The end of the Garba did not come with a conclusion, but with a gradual fading. The mighty dhols, which had hammered the rhythm into their very souls, fell silent one by one. The powerful choir of voices softened to a hum, then to a whisper, until only the memory of the music echoed in the ringing air. The colossal engine of devotion, which had run on the fuel of ten thousand dancing feet, was sputtering to a halt.
The unified ocean of dancers began to break apart into streams, then into trickles of individuals and small groups. The vibrant, swirling colors now moved sluggishly towards the exits, the brilliant chaniya cholis and kurtas looking muted and weary under the few remaining lights. The air, once electric with faith and frenzy, was now heavy with the scent of spent incense, crushed flowers, and human exhaustion.
Gangesh moved with his friends, his body humming with a pleasant, deep-seated fatigue. Every muscle acknowledged the night's fervent worship. They were part of a slow, human river flowing towards the main gate, their laughter now subdued, replaced by a contented, shared silence.
It happened in a moment of congestion at the exit. A large family group surged between them, and Gangesh, stumbling on a curb he didn't see, was pushed aside. By the time he regained his balance, the familiar backs of Aditya, Karan, and Sagar had been swallowed by the crowd. He stood on his toes, scanning the sea of heads, but it was useless. They were gone, assuming he was right behind them.
He sighed, too tired to be truly annoyed. He'd find them outside. He let the current carry him through the gate, his eyes passively scanning the dispersing crowd. And then he saw it—a flicker.
It was a glimpse of a girl, her profile illuminated by the harsh glow of a streetlamp. Her Garba finery was as dust-streaked and crumpled as his, but she carried herself with an undeniable authority. It was Anya. She was shepherding her group, a gentle but firm captain guiding her ship through the chaotic port.
He saw her check on Kusum, who looked emotionally overwhelmed by the night's intensity, offering a steadying word. She shared a quiet, witty remark with Suman that made the other girl smile despite her obvious fatigue. Then, Anya's hand fell to Sandhya's shoulder. The deeply observant girl had been staring into the shadows between the streetlights, a slight frown on her face. Anya's touch was a question. Sandhya looked up, met her eyes, and gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of her head before allowing herself to be guided forward. Anya accepted it without another word, her attention already moving to ensure the entire group stayed together.
She was a pillar. A leader. She shouldered the responsibility for her friends' well-being without a second thought, her care as natural as breathing. Gangesh watched, rooted to the spot, a fresh wave of understanding washing over him. This was not the fierce debater from the classroom; this was the bedrock of that ferocity. Her strength was not for dismantling arguments alone; it was for building a sanctuary for those she loved.
A sigh escaped him, lost in the night air. "How brave you are, Anya," he whispered to himself. The words were not filled with romantic longing, but with a stark, humbling admiration. He had been humiliated by her intellect, but now he was humbled by her character. His own principles felt like a theory from a textbook; hers were the lived code of her life.
The crowd thinned rapidly around him. The trickle became a few scattered groups, then lone individuals hurrying home. The booming, illuminated ground was now a dark, empty shell behind him, littered with the ghosts of the night's joy. He had taken a wrong turn, lured by a shortcut he thought he remembered. Instead of the main road bustling with autos and groups of students, he found himself on a silent, narrow lane that serviced the back of the pandal. The grand lights were gone, replaced by the weak, orange glow of sporadic streetlights that created more pools of darkness than they dispelled.
The sounds of the city were a distant rumor here. His own footsteps were loud on the cracked pavement. The world had gone from a roaring ocean to a silent, abandoned shore in the span of a few minutes. A faint prickle of unease traced its way down his spine. This was not the way. He was alone.
He picked up his pace, his mind now fully alert, the lingering bliss of the Garba evaporating. The imposing, silent buildings on either side seemed to watch him. He rounded a corner, hoping to see a busier street, but found only another desolate lane, this one even darker.
And then he heard it.
It was a sound that didn't belong to the silence. A short, sharp, gasping scream. A female voice, choked with horror. It was there, a razor-sharp tear in the fabric of the night, and then it was gone. Swept away so completely by the ensuing silence that he wondered if his overtired, overwhelmed mind had conjured it from the rustle of a distant plastic bag or the yowl of a stray cat.
He stopped dead, his heart hammering against his ribs. The principles he lived by, the morality he championed—they were abstract concepts in a well-lit classroom. Here, in this oppressive darkness, they were a cold, immediate demand.
*Did I imagine it?*
The thought was a sedative, tempting him to dismiss it, to walk faster, to find his friends and the safety of their noisy apartment. It could have been nothing. A trick of the wind.
But what if it wasn't?
The image of Anya, guiding her friends with such innate responsibility, flashed before his eyes. His own pride, his own claimed principles, would be the ultimate cowardice if he walked away from a sound, from a *possibility*.
The silence stretched, thick and heavy. He held his breath, listening so hard his ears ached. Nothing. Just the faint thrum of the distant city.
Maybe he had imagined it. The fatigue, the emotional whiplash of the day, the sensory overload of the festival—it could easily play tricks on the mind.
He took a step forward, then another, his decision made. It was nothing. He would go home.
And then he heard it again.
This time, it was not a scream. It was a muffled sound, a struggle, the sickening scuffle of feet on gravel, followed by a low, threatening male voice that was too far away to decipher.
He had not imagined it.
Every nerve in Gangesh's body snapped to attention. The abstract was now terrifyingly concrete. Justice was no longer a philosophical ideal; it was a choice he had to make in a dark alley. Morality was the next step he took, not towards the safety of the main road, but towards the source of the sound, his heart pounding a frantic, fearful rhythm of dread and resolve. The brave, responsible image of Anya Chauhan burned in his mind, a silent challenge he could not ignore.