"Apki bohot yaad aati hai, Rudra."

(I miss you so much, Rudra)

The words seep through the speaker, soft and trembling, clinging to the silence like something desperate.

I don't answer immediately. The screen's dull glow washes over my face, its light flickering against the sharp planes of my jaw. I lie on my stomach, one arm stretched over the side of the bed, fingers grazing the cool wood of the floor.

The air is thick, stagnant, with the remnants of something alchemic from an extinguished candle—an infusion of fresh sage, juniper berries, and eucalyptus, steeped into the silence like a potion meant to soothe, yet failing to cleanse the weight it lingers over.

Beyond the window, the peaks of the Himalayas stand in silent judgment, their jagged edges swallowed in darkness. It's the kind of night that feels endless, the hours stretching into something shapeless. I exhale, pressing the phone closer to my ear.

"Aap sun rahe hain na?"

(You're listening right?)

A quiet breath. My eyes flick to the digital clock on the bedside table—4:03 AM.

I shift against the mattress, my hair falling messily over my forehead. My voice comes out flat, unaffected. "Ji Maa."

(Yes Maa)

A sharp inhale. Relief.

"Yeh mahal bilkul khaali lagta hai apke bina."

(This palace feels empty without you)

Her voice wavers, just enough to give her away. I hear it in the way her syllables stretch, in the way she clings to every word as if afraid of the silence that will follow.

Loneliness. Weakness. The weight of an empty palace pressing against her chest, night after night.

I say nothing.

"Aap kab wapas aa rahe hain?"

(When are you coming back?)

My gaze settles back on the glass, my own reflection barely visible against the pitch-black sky. The mountains remain unmoving, their presence ancient, indifferent. They have seen kings fall and empires rise. My absence means nothing to them.

"Jaldi," I lie.

(Soon)

She sighs, the sound uneven. "Apke baba bhi bas... apni duniya mein hain."

(Your father also stays in his own world)

It's not a complaint. Not an accusation. Just a truth spoken out loud, one I stopped reacting to years ago.

"Aur—" She hesitates. "Apke dada-sa ka haal toh aap jaante hi hain."

(And— You know your grandfather)

My jaw tightens. The air shifts, an invisible pressure settling over my ribs. She doesn't say his name. She never does. She doesn't need to. His presence is a stain that lingers, a shadow that stretches across every conversation, every room, every moment of my father's life, of hers. Of mine.

"Sona chahiye, Maa," I murmur, my voice steady. "Subah hone wali hai."

(You should sleep, Maa)
(It's about to be morning)

A pause. Then, softer, "Haan... theek hai. Apna dhyaan rakhiyega, meri jaan."

(Yes...okay. You take care, my love)

The call ends with a soft click.

I stare at the screen for a long second before tossing the phone onto the mattress. The room is silent again, but the weight of her voice clings to the air, thick, suffocating.

I turn onto my back, one hand dragging across my face, fingers pressing into my temples. The exhaustion in my bones is old, settled deep, unshaken by rest or time.

She misses me.

She is alone.

She suffers.

She pretends she doesn't.

I pretend I don't notice.

The weight of it all presses against my ribs, heavy but familiar. My mother is a woman who does not know how to be alone, yet she has spent her life drowning in solitude. My father is a man who does not know how to love, yet he wears his guilt like an untouchable wound. And my grandfather—

My fingers curl into the sheets. I force the thought away before it can sink its teeth into my skull.

The stillness in the room stretches, thick as the night. I close my eyes, knowing sleep will not come. It never does.

Outside, the first faint traces of dawn begin to stain the sky. But the darkness never truly leaves.

And neither do the ghosts.

The pillow is cool against my skin, but the weight of the night lingers, pressing down on my chest. My mother's voice still echoes in my ears, slow and sinking, like water filling my lungs.

Apki bohot yaad aati hai, Rudra.

(I miss you so much, Rudra)

A confession or a burden? I don't know. I never do.

I exhale, my breath heavy against the fabric, eyes burning from another sleepless night. The villa is silent—too silent—except for the wind brushing against the glass panes. I focus on that sound, anything to chase away the raw heaviness that conversation left behind.

A sliver of light spills through the curtains. The darkness outside is giving way, slow and reluctant, bleeding into soft hues of indigo and violet. Dawn.

And just like that, another presence seeps into my mind.

Mukti.

She is not a memory. Not a thought. She is something else entirely—something that lives beneath my skin, refuses to leave, refuses to be forgotten.

I see her how I last left her—standing at the threshold of her dorm, eyes heavy with something unspoken. Something fragile. Something exhausted. The cold night had wrapped around her small frame, but she didn't move until she was sure I was gone.

Except I hadn't left.

I'd stayed.

Parked across the street, watching, waiting.

She took too long to lock the door. A hesitation that burned its way under my skin.

I told myself I was only ensuring her safety. It was a lie.

Something about that moment—her silence, her reluctance—felt like a weight in my chest, pressing, unsettling. The way she held herself, like a thread stretched too thin, like a whisper on the verge of breaking.

