Chapter 3: The Morning After
Amartya returned to a city painted in the lies of welcome. Flowers were strewn on the hot tarmac of the private airfield, the royal band played a brassy fanfare, and a line of ministers in wilted silk kurtas bowed as he descended the plane steps. The smell of Delhi—a mix of diesel, dust, and the distant sweetness of temple offerings—hit him like a fist. He scanned the faces. Dev was not there.
Only Rukmini stood at the base of the steps, a serene figure in lavender silk. Her smile did not reach her eyes. She offered a formal garland, her fingers cool and trembling slightly as she placed it around his neck.
“Welcome home, beta,” she whispered, the word ‘son’ meant only for his ears amidst the public spectacle.
“Bhabhi Ma,” he murmured back, the term a balm. “Where is Bhaiya?”
Her gaze flickered, a shadow passing. “Waiting. In his quarters. He wishes a private debriefing.”
The words held a chill that the brutal Afghan sun never could.
The public formalities stretched for an agonizing hour. He answered questions about the generosity of King Shaibullah with practiced smiles, his gut churning. Every compliment to the Afghan king tasted like ash. Finally, released, he walked the long, familiar corridors towards his brother’s private wing. The palace, a marvel of sandstone and light, felt like a labyrinth closing in.
Two of Dev’s personal guards, men with faces like carved stone, stood outside the ornate teak doors. They opened them without a word. Amartya entered.
Dev’s private suite was not a place of comfort but of intimidation. It was obsessively neat, dark wood and blood-red carpets, the walls lined with antique weapons and shelves of leather-bound ledgers that recorded things best left unread. Dev stood at the window, his back to the room, a large silhouette against the glare. He was drinking whisky from a heavy crystal tumbler.
“Close the door,” Dev said, without turning.
Amartya did. The click of the latch was final.
For a full minute, the only sound was the crunch of ice between Dev’s teeth. Then he turned. His face was calm, but his eyes were black pools of fury. He placed his glass down with exaggerated care.
“Tell me,” Dev said, his voice soft, “about your diplomatic triumphs.”
“Bhaiya, I—”
“Tell me how you secured our water rights. How you navigated the old wolf’s greed. How you made me proud.” Each sentence was a step closer.
Amartya’s throat went dry. “Shaibullah was… evasive. He spoke in circles. There was no substantive discussion. The treaty is stalled.”
Dev was in front of him now, so close Amartya could smell the whisky on his breath. “Evasive. Stalled.” He chuckled, a sound without warmth. “Yet my sources in Kabul tell a different story. They tell me you were… entertained.Privately. By the princess.”
The trap snapped shut. Amartya’s heart hammered against his ribs. “It was nothing. She came to my room. I sent her away. There was nothing to see.”
“Oh, I saw,” Dev hissed. “I saw the empty room. I saw you play the noble little prince. And then I saw you both vanish for over an hour. No cameras.No sound. Just… silence.” His hand shot out, fingers digging into Amartya’s jaw, forcing his head up. “Did you think I am a fool? Did you think I would not have eyes inside that fucking bathroom?”
Amartya’s blood ran cold. Zahira had lied. Or she had been deceived. The cameras were everywhere.
“Nothing happened,” Amartya forced out, the lie pathetic even to his own ears.
Dev’s open palm cracked across his face. The blow was shocking in its force, snapping Amartya’s head to the side. Pain exploded in his cheekbone, hot and bright.
“Do not lie to me, you little shit,” Dev growled.
The door burst open. Rukmini stood there, her composure shattered. “Dev! Stop this!”
“Get out!” Dev roared, not taking his eyes off Amartya.
“He is your brother! He is a boy!”
“He is a snake,” Dev spat. “Fucking a whore princess while pretending to negotiate for his kingdom. He dishonors us all.” He shoved Amartya backwards, sending him stumbling into a low table.
Rukmini rushed forward, placing herself between them. “Please. Whatever you think happened, punish him formally. Not like this. Not in anger.”
Dev looked at her, his expression twisting with something uglier than rage. “You always take his side. Your coddling made him weak. Get out, Rukmini. This is between kings.”
When she didn’t move, he grabbed her by the arm, not gently, and pushed her towards the door. “Guards!” The two stone-faced men entered. “Escort the Queen to her chambers. Ensure she remains there.”
