Chapter 4: Clashing Realities
Present day:
The Connaught Place Police Station was abuzz with its usual symphony of chaos: the shrill ring of telephones, the rhythmic clatter of typewriters, and the occasional shouting match over misplaced case files. Just as the morning energy threatened to settle into its predictable hum, the double doors burst open with a resounding bang.
Inspector Arjun Rathore stormed in, his neatly pressed uniform slightly disheveled and his shoes clicking sharply against the tiled floor. His face was a mix of exhaustion and determination, the kind of look that said he’d slept about as much as a college student during exam week—barely.
"Patel!" Inspector Arjun Rathore's booming voice sliced through the morning chaos of the Connaught Place Police Station like a cleaver through a hapless watermelon.
Constable Patel, mid-sip of his precious ginger chai, let out a strangled yelp and nearly baptized the crime report he was holding with the remains of his tea. He fumbled to set the cup down, the saucer rattling on the desk like a mini earthquake.
"Y-Yes, sir!" Patel stammered, snapping to attention so quickly he nearly knocked over his chair.
"What’s the update on the attempted bomb blast case?" Rathore barked, not breaking stride as he cut through the station with the intensity of a storm trooper. A rookie constable carrying an alarming stack of dusty files had to perform a ninja-like sidestep to avoid being trampled.
“Uh… we’re still, um, piecing together the evidence—” Patel began, scrambling to keep up. His notepad flapped in his hand like a wayward pigeon.
"Piecing together?!" Rathore screeched to a halt, spinning around so suddenly that Patel, caught mid-jog, almost smacked into his shoulder. “This isn’t a weekend crossword, Patel! A crowded metro station was nearly blown to smithereens yesterday. I need answers, not excuses!”
“Yes, sir! Of course, sir!” Patel nodded so vigorously it looked like he might sprain his neck. “It’s just, uh, we’re waiting on the forensics report. And there’s a bit of confusion with the witness statements…”
“Confusion?” Rathore’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “Are the witnesses talking in code? Or are you trying to decipher hieroglyphics again?”
“No, sir! It’s just that one witness insists the suspect was wearing a red shirt, and another swears it was green.”
“Great,” Rathore muttered, rubbing his temples like a man on the brink. “We’re solving a case with the help of colorblind clairvoyants. What else?”
“Well…” Patel hesitated. “The CCTV footage is…uh…unusable.”
“Unusable? Why?”
“The camera was pointed at the ceiling fan.”
There was a beat of silence, during which Rathore’s face transitioned through a symphony of emotions—disbelief, fury, and finally, the resigned exhaustion of a man who’d dealt with the bureaucratic circus for far too long.
“Let me get this straight,” Rathore said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We have witnesses arguing over rainbow theory, no usable footage, and I’m supposed to prevent the city from turning into a live-action disaster movie?”
“Yes, sir,” Patel offered sheepishly.
“Fantastic,” Rathore said dryly. “Anything else, Patel? Perhaps the suspect left behind a handwritten confession we’ve somehow managed to lose?”
“Not exactly, sir,” Patel mumbled. “But someone did call the station claiming to be the bomber…”
Rathore’s eyes lit up with hope. “And?”
“…But we think it’s just that prankster who keeps ordering pizza to the station’s address.”
Rathore stared at Patel, his expression teetering between homicidal rage and utter defeat. Finally, he sighed and pointed toward his chamber.
“Follow me, Patel. Bring your chai. You’ll need it.”
Outside, the team exchanged nervous glances. Rathore was in his element, and everyone knew what that meant: the next 24 hours would be a whirlwind of intense interrogations, sleepless nights, and at least one tragic mishap involving Patel and another cup of chai.
Professor’s Cabin:
Ramnath: Matter is not over yet Amir. Government is not holding back. They think they got the trail. We need to do something. They are linking the incidents of yesterday and campus incident is connected.
Amir: need to figure this out. At least we have media in control. We can create one angel.
Ramnath: It is not media Amir. It is real world. Our imagination doesn’t work here. If Police take strict actions we will no longer.
Ramnath stared at Amir, his gaze sharp and unwavering, the weight of the situation pressing down on him like an unrelenting storm.
“The matter isn’t over yet, Amir,” Ramnath said, his voice low, almost a whisper but laced with steel. “The government isn’t backing down. They think they’ve got a lead—following the trail. And now they’re tying the incidents together. The campus incident—it's connected. They’re connecting dots we thought were ours alone.”
Amir clenched his fists, his frustration boiling to the surface. “Then what the hell are we supposed to do? Sit back and wait for them to tighten the noose? Watch as they pin us down one by one?”
Ramnath didn’t flinch. His calmness, however strained, seemed like his only weapon now. “We don’t wait. We act. But not with illusions. Not with fantasy. This is about survival, Amir. If we don’t find a way to cut through the mess—if we don’t push harder, dig deeper—there’s no tomorrow. No space for us in this world.”
