From that day onwards we live in debauchery like no one care what others will think.
In night time Neelam with her toned body fuck both Shilpa and Mrs. Sharma pussies like a bull in heat.
Shilpa especialy liked to drink and give other her piss and vagina juices to drink
because of this Mrs. Sharma and Shilpa like to do 69 in last on daily sessions and both me and neelam enjoy the show with some cake or ice creams
But happy days don't last long
On a day a boring day
There's a particular kind of silence that follows a funeral.
Not the silence of emptiness — but the silence of too many unsaid things crowding the air, pressing against your chest like a fist that forgot to let go.
I sat in Mrs. Sharma's kitchen for a long time after everyone left.
Her chai masala was still in the same small steel dabba on the second shelf. Her reading glasses were folded on the newspaper she'd never finish. The crossword was half-done. Seven across — a word for inevitable — still blank.
I didn't fill it in.
I already knew the answer.
The news had come on a Tuesday.
Tuesdays are supposed to be boring. Tuesdays are supposed to be nothing days — the kind of day where the most dramatic thing that happens is you forget to buy milk.
Instead, Neelam called me at 11:43 AM, and the moment I heard her voice — just heard it, before she even said a word — I knew.
Some part of me had always known that happiness is a guest that doesn't knock when it leaves.
"There was a bank robbery," she said. Her voice was flat in the way that voices go flat when the person speaking them is using every remaining unit of their strength just to form words. "She was there. Some idiot decided to play hero—"
"Neelam."
"—started fighting them, they fired, and a stray—"
"Neelam. Stop."
She stopped.
We stayed on the phone in silence for forty seconds. I counted.
"Three people died," she finally said. "She was one of them."
I put the phone down on my knee and looked at the ceiling.
The ceiling was completely unremarkable. Off-white. A tiny crack near the corner where the wall met it. I stared at that crack like it owed me something.
Mrs. Sharma. Who made chai like it was a sacred ritual. Who called me beta and meant it more than most people mean anything. Who once spent forty-five minutes arguing with a vegetable vendor about the philosophical ethics of overpriced tomatoes and won.
Gone.
Not gone dramatically. Not gone with meaning or purpose or any of the cinematic weight that the word gone implies when you read it in a book.
Gone because some idiot wanted a story to tell at dinner parties.
The idiot had a name.
Rakesh Tiwari. Twenty-six years old. Orphan. Lived with four friends in a two-room flat in Govindpuri. Unemployed until three months ago, when — and I want you to understand that I read this three times before I believed it — the government gave him a bravery bounty.
Sixty thousand rupees.
For a bravery that killed three people.
He used it to start a catering business.
Tiwari's Brave Bites — I am not making that name up — was currently rated 4.2 stars on Google, specialized in "home-style meals with a courageous spirit," and had been featured in a local newspaper under the headline: "FROM HERO TO CHEF: ONE MAN'S INCREDIBLE JOURNEY."
I read the article.
I read it slowly, carefully, the way you read something when you're trying to make sure your own mind isn't inventing the horror.
It wasn't.
There was a photo of Rakesh Tiwari smiling outside his catering van. Big smile. Proud eyes. The kind of smile that has never once considered the weight of consequence.
I closed the tab.
Opened it again.
Closed it again.
"Shilpa," I said.
She was sitting across from me, arms crossed, jaw tight, reading the same article on her own phone. She'd been reading it for the last four minutes. That was approximately three minutes and fifty seconds longer than it took to read.
She was doing the thing where she re-reads something to give her hands something to do so they don't do something else.
"Shilpa."
"I heard you."
"What are you thinking?"
She looked up. Her eyes were very calm in the specific way that a room is very calm right before every window in it breaks.
"I'm thinking," she said quietly, "that when we get to the thugs — I want time with them. Alone. Before you do anything permanent."
It wasn't a request.
It was a sentence delivered with the tone of a woman who has already decided and is simply informing the universe of its new instructions.
"Noted," I said.
Neelam, sitting by the window, didn't say anything. She just nodded once — slow, deliberate — like she was signing a document.
Some agreements don't need words.
The thugs were easier to find than they should have been.
Five months in jail does not make men careful. If anything, it makes them louder — like they've accumulated five months of living and need to spend it all at once. They moved back to their old neighborhood in Uttam Nagar, drank at the same dhabas, visited the same people, argued over the same petty things.
Sloppy.
I spent three weeks watching.
I learned that their leader — a thick-necked man named Dheeraj, thirty-four, two prior arrests, the kind of face that looks like it was designed by someone who gave up halfway through — liked to eat at a specific pav bhaji stall every evening at 7 PM. Not because the pav bhaji was particularly good. Because the stall owner owed him money and Dheeraj enjoyed the particular pleasure of watching a man sweat while serving you food.
Small power. The worst kind.
I learned that his second — younger, nervous, always chewing a toothpick like it had personally wronged him — had a mother in Dwarka who he visited every Sunday. He brought her mithai. He was gentle with her in a way that was almost difficult to look at directly, because it complicated the clean, simple picture I needed him to be.
I looked at it directly anyway.
Complications are just details. Details are just information. Information is just power.
I wrote everything down in a notebook with a blue pen. Names. Schedules. Addresses. Relationships. Habits. Weaknesses.
The notebook was ordinary — the kind students use for chemistry notes. On the cover, I'd written "Project Management" in neat capital letters.
Neelam had seen it on my table and raised an eyebrow.
"Project management?"
"Every project needs management," I said.
"You're unwell," she said, and handed me a cup of chai.
The information about Rakesh Tiwari came later.
I hadn't planned to look into him as deeply. He wasn't the mission. But then I found the article — the one about the bounty, the catering van, the 4.2-star rating — and something in me needed to understand the shape of the injustice completely.
So I looked.
And what I found was this: Rakesh Tiwari was not a bad man.
That was the worst part.
He was genuinely not a bad man — he was just catastrophically, unforgivably careless in a way that only people who have never had anything to lose can be. He'd grown up with nothing, lost nothing, had nothing that a stray bullet could be fired at, and so the concept of consequence had never truly arrived in his life as a lived experience.
He thought bravery was free.
He'd never been handed the bill.
But three families had.
I sat outside his catering van on a Thursday afternoon, eating a plate of his rajma chawal — which, I will admit with deep reluctance, was actually quite good — and watched him laugh with a customer, wave to a neighbor, ruffle a child's hair.
Happy.
Completely, obliviously, infuriatingly happy.
The rajma was good. I wanted to be angry about that too. I was.
There's a specific kind of rage that doesn't burn hot. It doesn't scream or smash things or announce itself dramatically. It sits very still and very cold in the center of your chest, and it is patient in the way that only things built for the long game can be patient.
I felt it there now.
I took the last bite of rajma chawal.
Left the plate on the counter.
Walked away without looking back.
The notebook was full.
The planning was done.
The only thing left was the next part.
And the next part — I thought, rolling my pen between my fingers as I walked back through the evening crowd of Uttam Nagar, past the chai stalls and the vegetable vendors and the ordinary Tuesday-evening world that had no idea what was being decided inside one very quiet mind —
The next part was not going to be quiet at all.
To be continued...