn in the d...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Stepping out of the car, I could feel the cold weight of vengeance settling over me, sharpening my focus. This wasn’t just a house I was walking into; it was a battlefield where every step brought me closer to tearing apart the people who thought they could escape their reckoning. My every movement was deliberate, calculated. I could feel the familiar smirk tug at my lips, a reflection of the chaos I planned to unleash.
I entered with a purpose, but what I didn’t anticipate was the sudden, delicate obstruction in my path. A warm body stumbled into me, and when I looked down, I was met with a pair of honey-brown eyes that seemed to hold an ocean of pain. They flickered with something unspoken, something that almost pierced through the icy walls I’d built around myself. For a brief, almost dangerous moment, I felt myself drawn into that sorrow, caught in its pull.
But the illusion shattered the instant I heard a voice call out.
"Tum…" Raghav’s mother. ("You…") The voice dripped with loathing and disbelief, slicing through the moment. My grip tightened as I straightened the girl, guiding her to stand firm before letting go. I didn’t take my eyes off her face, savoring the way she stood, trembling yet unbroken. This family thought they could hide their secrets, shield their sins, and throw a celebration right under my nose.
"Kya tumhe laga," I said, my voice as cold as steel, ("Did you think") "apne bete ki shaadi dhoom dham se karoge aur mujhe khabar bhi nahi hogi?" ("you could get your son married with pomp and show and I wouldn’t find out?") The mocking edge in my tone was deliberate, meant to slice through any illusions they held about escaping me. My gaze darted to Raghav's mother, who visibly flinched, her face a mask of fear. I enjoyed watching that fear spread, felt a wicked pleasure in the way her eyes darted around, looking for an escape.
"Kya chahiye tumhe?" she managed to ask, her voice barely holding steady. ("What do you want?")
I allowed myself a small, amused smile as I sank into a chair nearby, crossing one leg over the other with the ease of someone prepared to watch a show. The performance was just beginning, and I intended to savor every second of their fall.
"Badla," I roared, leaning forward until my voice ensured fear in their mind. ("Revenge.") The word hung in the air, almost as if it had a life of its own, as I added with a glint in my eye, "Badla mera kala hai. Main sirf dard nahi deta, main cheer ke rakh deta hoon. Tumhare sukoon ko choor-choor kar deta hoon." ("Revenge is my art. I don't just hurt; I dismantle. I shatter your peace into pieces.")
There was a sinister stillness in the room, my words lingering like poison. And then, as if on cue, the sound of a choked sob broke the silence.
"Raghav… nahi raha," Raghav’s father gasped, his voice raw with anguish. ("Raghav… is no more,") "He... he attempted suicide." He tried to meet my gaze, his eyes pleading. "Tumhe ab kya chahiye?" ("What do you want now?")
