Chapter 01: The Campus Crisis
The student, with frantic steps, rushed through the hallway, pushing past startled colleagues. The door to the professor’s cabin burst open, and he stood there, his breath short, eyes wide with panic.
“What the hell is this recording, professor?” he demanded, his voice raw with anxiety.
The professor, sitting calmly behind his desk, looked up in surprise. “Which recording?” he asked, a hint of confusion in his tone.
The student, still agitated, pulled out his phone and played the clip. The professor stared at the screen, watching as a group of students—his own—could be seen in the heart of the college campus, their voices chanting in unison. The words echoed, each phrase laced with tension, their fervor undeniable.
“Azaadi!” came the first cry.
“Bhukhmari se,” one student shouted, only to be met by a chorus of voices replying, “Azaadi!”
“Azadi!” came again, louder this time. “Bhed bhav se!”
“Azaadi!” The chant grew in strength.
“Bharat tere tukde honge,” another voice proclaimed, the words now charged with a menacing energy.
"Inshallah, Inshallah," the group responded, their voices a single, unified force. The clip ended abruptly.
The student turned to the professor, his face a mixture of disbelief and fear. “What the hell, professor? We’ve been here in this campus for fifteen years, and not a single clip like this has ever gone viral. And now, this... this is going to expose us. Do you realize what this means?”
The professor’s face was impassive, but his mind was already racing. “That’s serious,” he said quietly, his voice steady despite the rising stakes.
“Damn serious,” the student replied, pacing. “This clip—if it gets out, the police will be after us in seconds. The whole operation will be ruined. Everything we’ve worked for will go down the drain. Damn it!” The weight of their situation was crashing down on him.
“Don’t worry,” the professor said, his voice surprisingly calm for the storm brewing around them. “I’ll manage this.”
The professor leaned forward, his eyes narrowing with determination. “We need to find out who recorded this. That’s the key. If we can find the source, we can control the narrative before it spreads any further.”
Just then, five more students burst into the room, their expressions equally tense. “Definitely, he or she is the one who did it. The intruder,” one of them said, almost accusingly.
The professor nodded, his mind already formulating a plan. “I’ve got it. Alright, let me handle it. You all stay calm. Trust me.”
He picked up the phone with steady hands, dialing a number. After a moment, he spoke.
“Sir, there’s a problem. We need your help. There’s a recording that could compromise everything. I’m sending you the clip; I need you to trace the source. Find out who did this. As soon as possible.”
A voice on the other end responded, calm but urgent. “Understood. I’ll get on it right away.”
The professor hung up the phone, turning back to the room full of anxious students. “We’ll get through this. Just give me a little time.”
The tension in the room was palpable, but there was a sense of resolve now. The professor’s confidence, though quiet, seemed to spread through the group like wildfire. But the clock was ticking, and the danger was only beginning to unfold.
The professor ended the call, his hand trembling slightly as he hung up. He turned to face the group of students, his eyes hardening with resolve.
“What are you all doing? Are you not getting paid for this?” one student spat, his voice full of anger and frustration.
The professor’s eyes narrowed, his patience wearing thin. “Mind your language, boy,” he warned, his tone cold and controlled.
The student scoffed, taking a step forward. “Better you mind your work, freak. It’s your damn job to make sure that whatever happens inside this campus, stays inside. You’re getting old, professor. Starting to forget things, I guess. Forgetting our objective!”
The tension in the room thickened, and the professor’s expression darkened. “Don’t try to teach me about objectives,” he growled, his voice sharp, but still holding a measure of calm.
“Enough!” another student interjected, stepping between the two. Her voice was firm, an unmistakable command for them to stop.
She turned to the angry student, her tone sharp and urgent. “This is not the time for arguments. We need to focus. We need to save ourselves right now.”
The angry student clenched his fists, his frustration barely contained. “It’s the freaking duty of this oldie,” he shot back, his words dripping with disdain.
The professor inhaled deeply, his hands gripping the edge of his desk. “I’m doing it,” he said, his voice low and steady, but the weight of the moment was clear.
The room fell silent. Every pair of eyes was on the professor, waiting for the answer, but the angry student’s glare never wavered.
“You’ll get it by tomorrow,” the professor added, but the student wasn’t satisfied.
“No,” the student said, his voice dangerously quiet. “Tonight. I want him buried tonight, or I’ll bury you, oldie.”
The professor’s chest tightened, but he held his ground. He took a long, steadying breath and gripped his shoulder, the tension in his body now palpable. The air was thick with unspoken threats, and the weight of the situation hung heavy.
He knew this wasn’t just a battle over a video. It was a battle over control, and tonight, someone was going to fall—whether it was the one who dared to expose them or the professor himself.
