Chapter 9: Homecoming – Part 2
After disposing of the corpses, Vikram turned and began retracing his steps toward the village road. The dawn had only just begun to break, casting pale blue hues across the sky. Long shadows stretched over the earth like tired arms reaching for warmth. A faint trace of mist clung to the field edges, cooling the air, while the rustle of dry leaves whispered subtly with every step he took.
His boots sank slightly into the soft, dry soil that crumbled underfoot. The air was still—too still—but then again, silence was no longer unfamiliar to him. His senses stayed alert, habit forged over the years sharpening every breath, every vibration in the ground, every branch stirred by wind.
Roughly ten minutes later, he reached the roadside where he had left his belongings. Jyoti was standing quietly where he had instructed her to wait. Her back was straight, but her posture betrayed unease. Both hands tightly gripped the ends of her scarf, knotted into anxious fists. Her expression, drawn and pale, told the story without needing words. The encounter in the fields had shattered her sense of normalcy. It wasn't just the violence—it was the man who administered it with such relentless ease that now stood in front of her without a tremor in his breath.
Vikram approached, calm and composed, as though nothing in him required recovery. Death had become a part of his conditioning. He understood how she must see him—someone capable of ending four lives in the span of heartbeats—and yet, he did not view those actions as brutality. To him, it was no different than removing weeds choking the roots of healthy grain. It was justice, not vengeance.
He picked up his canvas bag, brushing off specks of dirt from its surface, and slung it over his shoulder unceremoniously. He began walking without a word, setting a quiet pace toward Gola. Jyoti followed, hesitant, keeping a short distance behind him. Her silence was not indifference; it was a storm gathering behind her eyes.
After walking for a few minutes, Vikram turned his head slightly and offered her careful instructions. She was to say nothing about what had happened. If anyone asked—and someone eventually would—she was to say that troublemakers had tried to harm her but had run away after being confronted by someone unknown. There were to be no details, no names, no mention of death. He explained, without emotion, that reporting the truth would only complicate matters. The police would ask questions, court scenes would unfold, and powerful families would do everything to twist justice. As someone already carrying blood on his hands for the sake of his duty, he could not afford complications.
Jyoti didn't respond, but she understood. Her silence was answer enough.
They walked for nearly half an hour under the glowing wash of morning light. The sky was now a soft canvas of orange and gold. The fields on either side nourished the land's quiet resilience—plots of wheat, ripened sugarcane, and clusters of banana trees bordered by dirt paths and small irrigation ditches. Smoke rose vertically from distant rooftops as the village fires were lit. A few schoolchildren, barefoot and wide-eyed, made their way through the dust with slates under their arms.
When they entered Gola, it struck Vikram how little had changed. The mud-walled houses stood like sentinels of time, some plastered freshly, others cracked from monsoon years gone by. Outside, elders sat on woven cots beside charred fuel drums repurposed as makeshift stoves. The scent of boiling milk mingled with the aroma of cow dung firewood, spreading slowly through the village lanes.
Vikram first accompanied Jyoti to her home. Her family's house stood mid-settlement — a modest structure with a worn-tiled roof and a clay-smeared courtyard dotted with rangoli faded by the dampness of early morning. A neem tree stretched above the rear corner of the home, its shadow shielding much of the inner veranda.
Their arrival stirred noise from within. Her mother rushed to the threshold, saw Jyoti's torn clothing and disheveled hair, and stopped in panic. Her father emerged next, holding a brass lota in one hand and uncertainty in the other, as if unsure what he was witnessing.
Vikram stepped into the courtyard and calmly explained what had transpired, choosing his words carefully. He spoke without raising his voice, avoiding sensational details, and instead focusing on the urgency of protecting Jyoti and maintaining her dignity. Her father listened attentively, his brows furrowed, mouth drawn tight with concern. Her mother, quiet but steady, eventually moved to Jyoti's side and guided her indoors.
From the shadows of the house, an older sister peeked out from behind a half-closed curtain, eyes wide with wonder at the tall man in village garb whose presence filled the courtyard like a myth returning home.
Before leaving, Vikram gently requested that they tell no one. His tone was not commanding, but final. The fewer who knew the truth, the better protected Jyoti would remain. Her father agreed without challenge, placing a firm hand on Vikram's shoulder, wordless but clear in his gratitude.
As Vikram exited the courtyard gate, Jyoti followed a few steps behind. She didn't say anything, nor did she need to. What she carried now was far heavier than words.
