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loveisanimaginarydagger3000 · 3 months ago

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The Soldier Of Death (1)- Mission Complete

Natasha Romanoff X Super Soldier Reader 18+

Summary: Soldat Smerti. The Soldier of Death. You were the perfect weapon: loyal, obedient, and merciless, or so Hydra thought. What happens when these traits are put to the test? Your captivity in the Avenger's tower and the presence of a redhead makes you realise you didn't have to be a monster. The question was though; Did Hydra make you the monster or were you always one?

This fic will contains dark themes. Please read these warnings before starting any of these chapters: graphic descriptions of murder, violence, gore and torture, heavy angst, mental issues.

Please consider these warnings before reading

Word Count: 2.8k

General Masterlist | The Soldier Of Death Masterlist

Mission Complete

Chapter Warnings: Graphic Depictions of murder and violence.

The sound of heavy footsteps reached your ears as you stared straight ahead of you at the stone wall, the boots that crunched against the dirt littering the concrete floors gradually increasing as the men walked down the hallways into the room you were in. They grew closer, and closer, and closer until one of their hands met your shoulder, your body fighting against the instinct to abruptly pull away from the man's touch. He moved around your body, his fingers gripping your chin and forcing your head up to look at him, a cruel smirk plastered on his face.

"Soldat (soldier)," his tone sinister as he addressed you, his teeth on show as he grinned at you maliciously. His gold tooth reflected the light from the dangling, rusting light, the rest of his teeth rotting to match his awful personality. "Are you ready to comply?"

"Da, sare (yes sir)," your tone almost robotic, his smile only widening as he stretched his arm out for another man to pass him a file, tossing the paper into your lap, motioning for you to read it.

"That is Ulysses Klaue," his tone containing a little annoyance while briefing you on the mission. "He was supposed to be helping us with obtaining vibranium but the bastard tried to cross us," you flip through the file, noting that he was going to sell of the vibranium intended for Hydra to some other organisation who weren't even willing to pay as much, offering something else the man must have deemed more valuable in turn. "It's your job to make sure he is made an example of, do you understand?"

"Da, sare," you repeat, knowing he didn't appreciate people who felt they could dare challenge Hydra. There would be consequences of trying to make a fool of your general. "What do you want me to do?"

"I want you to make him suffer," he grits out, anger written across his face as he towers over you. He places his hands on the side of your head, pressing in slightly, your face remaining stoic as he digs his finger into your skin, "I want you to do this," he emphasises by pressing harder against you, "Crush him until he's not even recognisable, break as many bones as you can, do anything you want as long as he suffers."

"Da, sare."

***

The darkness brought a sense of comfort to you as you wandered through the isolated building, your steps inaudible to a normal human as you crept through the abandoned hallways. The lights would occasionally flicker on, indicating the building still had some life in it, while you walked through the twisting and turning corridors, walking until the steady beating of hearts became louder, the chat that was a low murmur now distinct and audible.

"We can have them to you by midnight," spoke a man with a heavy accent, your eyes counting the two men by either side of him, the guns strapped around their large, toned bodies also being noticed.

"How many of them are there?" Klaue asks, sliding a blue-coloured sweet into his mouth, the man who he was currently dealing with clenching his jaw in frustration.

"Twelve girls, eight women," he answers, one of his body guard's heads snapping to the side when you slip into the room, sensing your presence.

"Perfect," Klaue responds, rubbing his hand on the tattoo that covered his neck, offering the others a crooked smile, "It's a deal then."

Before they can even shake hands, coughing and spluttering can be heard, a mortified look replacing the annoyed one on the man's face as he watches your knife lodge itself in his guard's neck. Red splatters against the faded white walls, his large, rough hands grasping desperately at his neck as crimson stains his skin, oozing out of the gaping wound. No one has time to get over the initial shock when another is thrown into the other man's skull, the force of your throw easily allowing the knife to glide through the bone as if it were nothing, killing the man instantly as he slumps to the floor.