I had pushed her. Not hard. Not enough to shatter her. Just enough to watch her bend.

And yet—she had let me.

Let me into her space. Let me stay. Let me feed her. Let me touch her.

A slow, measured inhale.

She shouldn't have.

Mukti shouldn't let a man like me that close.

But she did.

And I need her to do it again.

I turn my face into the pillow, jaw clenched. There is an ache in my body that isn't exhaustion, isn't tension, isn't anything I can name. It is something deeper. Sharper. A pull beneath the surface, constant and unrelenting.

I had only kissed her once. And now I'm a man starved.

I can still taste her.

Soft, warm, unwilling—but not untouched by desire.

Mukti was trembling when I pulled away, and I don't think she even realized she was leaning into me.

Oh, how every nerve in my body burned with the need to shield her. To pull her into my arms and press her so close that not even the air could dare touch her without my permission.

I waited—waited for her to hand me her burdens, to lay them at my feet so I could crush them beneath my heel. Because I would. Without hesitation. Without mercy.

This primal, vicious instinct to claim her.

To take her world into my hands and mold it into something safer, something softer—something that bent to my will so she would never have to suffer even the whisper of pain.

I wanted to erase the very concept of worry from her mind. To smooth out every crease in her delicate skin before it even formed.

If I could just keep her close.

If I could press my lips to her pulse and feel the rhythm of her life under my tongue.

If only I could steal her from the world, hollow out a space for just the two of us, and keep her hidden away where nothing could touch her.

This electricity inside me, this unbearable, shuddering current running through my veins, is proof enough—I would take care of it all.

Her body, her mind, her soul. The light in her eyes and the shadows in her heart. She would never have to lift a single trembling finger to fix what I could destroy for her.

If only she would let me.

Such a small, fragile thing. So pure. So untouched by the darkness I waded through. And yet, with nothing but her existence, she had undone me.

It was unbearable.

When she was near and I couldn't touch her, it was as if the air thickened into something I couldn't swallow. Every inhale scraped through my lungs, hollow and aching, because it wasn't her.

If I couldn't breathe her in, the oxygen in my blood ran thin.

It wasn't healthy.

But it was real.

And soon, she would understand.

I am a man who waits. Who watches. Who takes.

And I will take her.

A slow, deliberate exhale.

I tell myself it won't be now. Not yet.

But she is already in my hands.

She just doesn't know it yet.

The gym is cold when I step inside, the wooden floors biting against my bare feet. Winter lingers in the air—sharp, unyielding—but I don't turn on the heater. The cold is a welcome discomfort, a contrast to the fire simmering beneath my skin.

The air smells of metal and sweat, thick with the silence of an hour where the world still sleeps. Shadows stretch long against the mirrored walls, fractured by the low glow of a single hanging light.

A body that obeys even when the mind does not.

I don't warm up. I don't ease into it. There is no need.

The iron bar is waiting.

Workout

Deadlifts first.

The cold steel bites into my palms as I grip the bar, feet planted firm, breath steady. Up. The weight rips off the ground, veins straining, muscles tightening. Down. Controlled. Precise. Again.

A slow, excruciating rhythm—one I know better than my own pulse.

My jaw clenches, sweat slicking down my spine, muscles burning—but it's not enough. Not yet. I need more. More pain. More fire. More silence.

Because she is still here.

Mukti

Her name is carved into my mind, woven into the breath that leaves my lungs. She is there in the spaces between each rep, in the ache coiling tight in my chest.

The way her hair slipped over her face at dinner.

The way her lips parted—just slightly—before she spoke.

The way she hadn't looked me in the eyes when I told her to get inside.

I should have made her.

I add more weight.

The barbell groans in protest as I pull, fire licking up my spine, arms trembling—but I don't stop. One more. One more. Until the burn is unbearable, until my body screams, until the only thing left is the exhaustion settling deep into my bones.

I move through the rest of my routine on instinct. Chest presses. Pull-ups. Push-ups. Relentless.

I push until my muscles shake, until my vision blurs at the edges, until there is nothing left but the ache and the raw pulse of control returning to me.

A final pull-up.

One last demand.

I drop down, panting, sweat rolling down my chest.

Control. Regained.

The moment I step into the bathroom, cold air slams into my sweat-drenched skin, sending a sharp shiver through me. The marble floors are ice under my bare feet, the winter morning seeping into the bones of the villa.

I strip off my clothes, muscles still pulsing from exertion, and turn on the shower.

The hot water cascades down my skin.

Clashing with the lingering heat of my body, relaxing my nerves. I tilt my head back as water rushes down my face, rolling over my shoulders, trailing in rivulets down my spine.

Steam rises.

My fingers drag through my hair, water streaming between them as I stand there, motionless, letting the heat seep in.

It reminds me of the lake in Mewar.

Of early mornings spent swimming through the dark waters, the silence stretching wide and endless. Discipline is forged in discomfort. Strength is sharpened in the absence of ease.