Amir ran a hand through his hair, his breath ragged. “And what if they’re already ahead of us? What if they’ve already connected the dots we can’t see?”
Ramnath’s eyes darkened, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “Then we create doubt. We saw chaos. We keep them guessing. We make them question their own answers.”
There was a heavy silence between them. The room seemed to shrink, the weight of their conversation pressing down on both like an unseen force.
Ramnath leaned in closer, his voice low but resolute. “We don’t have the luxury of failure, Amir. The world outside isn’t playing by our rules anymore. We either rise to meet it… or we disappear into the shadows.”
Amir swallowed hard, his resolve hardening. “We’ll rise.”
But neither of them was sure if that was enough.
The dimly lit Connaught Place Police Station conference room. Inspector Rathore sits at the head of the table, papers scattered in front of him. Constable Patel stands nervously, fiddling with his tablet. The atmosphere is tense and heavy with uncertainty.
Rathore: (slamming his fist on the table) “What the hell is this, Patel? We’ve got five different versions of the same incident, all claiming they saw the suspect here—at the same time, no less!”
Patel: (nervously shifting from foot to foot) “Sir, it’s like they’re describing two different people. Some say they saw him near the bookstore, others near the café, but none of them agree on anything.”
Rathore: (leaning forward, voice rising) “Near the bookstore? Near the café? Are they investigating a missing person or a bomb blast, Patel? This isn’t random sightseeing!”
Patel: (frantic now) “Sir, I… I don’t know. They’re giving us completely different details. One says he had a red jacket, another says a green scarf. Even his description is all over the place.”
Rathore: (gritting his teeth) “Red jacket, green scarf. Are we tracking a fashion show or a suspect who carried a bomb?”
Patel: (struggling to keep up) “It’s almost like someone’s feeding them these stories, making sure they confuse us.”
Rathore: (slamming his palm on the table again) “Feeding them? You’re telling me they’re lying? Deliberately?”
Patel: (gulping, nodding) “It doesn’t add up, sir. Everyone’s got different details. How do you explain that?”
Rathore: (rubbing his temples) “It’s not just confusion, Patel. False clues. Mismatched statements. Someone’s steering us in the wrong direction. Why? To cover their tracks.”
Patel: (fidgeting with his tablet) “Sir, if these aren’t real accounts, then what are we dealing with?”
Rathore: (leaning back, his tone cold) “A smoke screen, Patel. Someone’s making fools of us. We’re chasing shadows while the truth slips through our fingers.”
Patel: (nervously) “But why go to such lengths to mislead us, sir?”
Rathore: (gritting his teeth, a bitter smile forming) “To buy time. To protect whoever carried the bomb. To make sure we’re looking anywhere but at them.”
Patel: (muttering) “The suspect? You think he’s still close by?”
Rathore: (cutting him off) “The suspect or someone who’s helping him. Either way, they’re making fools of us.”
Patel: (more anxious) “But how do we know what’s real anymore, sir? Every lead points nowhere.”
Rathore: (leaning forward, his eyes sharp and determined) “We find the lies, Patel. We follow the false clues and see where they lead us. One way or another, the truth will slip.”
Patel: (looking defeated) “And if it doesn’t, sir?”
Rathore: (coldly, with a bitter smile) “Then we make sure they regret making us chase ghosts.”
AMIR’S HOUSE
Shabad enters, his expression tense and irritated. Shazia follows quietly, standing off to the side, observing. Amir remains seated, calmly reading a book.
Shabad (angrily, his tone sharp): I am not interested in your love story dad. Give me some straight facts. I don’t want to waste my time in your pakistani love stories. Tell me are you pakistani personating someone else ? If yes who are you working with ?
Shazia (firmly, cutting him off): Shut up Shabad. You are crossing your limits
Shabad: Mom he had crossed fence.
Shaazia slaps Shabad sharply across the face, his expression cold and unwavering.
Shazia: He gave you his secret to you. Not to be judge by your thinking which is hardly developed. Have you heard the name patience? If not, just give me the book back and you are not worthy enough to understand the meaning of emotions. Be humble and mature enough to digest the truth first.
You were right Amir, may be he is not mature enough to handle the truth.
Amir: (leaning back in his chair, his voice steady yet tinged with an undercurrent of emotion)
“Yes, Shabad, I was born and brought up in Pakistan. But then what? Do you think life unfolds neatly, like the pages of a well-planned book? It doesn’t. It never does. Life isn’t subtle or normal—it’s messy, unpredictable, and often merciless.”
(He pauses, looking into the distance as if reliving fragments of his past.)
“You grow up thinking you have all the time in the world to make sense of it, to find your place, but life doesn’t wait for you to catch up. It forces you to make choices. Sometimes choices you don’t understand, choices that haunt you, choices that define you.”
