𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑹𝒐𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒓𝒄𝒐𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝑹𝒊𝒅𝒆

PART-49

*ᴅɪꜱᴄʟᴀɪᴍᴇʀ: ɪɴ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴘᴀʀᴛ, ʀᴀꜰɪQ ᴊᴜꜱᴛɪꜰɪᴇꜱ ʜɪꜱ ᴡʀᴏɴɢ ᴅᴇᴇᴅꜱ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴀᴍᴇ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ꜱᴀᴄʀᴇᴅ. ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴘᴏʀᴛʀᴀʏᴀʟ ʀᴇꜰʟᴇᴄᴛꜱ ᴏɴʟʏ ᴀɴ ɪɴᴅɪᴠɪᴅᴜᴀʟ'ꜱ ᴍɪɴᴅꜱᴇᴛ, ɴᴏᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴏꜰ 𝙰𝙽𝚈 ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴜɴɪᴛʏ ᴏʀ ʀᴇʟɪɢɪᴏɴ. ɪ'ᴍ ᴄʟᴀʀɪꜰʏɪɴɢ ᴛʜɪꜱ, ꜱɪɴᴄᴇ ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ᴄᴀɴ ʙᴇ ᴠᴇʀʏ ꜱᴇɴꜱɪᴛɪᴠᴇ.*

The wind rushed past, whipping through the open windows as the white Toyota picked up speed. Its tires hummed a low growl, the speedometer needle edging dangerously close to the red line. The surroundings – passing vehicles, roadside trees, vendors, and people – blurred into a translucent film of shifting colors and shapes.

The car veered right, and Siddharth's hands tightened around the steering wheel, his knuckles straining beneath the skin as his body jerked sideways. Aanand's body mirrored the motion, his shoulders tensing as his fingers dug into the cushioned seat. The seat belts caught their sudden movements, snapping them back upright.

Despite their different features, their expressions echoed each other – jaws clenched, bodies rigid and alert. Their eyes, though fixed on the road ahead, seemed to look beyond the concrete paths and bustling traffic.

"It's Rafiq," Siddharth muttered, his jaw tightening as the vein at his temple stood out like a taut wire. With a sharp jerk of the wheel, he took another turn.

In the passenger seat, Aanand's fingers curled around the creased photograph he held. For a moment, his jaw remained hard, unmoving, before his eyes flicked down. Slowly, with trembling fingers, he smoothed the picture’s crumpled edges, and the eerie words written in blood along the top came into view:

𝔄𝔫 𝔢𝔫𝔢𝔪𝔶'𝔰 𝔠𝔯𝔶 𝔰𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔰𝔣𝔦𝔢𝔰 𝔡𝔢𝔢𝔭𝔢𝔯 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔦𝔯 𝔠𝔬𝔯𝔭𝔰𝔢.

The picture showed a three-year-old Rudraksh, beaming in a brand-new Tom and Jerry jacket and ankle-length shorts, clutching a mud-caked football in his tiny hands. Beside him stood Aanand, hands planted firmly on his waist, face twisted in mock anger. His once-white T-shirt bore smears of mud and grass, evidence of a carefree afternoon.

As Aanand's gaze lingered on the photo, his features softened. His thumb brushed over Rudraksh's smiling face, and a tide of emotions surged against the closed walls of his fatherly heart.

The picture seemed to hold him captive, pulling him back to a simpler time, when joy was unshaken and life had yet to grow complicated.

FLASHBACKS

"Solly." Little Rudraksh extended the football toward his father, his small hands gripping the ball tightly between his palms. He tilted his head, blinking at Aanand with a toothy smile. "Y-you—" He squeezed his eyes shut, his face scrunching up as he tried to recall the pronunciation—"dilt. My. Shilt, too."

Aanand's expression softened, a warm smile spreading across his face. He crouched down on the earth to his son’s level, his knees sinking into the grass. "It's 'sorry,' beta, not 'solly'," he said gently, his deep voice a soothing contrast to the child's high-pitched tone. "And 'dirt,' not 'dilt'; 'shirt,' not 'shilt.'" He caressed Rudraksh's chin with his forefinger, the gentle touch making the child look up at him with wide eyes.

Rudraksh's face crumpled, his eyebrows furrowing as he gazed at his father with pouted lips and a scrunched nose. "Solly," he said again, his voice rising slightly.

Aanand's face became a picture of patient amusement. "Sorry," he corrected softly.

Rudraksh's expressions took on an angry hue, his face reddening. With a sharp jerk, he bounced the football against the wet ground. "I'm saying—solly!"