Vikram continued alone, weaving through the familiar back lanes. Children played barefoot, laughing as they chased wheels and wooden swords through narrow gullies. Women gathered around wells with pots balanced on hips, exchanging village gossip. Men stood sipping tea, folded newspapers under their arms, murmuring about inflation, local feuds, and election slogans slowly eroding in the rain.
He walked past houses he had known since childhood—each corner imbued with the memory of scraped knees, old friendships, and innocent ambition. But nostalgia took a backseat to purpose. Finally, he arrived at his own home.
It stood quietly near the southern edge of the village—a small brick house with a low front porch and a single-step threshold that had once felt too tall to a ten-year-old boy. The wooden door remained the same, weathered and solid.
He knocked five times, waited, then knocked again.
A muffled voice from within responded, edged with annoyance from being disturbed so early. Moments later, the door opened with a low creak. A young man stood at the entrance, around twenty-one, hair tousled by sleep, brows furrowed in confusion. When their eyes met, understanding arrived before words.
It was Aditya Singh, Vikram's younger brother.
The recognition struck him hard. His expression changed from confusion to astonishment to joy, all in a heartbeat. He moved aside instantly, allowing Vikram to enter with reverence in his posture.
Inside, the house carried every scent and silence he remembered: incense from the morning aarti still hung in the corners, and the old wooden wall frame still displayed portraits from decades past, some faded into sepia ghosts. The living room retained its arrangement—two cane chairs on either side of a low table and a wooden cupboard at the back.
Aditya shared an update about his studies, mentioning how he'd completed a BBA and dreamed of pursuing further studies in management. But finances remained an obstacle. Vikram listened attentively, then quietly reassured him. Years ago, he had invested funds through an acquaintance. That business had since flourished—and the dividends, Vikram explained, were more than enough.
Aditya did not question the statement, but his silence betrayed both relief and pride.
Their reunion was interrupted by steps from the inner room.
His father, Arjun Singh, a retired army major, and his mother, Leela Devi, emerged wearing early morning clothes. At first, no one spoke. Time seemed to stop briefly—three seconds of suspended air.
Then, recognition lit their faces.
Arjun reached him first, a weathered hand pulling Vikram into a firm embrace—not with tears, but with the strength of a soldier greeting a son who had gone deeper into war zones than newspapers would ever print.
His mother came next. Her eyes shimmered hastily with tears as she touched his face. Her hand trembled, not from fear or age, but from the relief of a prayer answered after so long.
They sat together. His mother insisted on preparing a proper meal despite her emotions. Vikram took the chance to clean up, bathing quickly, letting the cold zinc bucket wash away sweat and soil. Later, they ate together—steaming lentils, wheat chapatis brushed with ghee, spiced vegetables, and harad pickle arranged with maternal exactness.
Long conversations followed. His mother asked how long he could stay this time. Vikram told her he had received two months of leave. Her face fell—a gentle break in her smile—but she said nothing more at first.
Eventually, she asked about marriage. Quietly, then more openly. She mentioned Sakshi—the village priest's daughter(Jyoti's older sister whom he had just rescued); a kind, graceful young woman with educated manners and a reputation for patience. The idea caught Vikram off-guard, and he coughed involuntarily. She rushed to bring him water while suppressing a knowing smile.
He remembered seeing Sakshi just when he was at Panditji's home. She had a calm presence, and in that moment, he didn't object to the proposal. He simply asked that the girl have a choice. Consent, he said, must precede any tradition. His mother nodded with understanding.
That night, as stars settled into the rural night sky and the crickets resumed their nightly chorus, Vikram lay under the slow blades of a ceiling fan, his thoughts far from restful.
The memories he had extracted from Abhishek Tiwari still played like reels behind his closed eyes.
He had thought village criminals were his primary target—men with blades and brass knuckles and freelance thuggery. But now, he had seen the web for what it truly was. Politicians with hidden arms trails, illegal currency channels, and ties with foreign handlers. Every village don had a connection to a minister or MLA.
Petty violence was a symptom. The disease lay higher.
In the two months ahead, Vikram resolved to strike deeper. At least fifty such enemies—wealthy, protected, emboldened by corruption—would soon learn what invisible justice felt like. He would not wear a uniform. He would leave behind no trace.
He would become what his enemies feared to imagine—conscience turned into consequence.
Before he drifted to sleep, another vow forged itself silently in the silence between breaths:
This war would be fought in shadows.
But justice, this time, would walk home.
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