The professor stood by the door, watching the students leave, his mind swirling with thoughts, the weight of Shaqib’s words pressing on him.
“Come on, Shaqib,” the professor had said, trying to keep the situation under control, his voice steady despite the tension. “I know you have power and fame now. But you must not forget that whatever you have right now is because of me. So calm down. The one who made you can easily destroy you. I carry all your secrets, dear. You’re in your 30s, and I’ve been in this business for over 40 years. So let me do my job.”
Shaqib, his jaw clenched, his eyes flashing with defiance, didn’t even look back as he retorted, “You’ll get the name by evening. So right now, just get out.”
The professor watched them leave, the weight of his experience telling him that the storm was far from over. He knew Shaqib, and he knew that the situation was spiraling quickly.
Evening at the Hostel
The evening sky was tinted with a deep orange, the air cool with an unsettling stillness. A group of students, faces shadowed with intent, stormed towards the hostel. Iron rods and hockey sticks clutched in their hands, the clatter of metal echoing in the quiet streets as they made their way forward.
At the hostel gate, Shaqib led the group, his stride purposeful, his eyes locked onto the security guard standing at the entrance.
“Open the freaking gate!” he shouted, his voice laced with an icy authority that left no room for argument.
The guard, visibly nervous, fumbled for the key and quickly unlocked the gate. Shaqib didn’t waste a second as he motioned for the group to enter. Once inside, he turned to the guard, his voice turning cold and threatening.
“Close the gate,” Shaqib barked. “And trespassing for 15 minutes. And listen carefully. No one will hear anything. No one will see anything. Remain deaf, blind, or dumb, whatever you can be. Understood?”
“Ji Sir,” the guard stammered, his fear evident in his voice.
“Better,” Shaqib said, his tone hardening. “Inform everyone. The 15 minutes starts now.”
The group moved quickly, their footsteps heavy with purpose. The guard, trembling, nodded and scurried away to do as instructed. The air around them was charged with an ominous tension, every minute stretching longer than the last. Shaqib's eyes scanned the group, his face a mask of determination. Whatever had to be done, it would be done—tonight.
The air in the hostel was thick with anticipation and fear as Shaqib and his group stormed towards the door of Rajiv's apartment. The sound of hurried footsteps was drowned out by the pounding in their hearts. Shaqib knocked, and the moment the door creaked open, they surged forward, grabbing Rajiv by the collar and pulling him out with brutal force.
The room seemed to spin around Rajiv as he was dragged across the hallway, the glint of iron rods and hockey sticks in the hands of the attackers. Before he could process what was happening, the first blow struck, and pain erupted across his body. The sound of the metal meeting flesh echoed through the hall as they beat him senseless.
Shaqib, ever calm in the chaos, grabbed Rajiv, pushing him roughly against the wall. His eyes were cold, calculating, as he looked into Rajiv’s terrified face.
“So... heard you know how to record videos. Let’s make this a live video. Let’s have a video call with your parents,” Shaqib’s voice was eerily calm, a stark contrast to the violence he had just inflicted.
With an almost casual smile, he turned to the phone and dialed Rajiv’s parents. “Namaste, Uncle ji. Call Aunty ji also. Let them see their son... for the last time.”
On the other side of the call, Rajiv’s father, his voice trembling with confusion and fear, spoke urgently. “No, please, don’t do it. He is your friend, you promised to keep Rajiv safe! What has he done? Why are you doing this?”
Shaqib's cold eyes remained fixed on Rajiv, his hand tightening around his neck. “What went wrong? Rajiv, can you explain?” he mocked, his voice low and menacing.
Shaqib turned the phone towards Rajiv. The young man was struggling to speak, his eyes wide with terror as he tried to find words.
Shaqib’s grip tightened, and with a growl, he forced Rajiv to speak. “Say the truth. One should always say the truth when they’re about to die.”
Rajiv, his voice shaking, managed to whisper, “I didn’t do anything.”
Shaqib’s eyes hardened, a violent fury taking over. “No, Rajiv. One should always say the truth. Don’t lie. Not when you're about to die.”
Shaqib turned to one of Rajiv’s roommates, his eyes cold and demanding. “Hold the phone.”
The phone, now pointed at Rajiv’s face, broadcasted the horror of the moment. Shaqib raised the iron rod high, his eyes locked on Rajiv’s pleading gaze. With a sickening crack, the rod slammed down onto Rajiv’s head. The force was deadly. Rajiv’s body crumpled to the floor instantly, the light fading from his eyes.