“Dev, don’t!” Rukmini’s cry was cut off as the doors closed behind her.
Silence rushed back in, thick and suffocating.
“Now,” Dev said, rolling up the sleeves of his embroidered kurta. “We finish this.”
What followed was not a beating administered in blind rage. It was a calculated, cruel dissection. Dev was a large man, strong from a lifetime of martial training. He used his fists, his open hands, the hard edge of a heavy ledger. He aimed for places that would not show in public: the ribs, the kidneys, the soft flesh of the stomach.
Amartya tried to block at first, but each defensive move only incited Dev further. A fist to the diaphragm drove the air from his lungs in a whoosh. He doubled over, gasping, only to be met with a knee to the face. He felt his lip split, the metallic tang of blood flooding his mouth. He fell to the red carpet, its intricate patterns swimming before his eyes.
Dev stood over him, breathing heavily. “You think you are better than me? You think the people love your sweet face? You are nothing. A spoiled child who cannot keep his cock in his pants.”
He kicked him in the ribs. A sharp, cracking pain.
Amartya curled into a ball, trying to protect his head. The blows kept coming. Each impact was a punctuation mark to Dev’s venomous monologue.
“You humiliated me. You fucked that Afghan bitch for your own pleasure while I trusted you with a kingdom’s need.”
Another kick.
“You are a stain. A weakness.”
The world narrowed to the pain, the taste of blood, and the scarlet blur of the carpet. After an eternity, the blows stopped. Amartya could only breathe in shallow, ragged hitches. Every part of him screamed.
He heard the clink of glass as Dev poured another drink. Footsteps approached. Dev’s shadow fell over him.
“Get up,” Dev said, his voice flat now, all anger spent, leaving only cold contempt.
Amartya couldn’t. His body refused.
Dev bent down, grabbed a handful of his hair, and hauled him to his knees. “Look at you. Pathetic.” He dragged him, stumbling and half-conscious, across the room to a small, reinforced door Amartya had never seen open. It was set into the paneling beside the bookshelf. Dev produced a key, turned it in the lock, and flung the door open.
A stench of mildew and stale air wafted out. Inside was darkness, a vertical space not much larger than a cupboard.A cell.
Dev threw him inside. Amartya hit the back wall, his bruised body shrieking in protest.
“Five days,” Dev said, his silhouette framed in the light from the room. “Think about your failures. Think about your place.”
The door slammed. The lock turned. Darkness, absolute and complete, swallowed him.
Time lost all meaning. The darkness was a physical presence, thick and heavy. The air was still and foul. There was a bucket in one corner for waste. Once a day, the lock would click, the door would open a crack just wide enough for a guard’s arm to slide in a metal plate of watery dal and a chapati, and a plastic bottle of tepid water. Then darkness again.
The first day was pain.Every breath hurt. The second was hunger and a thirst that the meager water couldn’t quench. The third was a descent into fever, his body fighting infection in the filthy dark. The fourth was a numbness of the mind. The fifth was clarity.
The clarity was cold and hard, forged in the blackness. He thought of Rukmini’s frightened eyes. He thought of Zahira’s triumphant smile. He thought of Dev’s sneer. He had been naïve. He had believed in goodness as a shield. It was not. It was a target.
On the fifth day, when the guard shoved the food plate in, Amartya was ready. He had torn a strip from the hem of his kurta. Using a fingernail, he had scratched the skin of his forearm until it bled. He dipped the edge of the cloth in the blood. In the faint slit of light from the door, he wrote on the back of the metal plate.
Bhabhi Ma,
Your kindness is the only real thing in this palace of ghosts. Do not weep for me. What he has done today, he will answer for tomorrow. This darkness has shown me my path. I will find my way out. And then I will find him.
Your son,
Amu
He slid the plate back out, the message hidden beneath the uneaten food. It was a desperate gamble. Would the guard simply dump it? Would a kitchen maid see it and be too afraid to speak? Or would it, by some miracle, find its way to her?
The door closed. The lock turned.
In the perfect dark, Amartya Agnihotri smiled. It was not a smile of joy, but of recognition. The boy who believed in justice was gone, left bleeding on a red carpet. What remained in the smell of his own waste and the iron scent of his blood was something else.Something harder.
He would get out. And then he would play a different game.