(His voice softens, but his words grow heavier.)
“Do you know what it’s like to belong nowhere? To have your identity questioned at every turn? To carry the weight of two worlds on your shoulders, neither fully accepting you, neither letting you go? In Pakistan, I was just a boy dreaming of a better tomorrow. But tomorrow wasn’t kind. It rarely is for people like us—caught between borders, between ideas, between people’s expectations of who you should be.”
(He sighs deeply, his gaze steady now, meeting Shabad’s eyes.)
“But here’s what I’ve learned: it’s not where you come from that defines you, Shabad. It’s what you do with what you’re given. It’s how you navigate through the chaos, the accusations, the whispers behind your back. It’s the courage to stand tall when your past feels like a shadow trying to pull you under.”
(Amir’s voice grows firmer, but not without a trace of sorrow.)
“So yes, I was born in Pakistan. But that’s just a piece of my story—a single chapter in a life filled with moments you wouldn’t understand yet. If you’re looking for simple answers, you’ll never find them. Life doesn’t hand you clarity on a silver platter. You have to earn it. Through patience. Through understanding. Through respect—for yourself and others.”
(He leans forward, his tone now resolute, almost commanding.)
“Stop looking for reasons to tear people down because of where they come from. Start asking what made them who they are today. You’ll find the answers there, not in the borders drawn on a map, not in the labels people use to divide us.”
(Amir leans back again, his voice quiet but unyielding.)
“Now, if you’re ready to talk with an open mind, I’ll answer your questions. But if all you want is to judge me for a past you don’t even know, then we’re done here.”
Shabad froze, the weight of Amir’s words hitting him like a tidal wave. His father’s voice, calm yet piercing, echoed in the silence that followed. The room, which moments ago had been charged with tension, now felt suffocating with the unspoken truth hanging heavy in the air.
His hands clenched by his sides, Shabad’s defiance wavered. He tried to meet Amir’s steady gaze, but his father’s eyes carried a depth he couldn’t match—a storm of pain, resilience, and wisdom forged through a lifetime of struggle.
For the first time, Shabad saw his father not as a distant figure, but as a man shaped by experiences he couldn’t yet fathom. A man who had lived through worlds far more complex than the narrow lens through which Shabad had viewed him.
His throat tightened. Words formed in his mind but died before they reached his lips. What could he say? What should he say? The fire of his earlier anger was gone, replaced by a cold realization that he had been wrong—terribly, shamefully wrong.
Without another word, Shabad turned on his heel, his footsteps heavy against the wooden floor. He moved towards the door, his head low, the shadows of regret trailing him like a second skin.
As he reached the doorway, he paused for a moment, gripping the doorframe as if anchoring himself. He glanced back, his face a conflicted mix of guilt and hesitation. But the words wouldn’t come.
Shabad walked out, the silence in the room lingering long after he had left.
Shabad shut the door behind him with a quiet click, the soft hum of the house filling the space around him. He sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, his hands running through his hair as if trying to untangle the chaos in his mind. The weight of his father’s words lingered, replaying like an unwelcome refrain: “It’s not where you come from that defines you… It’s what you do with what you’re given.”
Shabad exhaled sharply, leaning back and staring at the ceiling. “Where did I go wrong?” he muttered to himself. His earlier anger seemed foolish now—a shallow attempt to simplify a story that was anything but. He’d demanded straight facts, yet life wasn’t made of straight lines.
After a long moment, he stood, his movements deliberate. Walking to his desk, he opened the drawer and pulled out the Diary. It was meant to be a record of thoughts, but Shabad had dismissed it as sentimental nonsense. Tonight, it felt like a lifeline.
He decided to read Diary further.
“Today is the day.
The thought echoed in my mind, equal parts hope and dread. Today, I would either win her heart or face the sting of rejection—sharp and unforgiving.
I could already feel the weight of her gaze, her answer hanging in the air like an unspoken promise—or perhaps, a quiet refusal. Either way, I had to know.
I reached the college, my heart racing with anticipation. But as I scanned the familiar crowd, a wave of confusion swept over me. She was nowhere to be seen.
I checked the usual spots—near the library steps, under the banyan tree where she often sat, even the cafeteria. Nothing.
Mahira wasn’t here.
A knot tightened in my chest. Did something happen? Or maybe she just decided to skip college today? It wasn’t like her to miss a day without a reason.
Unable to shake the unease settling over me, I made a decision. I had to see her.
Without overthinking it, I found myself walking briskly, the college fading behind me as I headed toward her house. The familiar streets blurred past, my mind racing with questions. Was she okay? Why hadn’t she come today?
As I reached her gate, I hesitated for a moment, my heart pounding in my chest. What if this was a mistake? What if she thought I was overstepping?