"What have you done?" The heavy accent laced with fear as the man scrambles for a gun, words directed at the tattooed man near him. Revealing yourself from the darkness, you grab his head, making light work of him by snapping his neck, letting him drop inelegantly to the floor like a rag doll.

"Well, aren't you a scary thing?" Klaue says in a humorous tone, unaffected by the gory sight, your fingers deftly pulling the blades out of the lifeless bodies, wiping them clean with your gloves before twirling one of them in your hand, the other sliding back into your pocket.

He admires your stealth suit, the black fabric helping you blend in well to the run down building you were currently in. Your eyes were covered by tinted goggles, the emotionless and empty stare not visible to him while the lower part of your face hidden by a metal mask, Hydra desperate to keep your identity a secret.

"Do you know what's scarier?" He asks, your body unresponsive to his question, his hands popping another sweet into his mouth.

You watch as he folds the wrapper in a delicate manner, twisting and turning the crinkling paper before throwing it back into the bowl on the small desk nearby, smiling at you and showing off his now blue coloured tongue, tinted by the sweet.

His unseriousness doesn't bother you, knowing he was trying to act calm and cocky when in reality his heart rate was exceptionally high, the relentless pounding against his ribs audible to your sensitive hearing. Your ears picked up how the beating of his heart would spike unexpectedly when you moved, fear radiating off his nervous form.

"Puffer fish," he answers his own question, your eyes internally rolling as he continues his rambling, stuttering a little when you step closer. "They are deadly creatures," he looks to his side subconsciously in his state of terror when you step even closer, the incessant beating of his heart ringing annoyingly in your head while he gives away the position of the hidden Vibranium by accident.

You block out his further words, deciding to ignore whatever pointless things spilt from his lips and waited until his fight or flight finally kicked in to make things a little more interesting. Soon, his prosthetic arm swung out with force at you, your hand easily catching it and twisting the false limb, tearing it off his body causing him to gasp at your abrupt show of strength.

Lifting your leg, you kick forward once having lined it up with his knee, the precise angle of the movement allowing your boot to shatter the bone easily. He cries out in pain, tumbling to the ground, the concrete not cushioning his fall.

"You don't have to do this," he manages out between sharp breaths, his hand clutching his splintered knee, your body stepping on the dislocated bone to make him scream in pain. The bone crumbles under the pressure of your boot, your foot twisting and grinding it down further, the once solid bones turning into mush as the blood and flesh of his leg are disgustingly blended with it. "I'll do anything Hydra wants," he pleads with you to spare his life, the decision not up to you as you grab the metal pole to your side, easily snapping it off the wall, his eyes widening with fear.

"Is it the vibranium you want?" Using the strength in his arm, he tries to crawl away from your predatory stance, pathetically sliding against the cool stone. "I can get you even more than what you wanted," your head merely tilts at his words as they were meaningless to you.

You didn't care about the vibranium. You didn't care about the cost. You had a mission to do. That's all that mattered.

The sounds of his ragged breaths filled the small room of the warehouse until an ear splitting scream reverberated around the cramped space when you brought down the metal against his other leg. There was a satisfying snap when the pole was violently forced down on his leg again, another broken noise being torn out of the man.

"Please," he begged, spikes of agony flooding through his body as he was left helpless on the floor, his body too weak to try and escape his inevitable fate.

The sheer desperation in his tone, the anguish evidence in his voice evokes nothing from you. No sympathy, no guilt, no regret, nothing.

Instead, you bring the blood stained pole down onto his last limb, aiming for his shoulder to prevent him from moving his arm at all, a shrill noise painfully ripped out of him. With your enhanced hearing, you could hear when each little part of the bone splintered off from the humerus, stabbing into the tissue that surrounded it.

When his voice begins to slur, mind fogged by the throbbing aches riddled throughout his body, you crouch down next to his immovable figure, your hands reaching for his skull.

Crush him until he's not even recognisable, break as many bones as you can, do anything you want as long as he suffers.