Shaqib didn’t flinch. “Turn off the phone now,” he said coldly, his voice almost dismissive. “Uncle ji, your son is no more.”
The phone call ended with a chilling finality, leaving Rajiv’s parents to grapple with the horror of what had just transpired.
Shaqib didn’t waste a moment. He grabbed his phone and dialed the professor’s number. The tone was curt, the urgency still palpable in his voice.
“It’s done. What’s next?” he asked, his voice devoid of emotion.
The professor’s voice crackled through the line, equally cold and pragmatic. “Vacate the place immediately.”
Shaqib didn’t hesitate. “Okay.” His response was simple, his eyes already scanning the room for the next move. The next phase of their plan was underway, and nothing—not even the life of a student—could stop it now.
At the Professor’s Office
The tension in the room was palpable, and the air thick with urgency. The professor, known as Amir, sat at the head of a long table, surrounded by his fellow professors, all deep in conversation.
“How are we going to cover this?” one of them asked, his voice heavy with concern.
Amir, unshaken and poised, leaned back in his chair. “Don’t worry. I have a plan.”
The room fell silent as the others turned their attention to him, waiting for the details.
“What plan?” another professor asked, a hint of curiosity in his voice.
Amir’s lips curled into a subtle, confident smile. “He was Rohit Palwankar. A Dalit, and also one of us. Obviously, no one will suspect us. We’ll use his death to cover up the conspiracy behind the video. The narrative will be simple: aggressive Hindu nationalism has killed a Dalit student. Nationalism breeds extremism. A group of Hindu extremists and upper-caste people murdered a Dalit. We’ll shift all the attention away from the video clip, and at the same time, we’ll bury the murder.”
The professors exchanged glances, nodding in approval at Amir's strategy.
“Good plan. But Amir, what about the witness?” one of them asked cautiously.
Amir’s gaze darkened. “We give them money. And we threaten them. If they still resist… well, we give them death.”
The room went quiet for a moment, the weight of Amir’s words sinking in.
“Well, you’re evil,” another professor said with a chuckle, “but with the help of smart people like you, we’ll definitely succeed.”
“Amen,” Amir replied, his voice devoid of any warmth.
One of the professors, a bit more thoughtful, spoke up. “I hope your son thinks the same way you do.”
Amir's expression faltered for a moment, then hardened. “Yes. I wish the same, Ramnath.”
Ramnath leaned forward, a frown crossing his face. “I’m really surprised, Amir, that you can’t change your son’s mindset. You’re the most influential comrade in the university, and yet, not only does he join the bourgeoisie, he’s become one of them.”
Amir sighed, his eyes momentarily clouded with regret. “I tried my best to make him understand.”
Ramnath, ever the idealist, shook his head. “See, Amir, our fight is long, and it's against these bourgeoisie. We need more soldiers in every generation. This thought, this ideology, must be passed down. If you can’t do it, we’re here to help you.”
Amir gave a short nod, his eyes distant. “Yes.”
The Next Day: Protest in College Campus
The scene at the college was one of chaos and fervor, the campus filled with chanting students holding banners demanding justice for Rajiv Palwankar. The reporters were everywhere, their cameras capturing the flames of protest.
A reporter stood in front of the camera, speaking directly to the audience.
“We are here at JU College, where protests have erupted following the tragic death of Rajiv Palwankar, a member of the National Students Union (NSU). It is said that a group of people entered the hostel and murdered Rajiv Palwankar last night. Let’s hear more about this incident from the protesters.”
The journalist turned to Shaqib, one of the key leaders of the protest, with a microphone in hand.
“Why are you protesting?” the journalist asked.
Shaqib’s face was hard, his voice laced with pain and fury. “Our friend Rajiv was killed last night by goons from AVP.”
The journalist raised an eyebrow. “How is AVP responsible for this?”
Shaqib’s eyes burned with intensity as he spoke. “A few days ago, a doctored tape went viral. AVP accused us of chanting anti-national slogans. They were violent at that time too, threatening us with death. They also targeted Rajiv, abusing him during their protest and threatening him. We have video footage of their protest. Rajiv was a poor Dalit. And for these extremists, it’s easy to target someone like him. They barged into his room, dragged him out, and killed him brutally. Even if the video clip is real, is it right to kill someone like this? Just because of their identity?”
The journalist, trying to keep the interview balanced, asked, “What do you want?”
Shaqib’s voice rose with the anger and frustration of the moment. “What we want is simple: justice for Rajiv. We want to expose the people responsible for his murder. We demand that those who are behind this heinous act be held accountable.”
The camera zoomed in on Shaqib’s face as he spoke, his words echoing in the tense atmosphere of the protest. The crowd behind him chanted in unison, their anger and sorrow interwoven. The message was clear. Rajiv's death was not just a tragedy—it was a symbol of a larger, dangerous force at play.
