Words - once spoken can only be forgiven. The irreversible nature of them have always made the oldest caution the young lest they carry the regret like their ancestors. Alas! No one learns this lesson until it is too late.
(Blurb to be edited)
Vāc i...
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Time in captivity settled like silt under a river bed, steadily till an immenient flood washed away every semblance of pretentious peace.
Ahim sat near the window, his fingers tracing the rim of a brass cup filled with warm milk. Outside, the courtyard was bathed in the ever constant drizzle of monsoon and the rare golden sunlight, the world moving as if nothing had changed. Women carried baskets of grain, men spoke in hushed tones, and the scent of fresh tamarind leaves mixed with the lingering aroma of smoldering incense.
It felt… ordinary.
Yet beneath the surface, an unease gnawed at him.
He was a prisoner. He knew it for some time now. The realization had settled over him like a thick fog, impossible to ignore. It wasn’t just that no messenger had arrived for him. It was the absence of anything—no whispers from Atulya’s network, no signs of Abhijishya’s next move. So he was stuck in a quicksand of stagnancy hoping yet dreading every new day.
The wait was maddening.
One evening, when the shadows stretched long against the walls, he sought out Jayati. He found her in the courtyard, kneeling near a cluster of white jasmine, her fingers deftly weaving them into a garland. The setting sun caught in her hair, turning it a rich shade of auburn.
He hesitated. She looked… peaceful.
“The messenger, Vibhuta hasn’t come,” he said finally. His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it.
Jayati’s fingers didn’t falter. “He is unwell.”
Ahim’s stomach twisted. “You knew that?”
Jayati finally looked up, her expression unreadable. “Yes.”
A pause.
The words hung between them, heavy and unspoken.
“You shouldn’t have known that,” Ahim murmured, stepping closer. His pulse quickened, not with fear, but with the slow, creeping certainty of the truth. For one maddening moment, his fingers grazed the danger he always carried.
Jayati met his gaze, her eyes once dropped to his hand near the dagger then looked back at him and for the first time, he saw it. The subtle calculation beneath her warmth. The way she had guided their conversations, the way she had kept him comfortable—like a careful handler easing a wild animal into its cage.
“You knew,” he said hoarsely. “You knew from the start.”
Jayati exhaled, setting the half-woven garland aside. “You were never meant to realize so soon.”
Ahim let out a hollow laugh. “I’m a fool. A fool that has served itself up like a sacrificial horse.”
Jayati didn’t deny it.
The weight of it settled in his chest. He wasn’t important enough to bargain for. He wasn’t important enough to claim.
"Who is your master, then? As a prisoner, atleast I deserve to know who has been fattening me up all this time," Ahim sounded hysterical to himself. His hands were trembling as he struggled to rein in the feeling of fear. "And Vibhuta? Is he even alive?"