The order echoes in your head, your fingers pressing into his temples, eyes searching his face as his eyes squeeze shut, his jaw clenching through the pain. He's heard the stories of you, knowing what was about to happen as your grip increased, digging painfully into his head.

Due to the tinted glass covering your eyes, he's unaware of the sinister darkness swirling in them, the sadistic look taking over as your thumbs press in harder, feeling the skin and bone straining under the pressure of your hands.

Agonising cries are brutally torn out of him, the bone reaches its breaking point when your fingertips dig in further, harder, deeper. The crack of his skull is deafening in your ear, the bone caving in on itself as the life is drained out of his body, gradually shutting down.

The squelch of his brain being squished under the bone as you forced it down even further indicates to you that he's dead but you don't stop. You can't stop. You grab as much of his mutilated skull as you can, lifting the base of his head before slamming it back down against the concrete. Revolting crunches echo around the room and your mind until you physically can't break anymore of his skull, your body heaving over his disfigured corpse at the strenuous work.

Crimson seeped through your suit, the blood that splattered leaving a streak across your masked face as you moved to stand above your completed mission, ignoring the warm liquid that could be felt against your cold skin. Your eyes were glued to the dismembered body, the command of 'not even recognisable' ringing in your mind as you ensured you fulfilled your order, stepping over the mass of flesh like it was a mere inconvenience to you.

The thought of what you had done didn't have time to settle in your mind, moving on autopilot as you reached the stone wall Klaue looked at. Your fist knocked against the wall, confirming that it was in fact hollow before your fist went through the stone. Your knuckles shattered with the force of your hit, the stone crumbling away as it was nothing compared to your strength. The bones in your hand didn't have chance to heal as you punched the wall again, and again, until the boxes of the valuable metal were soon revealed.

Mission complete.

***

Fury's arms were behind his back as he stood with authority at the end of the table, waiting for Natasha and Clint to enter the room. The redhead and archer soon strolled in together, power radiating off them both as they were let into the confidential meeting room, Clint flopping into a chair with little dignity while Natasha took the more graceful approach of sitting politely. They both looked over to the man who was staring out of the window, his voice taking control of the room.

"This morning, we received intel that Ulysses Klaue was found dead," his tone was blunt as turned around, the scar peeking over his eyepatch. Clint's posture straightened at the sound of the familiar name, the director passing two files to his most trusted agents.

Once the paper file was flipped open, the room's atmosphere grew tense, confusion and shock taking over as they witnessed what had happened to the man. Natasha's fingers deftly flickered through the pages, her mind trying to comprehend what must have been done to cause a human face to look like that. Her green eyes held a concerned glint in them when reading about the perpetrator, a gnawing feeling bubbling inside her when the page contained little information, Clint sharing an unnerved look with her.

"It seemed Hydra wanted to make a statement," Fury continued, everyone at the table now on edge. "All we know is that they must be enhanced, other than that- nothing."

Clint went back to look at the images of the deformed face, looking up to meet Fury's gaze.

"An attack like this surely must have some sort of personal reason behind it?" he questions, Natasha's eyes glued on the mysterious figure a CCTV camera caught on a nearby building, blood smeared across their suit.

"That's what I thought until I saw this," Fury displays an extremely blurry video on the Tv in the room, the cameras within the building somehow still working despite their age.

With an abnormal interest, they watch as the figure effortlessly murdered the three other people in the room before carrying out the inhumane act on Klaue, the violence causing Clint to look away, eyes flickering back down to the file in front of him.

"There was no emotion behind it," Natasha speaks up, puzzled by the degree of violence you chose to use. "If it was personal, there would have been more tension in the body language but they seemed almost... relaxed? It doesn't make sense," Fury nods in agreement with her, pausing the video on the best angle they had on your front.

The agents noted your outfit, the black suit fitted to your body with a Hydra logo patched onto the side, signalling that it was definitely Hydra putting this message across. Their attention then went to your face, or the lack of, as you were completely covered, any sort of tracking software struggling to get enough of your appearance to search for a match.