I inhale deeply, exhaling slow.

A few more minutes, and then I finally reach for the soap, washing away the sweat, the remnants of sleep deprivation, the ghosts of a night spent chasing silence.

By the time I step out, droplets clinging to my skin, the world outside has begun to shift.

The sky is still washed in gentle hues of golden when I step outside, dressed in a dhoti and shawl, my hair damp from the shower. The winter air is sharp, crisp, carrying the scent of earth, smoke, and the first stirrings of sunlight.

The temple in the backyard stands bathed in soft shadows, the stone pathway cold beneath my feet as I walk toward it.

The shivling waits at the center, black stone gleaming beneath the first touch of morning light.

I close my eyes, the wind rustles through the trees, whispering through the temple's open walls.

It feels like something watching, something listening.

I begin.

A copper pot in my hand, jal abhishek flowing in a slow, silver stream as I pour water over the stone. It trickles down in rivulets, darkening the surface, soaking into the earth below.

A man surrendering to the divine.

I press a fresh leaf of bel-patra against the shivling, fingers lingering for a moment. A gift of three leaves, veined with meaning.

An offering of reverence. Of discipline. Of control.

I kneel, forehead touching the ground, the cool stone grounding me. This is just me and Him.

The words leave my lips low and steady.

"Sanandamanandavane Vasantamanandkandam Hatpaapvrindam|
Varanasinathamnathnatham Shrivishvanatham Sharanam Prapadhaye ||"

("I take refuge in Lord Vishwanath, the divine Father of all orphans, who resides in the blissful forest of divine joy, the very source of bliss, the destroyer of all sins, and the supreme Lord of Varanasi.")

Not just a prayer.

But complete surrender.

A tether to something ancient, something primal, something beyond flesh and blood.

When I open my eyes, the sky has shifted, the first golden rays slipping over the horizon.

Winter has not faded, but the day has begun its claim.

Another day. Another battle.

I rise to my feet, breath deep, spine straight.

I am ready.

The cold air clings to my skin as I step back inside. The scent of incense and wet earth lingers on me, but the stillness I found outside vanishes the moment I cross the threshold.

Reality waits.

I walk through the dimly lit corridor, the wooden floors cool beneath my bare feet. My closet door stands slightly ajar, the rich scent of leather and sandalwood greeting me as I step inside.

Fabric brushes against my skin as I shrug on a crisp, tailored sweater, the weight of the wool grounding me. Trousers follow, the fine material fitting like second skin—sharp, precise, effortless. The finishing touch—a sleek watch clasping around my wrist, its cold metal biting into my pulse point.

The boyish charm they talk about? Manufactured. Curated. Just another layer in the armor.

By the time I step out, the transformation is complete.

Viren is waiting in the living room, legs stretched out, a cup of chai in one hand, the morning paper in the other. He doesn't look up immediately, but there's a flicker of awareness in his gaze.

"Early morning prayers?" he muses, setting the paper down.

I sink into the chair across from him, fingers tapping absently against the wooden armrest. "Something like that."

He hums, unbothered. We've known each other too long for small talk. The real conversation begins in the silence that follows.

"You're expected in Udaipur for Mahashivratri," he says, watching me carefully. "Your father wants you at the palace by the weekend."

I tilt my head back against the chair, exhaling slowly. Of course.

The palace. My grandfather's presence. The weight of expectation pressing down before I even step through the grand doors.

Viren doesn't push, just hands me the cup of chai he had already poured for me, the heat of it seeping into my palm. "The rally's happening soon. Your father's team is preparing for the next phase of the campaign."

A dry chuckle escapes me. "And let me guess? They want me standing beside him, playing the role of the perfect son."

Viren's smirk is faint. "Something like that."

We both know this isn't about appearances. It's about legacy. The carefully crafted image of a dynasty built on power and control.

I take a slow sip of chai, the warmth sliding down my throat, but it does nothing to thaw the ice in my veins.

A beat of silence. Then Viren leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. "You know they're waiting for you to step in."

I meet his gaze, steady. Unflinching.

I already have.

They just don't realize it yet.

The conversation shifts—logistics, schedules, meetings that mean nothing but must be attended. The kind of talk that's necessary but never fulfilling.

With one last glance at the newspaper, I rise, grabbing my car keys from the table. The sleek metal spins between my fingers—a quiet habit, a distraction.

I don't confirm my presence at the rally. I don't acknowledge Mahashivratri at the palace. Viren doesn't ask again.

Instead, he simply nods as I walk past him, the unspoken understanding between us clear.

The sky outside is streaked with pale gold, the peaks of the mountains reflecting against the windshield as I slide into the driver's seat. The engine purrs to life, low and smooth.

I should be thinking about my father. About my obligations. About the rally.

But all I can see is the way Mukti hesitated at her doorstep.

The way she lingered, just like she lingers in my mind now.

I shift gears, pressing down on the accelerator.

The past chases me. The future waits.

And somewhere in between, she exists.

Unshakable. Unavoidable.

Mine.