At Amir’s House
The television screen flickered, broadcasting the live footage of the ongoing protests at the college campus. The chants of “Azadi” echoed from the speakers, and the words of the protesters were loud and defiant. Amir, sitting in front of the TV, observed the unfolding scene with a calculating expression, his mind working through the details of their plan.
“Azadi!” the crowd shouted in unison.
“From extremism!” a protester responded.
“Azadi!” came the chorus again.
The journalist’s voice cut through the noise: “Here we are, witnessing the anger of students. How brutal has our society become? In the name of nationalism, how justifiable is it to kill an innocent Dalit boy?” The reporter glanced at the camera, signaling to the crew. “With cameraman Sanjay, Rahi Mishra, and TV.”
Amir turned his attention away from the screen as he heard footsteps approaching. His son, Shabad, entered the room, his face filled with a mix of concern and anger.
Amir smiled, trying to maintain control of the situation. “Shabad, come here, son. I have something for you.”
Shabad didn’t answer immediately. His gaze was locked on the television, his face hardening as he processed the images of the protest. “How is Rajiv supposed to be killed by AVP, Dad?” he asked, his voice sharp.
Amir’s smile faded. He took a deep breath, attempting to keep his composure. “We’re at opposite ends, that’s true. But let’s not talk about politics at home.”
Shabad’s frustration was palpable as he shot back, “We have to, Dad. This is totally a fake allegation against AVP. You know it and I know it.”
Amir’s gaze turned cold. “You need to prove it.”
Shabad scoffed. “We will prove it. Truth can’t be hidden, Dad. It’s really amazing how wonderfully you cover up things and present them to your people, baselessly.”
Amir clenched his jaw, trying to maintain control of his emotions. “We’re here for a greater objective, son.”
Shabad’s eyes flashed with disbelief. “What objective? A communist country of India? Or Pakistan-occupied India?” His words were laced with anger and bitterness, a direct challenge to his father’s ideals.
Amir’s voice grew stern. “Mind your language, Shabad.”
The air in the room thickened as the tension between them reached its peak. Shabad didn’t back down. “Truth hurts, right? I know every bit of your objective, Dad. The trail you’ve left is so strong to prove. Tell me one thing, though—why are you guys hiding everything if you think what you’re doing is right?” His voice dropped, his eyes filled with accusation. “I’ll tell you why. Because deep down, you know what you’re doing is utterly wrong, and it’s filled with greed.”
Shabad turned on his heel, ready to walk out. Amir’s voice caught in his throat as he watched his son leave the room, a heavy silence falling between them.
“Shabad…” Amir’s voice was low, filled with a mixture of frustration and regret. But his son was already gone, the door slamming shut behind him.
Amir sat back in his chair, the weight of Shabad’s words hanging heavily in the air. The protest on the television continued, but Amir couldn’t focus on it anymore. The cracks in his carefully constructed world were starting to show, and for the first time, he wondered how much longer he could keep up the facade.
Amir’s Room
Amir awoke with a start, beads of sweat trickling down his face. The echoes of gunshots from his dream still rang in his ears. His breath was uneven, his heart racing as though he had just run miles. The sniper’s shot, the heat of the desert, the overwhelming sense of being hunted—they clung to him like shadows.
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, running a hand through his hair. “What the hell is happening to me?” he muttered. These dreams weren’t just dreams anymore. They felt like memories, memories he couldn’t place.
The faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen broke the silence of the house. Amir padded over, grabbed a glass, and filled it with water. The cold liquid soothed his parched throat, but not his mind. His gaze wandered to the shelf in the corner of the room—the one he’d always kept just a bit out of reach.
Walking over, he moved aside three books to reveal a small, leather-bound diary tucked between the rows. It looked unassuming, but Amir’s hands trembled as he opened it to a random page. The writing was his, but the words felt alien.
"June 12th, 2008: The shipment arrived at 2 AM. I ensured there were no loose ends. The intel on...”
Amir’s eyes darted to the door. The house was still, silent except for the faint sound of wind outside. He carefully closed the diary and placed it back. But he wasn’t as alone as he thought.
Outside the room, Shabad watched. His father’s movements had always been methodical, deliberate. But tonight, something was different. The way Amir handled the diary—as if it were a ticking time bomb—only heightened Shabad’s curiosity.
Since when does Dad write diaries? Shabad thought, his brows furrowed.
As soon as Amir returned to his room, Shabad crept into the study. His eyes locked onto the shelf. He moved the books aside and reached for the diary. The moment his fingers brushed its cover, a sharp, searing jolt surged through his hand.
