“Tum meri ho,
chahe khud ko tum meri maano ya na maano.
Main tumhe apni aankhon se baandh chuka hoon—
aur in zanjeeron ka chaabi sirf mere paas hai.”
(You are mine,
whether you accept it or not.
I have bound you with my eyes—
and only I hold the key to your chains.)
His words aren’t spoken. They exist like a pulse in the dark, unheard by her, heavy as breath behind glass.
Power had a smell.
Not perfume, not roses, not incense from temples.
It was acrid—burnt iron and dried blood, cigarette ash and sweat clinging to silk shirts after a night of violence.
Zahir Singh Raizada breathed that power like other men breathed oxygen.
Jaipur city glittered beneath his office’s glass walls. Neon signs bled against the night, cars crawled like ants on roads, and far in the distance, the shadow of Nahargarh fort stood like a ghost of forgotten kings. He leaned back in his chair, booted feet on mahogany, a glass of neat whiskey dangling from his fingers.
On the table before him: piles of files, a pistol, and a half-burnt cigar. Zahir was twenty-eight, but his eyes carried a darkness too old for his age—an endless abyss where ruthlessness had carved a home.
The Raizadas called him arrogant.
The city called him ruthless.
The underworld called him untouchable.
And he called himself bored.
A knock. Sharp. Hesitant.
“Bol,” Zahir said, not looking up. His voice—low, velvet, edged with steel.
A man stepped inside, trembling, cap in hand. Raghav, one of his foot soldiers. Normally fearless, today his face was pale.
“Kya hai?” Zahir’s tone was bored.
“Malik… woh gaon mein… Dhawalgarh school ke saamne… ek aurat ne—”
The words stumbled.
Zahir’s head tilted, eyes narrowing.
“Seedha bol, be*** Ch**.”
Raghav swallowed “Ek aurat ne hamare aadmiyon ko gaali di… sabke saamne thappad maara. Aur gaon ke log… uske saath khade ho gaye.”
Silence.
The only sound was the faint hum of the AC and the faint clink of ice in Zahir’s glass.
Slowly, he set the whiskey down.
His knuckles flexed. His jaw sharpened.
“Ek… aurat?” The words dripped venom. “Naam.”
“Noori. Noori Vishal Sehrawat. Gaon ke school mein masterji hai.”
A laugh broke from Zahir’s lips—low, cruel, the kind that chilled spines. He rose from his chair, each step calculated, the weight of a predator circling prey. He stopped right in front of Raghav, towering over him.
“Ek aurat… mere aadmiyon ko… thappad?” His fingers shot out, gripping Raghav’s throat, squeezing just enough for the man’s breath to stutter. “Aur tum… sab gawaar… dekhte rahe?”
Raghav’s eyes watered. “Maaf karo, Malik… galti ho gayi—”
The punch landed before the words finished. Blood spurted from his lip, and Raghav crashed to the marble floor.
Zahir exhaled smoke from the half-lit cigar, stepping on it with his polished boot. His voice was a whisper now, more dangerous than the roar.
“Gaon ko yaad dilaana padega ki malik kaun hai.”
He hadn’t stepped in Dhawalgarh for years.
The haveli, the fields, the temple bells—it was all filth tied to his father’s name. Rudra Pratap Singh Raizada—lord of a thousand sins, patriarch of a family that bled hypocrisy.
Zahir had sworn never to return. Jaipur was his kingdom now. Here he ran businesses both white and red, here he had women who begged for his glance, here he could bury his rage in money and crime.
But tonight, rage did not quieten. It roared.
A woman.
A mere village widow.
Had dared to challenge him.
And worse—had inspired others to do the same.
He slammed the glass wall with his palm. A crack spidered across the surface. His reflection stared back at him—tall, broad-shouldered, hair slicked back, eyes dark and rimmed with fury.
In that reflection, he saw not himself but the insult.
An insult that had to be erased.
The black Jeep roared down the highway. The night was heavy, stars smudged above the desert horizon. Sand stretched endlessly, glowing faint under the moon.
Zahir drove alone, no guards, no escort. His men knew better than to sit beside him when he was like this.
The road signs pointed: Dhawalgarh – 42 km.
He lit another cigarette, the flame flickering against his sharp cheekbones. His thoughts wandered like smoke—first to his mother, then his siblings, then his father.
Rudra Pratap’s voice echoed in memory: “Tu kabhi kuch ban nahin payega, Zahir. Sirf tabahi hai tere andar.”
He smirked bitterly. Tabahi had built his empire. Tabahi had made him feared. And now, tabahi would drag him back to the village.
He pressed harder on the accelerator.
“Ek aurat…” he muttered. His hand clenched the steering wheel until his knuckles whitened.
“Kya lagta hai usse… main uska school aur izzat, dono jalake nahin rakh dunga?”
His lips curved in a wolf’s smile.
He drove into the night, toward Dhawalgarh.
Toward the woman who had unknowingly written her name in his rage.
Toward the storm about to rip her world apart.
The desert wind howled through the Jeep’s open window. His murmur was lost in it, dark poetry rolling from his tongue:
“Woh aaj mujhe mitti samajhkar roond gayi,
Kal dekhegi… main aag ban kar uska aasman jala dunga.”
(She crushed me underfoot today, thinking me dust.
Tomorrow she will see—I will burn her skies as fire.)
To be continued...
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