But the worry that something might be wrong pushed me forward. I took a deep breath, gathered my courage, knocked on the door, but there was no answer. I waited, listening for any sound—footsteps, a voice, anything—but the silence was deafening.
The house looked different today. The windows were shut tight, the curtains drawn, and a faint layer of dust clung to the porch as if no one had stepped out for days.
It almost seemed... abandoned.
A chill ran down my spine. This wasn’t right. Mahira’s house was always warm and welcoming, alive with the sound of her laughter or the faint hum of music drifting through the open windows.
But now, it stood eerily still, like a memory fading into the past.
Where could she have gone? And why hadn’t she said anything?
Questions swirled in my mind, their weight pressing heavy on my chest as I stepped back, unsure of what to do next.
I hesitated for a moment, then turned to the house next door. Maybe the neighbors could shed some light on this unsettling situation.
Knocking on the door, I waited as shuffling footsteps approached. The door creaked open to reveal Mahira’s neighbor, her warm smile fading slightly when she saw my face.
“Amir! What brings you here, beta?” she asked, her voice kind but laced with curiosity.
“Hello, Aunty,” I said, trying to keep my tone steady. “I’m looking for Mahira. I went to her house, but it’s locked. Do you know where she might have gone?”
Her brows furrowed, and she glanced toward Mahira’s house. “Locked? That’s strange. Mahira should be home. She came by just yesterday asking for some detergent.”
“Detergent?” The word felt oddly misplaced in the growing unease of the moment.
“Yes,” she nodded. “She said she’d run out and needed it urgently. She seemed... a little distracted, though.”
“Distracted?” I echoed, the knot in my chest tightening. “How do you mean?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Aunty said, waving a hand but not meeting my eyes. “Just... preoccupied, maybe. I didn’t think much of it.”
“And you haven’t seen her since?” I pressed, my voice sharper than I intended.
“No, not today,” she said, shaking her head slowly. “But she’s probably around. Maybe she went out for something. Don’t worry, beta. She’s a smart girl.”
I forced a smile, but her words only deepened the pit in my stomach. The mention of detergent, her distracted demeanor, the locked house—it all felt like puzzle pieces that didn’t quite fit.
I lingered outside her house, pacing aimlessly on the quiet street. Maybe she’d return. Maybe this was all just a misunderstanding.
Minutes turned into hours, and the golden glow of the afternoon gave way to the soft shadows of evening. Still, there was no sign of her.
Defeated and riddled with questions, I finally decided to head home. Each step felt heavier than the last, my mind a storm of confusion and unease. What was going on? Why hadn’t she told me anything?
But as I walked away, I couldn’t help glancing back at her house every few steps, hoping for some sign of her—a light flickering on, a familiar silhouette at the gate.
Then, just as I was about to turn the corner, I saw it.
A ranger van rolled slowly down the street, its headlights cutting through the encroaching darkness. It stopped right in front of Mahira’s house.
My heart froze.
From the van, one by one, military personnel stepped out, their movements precise and deliberate. They carried an air of authority, their uniforms crisp and their faces unreadable.
I stopped in my tracks, unable to tear my eyes away.
What were they doing here?
Silently, they approached the locked door, and with practiced efficiency, they opened it and began filing inside.
My chest tightened as a wave of dread washed over me.
What could the military possibly want with Mahira?
I ducked into the shadows, my mind racing with possibilities, each one darker than the last. The air seemed to thrum with tension, the quiet street now holding secrets I couldn’t even begin to fathom.
Before I could make sense of what was happening, a deafening roar shattered the stillness of the evening.
Boom!
Mahira’s house exploded.
The blast was immense, a fiery eruption that seemed to tear through the very fabric of the neighborhood. A blinding flash of light hit my eyes, forcing me to stumble backward and shield my face with trembling hands.
The ground beneath me shook violently, a wave of heat rushing past as shards of glass and debris rained down. For a moment, it felt like the world had come to a standstill, replaced by chaos and destruction.
I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. My ears rang, muffling every sound except the distant echoes of the explosion. The once-familiar street was now a scene of devastation, illuminated by the flickering inferno that had consumed Mahira’s house.
The ranger van was gone—obliterated. The military personnel who had entered the house moments earlier... there was no way they could have survived.
I staggered to my feet, my legs shaky and my mind reeling. What was this? An accident? An attack?
No. This wasn’t random. It couldn’t be.
Mahira.
Her name clawed its way to the forefront of my thoughts, cutting through the haze of panic. Where was she? Could she have been inside?
My chest tightened, my breaths shallow and rapid. Everything about this was unimaginable, surreal, like a nightmare I couldn’t wake up from.
I took a step forward, instinct driving me closer to the burning wreckage, but stopped. Something wasn’t right. This wasn’t just a house. It was something more—a secret she’d kept, a danger I’d never seen coming.
And now, that secret had erupted, leaving nothing but questions and the haunting glow of flames.