“Ah! What the…” Shabad yelped, pulling his hand back.
Before he could recover, a voice cut through the air. Calm, firm, but with an edge of steel.
“That’s not yours to touch.”
Shabad spun around to find Amir standing in the doorway, his face a mask of unreadable calm.
“Dad,” Shabad began, trying to mask his shock with bravado, “why do you have a diary with a security system? What’s in it?”
Amir stepped closer, his eyes never leaving Shabad’s. “Some secrets are better left untouched, Shabad. Curiosity isn’t always a gift.”
Shabad crossed his arms, his voice tinged with defiance. “Everyone has secrets, Dad. But this one’s different. What are you hiding?”
Before Amir could respond, Sazia appeared in the hallway, her presence softening the tension. “Amir,” she said gently, “maybe it’s time. He deserves to know.”
Amir’s jaw tightened. He glanced at Sazia, then back at Shabad. Finally, he sighed, running a hand over his face. “Fine. But you’ll wish you hadn’t asked.”
Amir deactivated the hidden security mechanism on the diary with a series of taps and a faint hum. He placed the book on the table and motioned for Shabad to sit.
“This isn’t just a diary,” Amir began. “It’s a record. Of things I’ve done, things I’m not proud of, and things I’ve had to keep from this family for your safety.”
Shabad’s heart thumped in his chest. “What do you mean?”
Amir flipped the diary open to a page. There was no text—only a photograph of a younger Amir, dressed in military fatigues, standing beside a crate marked with a logo Shabad didn’t recognize.
“I wasn’t always a simple man,” Amir said quietly. “There was a time when I worked for some organizations. Not all of them legitimate.”
Shabad’s eyes widened. “Are you saying you were a…”
Amir cut him off. “Let’s just say I did what was necessary to survive. For years, I handled operations that governments wouldn’t admit existed. Smuggling, intelligence… and sometimes, worse.”
Sazia placed a hand on Amir’s shoulder. “He left that life behind, Shabad. But some things don’t stay buried.”
Amir turned to his son. “That diary is encrypted for a reason. If the wrong people find it, they’ll come after me. After us. Everything in there is a liability—one I’ve spent years trying to keep under control.”
Shabad stared at the diary, the weight of his father’s words sinking in. “Why keep it at all, then? Why not destroy it?”
Amir’s expression darkened. “Because it’s my insurance. My shield. If anyone comes for us, that book is the only leverage I have.”
Amir placed the book back on the shelf, his hands steady but his heart pounding. Without a word, he left the room, leaving Shabad frozen in place. A thousand thoughts raced through Shabad’s mind as he stared at the shelf, his fingers itching to grab the book again but held back by the electric shock of his father's command.
Shabad finally sank onto the edge of the bed, his thoughts a jumble of shock and curiosity. The words he’d read, the cryptic phrase, felt heavy with meaning he couldn’t quite grasp. What kind of secret needed this much protection? And why now? He stayed in the room for a while, the silence pressing against him, before finally retreating to his own space, his mind still churning.
In the master bedroom, Shazia sat on the edge of the bed, her face etched with worry. She glanced up as Amir walked in, his expression unreadable.
“It was a close call,” she said softly, her tone laden with concern.
Amir nodded, his voice calm but carrying an undertone of weariness. “Yes. But you handled it well.”
Shazia sighed, her eyes searching his face. “Consider destroying that thing, Amir. Holding onto it for so long... it could hurt more than it’s worth.”
Amir’s gaze dropped to the floor for a moment before meeting hers. His voice was steady but carried a quiet finality. “The damage is already done. I don’t think it can hurt any more than it already has.”
A heavy silence settled between them, the weight of unspoken memories filling the space. Amir and Shazia sat in thought, the burden they carried pressing down on them like a leaden cloak. They had always known that the past had sharp edges, but those edges seemed to cut deeper with every passing year.
Shazia reached for his hand, her touch gentle but firm. “We’re not alone in this,” she whispered. “You need to remember that.”
Amir squeezed her hand lightly, a small gesture of reassurance. But in his mind, the past replayed like an old film reel, the secrets they had locked away refusing to stay buried. He knew that what Shabad had seen tonight was just the beginning. The diary was not just a relic of the past but a ticking time bomb, and he feared the moment when it would finally explode.
“Get some rest,” Amir said finally, his voice softening. “We’ll handle it if and when the time comes.”
Shazia nodded, though the worry in her eyes remained. As she lay down, Amir lingered by the window, staring out at the moonlit street. The night was quiet, but inside his mind, the echoes of the past were anything but silent.