"Could it be mind control? Brain-washing?" Clint's voice breaking the silence, the tv being turned off as Fury placed his hands on the table, letting out a sigh.

"It appears so," his tone lacking the confidence he normally presents. "If it is, it means we have another Winter Soldier on our hands to deal with."

The mention of Bucky's past makes Natasha tense a little, her experience with his Hydra side not being a pleasant one. Clint's gaze wanders to his best friend, noticing the change in her demeanour but she brushes it off, wanting to focus on the task at hand.

"What do you want us to do?"

"Research," Natasha's brows furrow at Fury's words, Clint's face containing confusion as they look at their director, expecting him to send them on a mission to look for you.

"What?" Clint's tone in disbelief, "You have just warned us about a deadly enhanced individual and you want us to do research?"

"Exactly," he stands tall again, "We don't know enough about them yet to engage. We need more intel before we risk anything, especially considering they are enhanced." It makes sense to them when they think about it but the idea of getting them two to do it stirs curiosity in Natasha.

"Why do you want us two to do it? You have plenty of researchers that would probably do it quicker," she raises her brow a little at the man, him just smirking a little at her.

"Something isn't right about this whole thing, I want people I can trust on the matter," he dismisses and she accepts his answer with caution, taking the file and sliding it under her arm.

"I'll send you what I can find," she says, standing from her chair when Fury dismisses them both from the meeting, her mind unusually intrigued by the whole situation.

Who were you?

#marvel fanfiction #natasha romanoff fanart #natasha romanov #natasha romanoff #natasha x reader #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff fanfiction #dark fanfiction #murder #violence #cw: gore #hydra #super soldier #super soldier reader #angst with a happy ending #slow burn

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linhdorr · 3 months ago

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There seems to be a lot of confusion among people (men ugh) about what women are actually demanding through protests and rallies and marches so I just thought that I would help clear some stuff up....

1. We are asking for SAFETY and NOT protection...there is a clear line of difference between these concepts.... safety means we get to go where we want , while wearing what we want and at what time we want to...be that in broad daylight or at night , wearing a miniskirt or a saree .....it means being able to live out our life to it's full potential without the fear of being brutally raped, assaulted or murdered... because we are equal to all men... We are just as capable as smart as efficient as all men ....we deserve safety because as HUMANS it is our birth right.....

But the extremely sad truth is that we are so far removed from a reality where we are equals because we have to live out our lives constantly in fight or flight mode....we have to rethink every little descision we make, from the clothes we wear to the routes we take to the company we are around to the transportation we take.... because we are always on guard that something might get us killed and wiped off the face of this earth

2. We demand that people stop saying 'not all men' because yes not all men are attackers but to a woman any man she comes across has the potential to be an attacker....whether it be her co worker or boss or uncle or friend or boyfriend or just a stranger....so women spend their lives always on guard and always vigilant and scared because it could be any day that we might get murdered....and this phrase is extremely counter intuitive and just plain stupid.... because all men might not brutally raped and kill a woman but all men benefit from the systemic rape and oppression of women....

And whenever the topic of women rape and assault are brought up it's always this pathetic gang of men saying "but men get raped tooo....why are you all complaining so much"....they fail to understand while men's rape cases are equally important....men dont understand that on a daily basis 86 cases of rape against women are filed and among those cases on 28 percent received a conviction (thats only 28 out of every 100 cases filed)......90 percent of rape cases don't even get filed because of systemic shaming of rape victims and maintaining of "honour" for he families of rape victims

3. It's crazy how the term "nirbhaya" is used in relation to women's rape cases ...because nirbhaya means one without fear ....but women constantly live in fear because the whole onus is always against us ....."what was she wearing ?" "Why was she sleeping alone?"....."what was she thinking ?" .....our society has normalised rape against women so much that it is a preconceived thought that men will rape because it's just in their biology.... to BRUTALLY MUTILATE AND DEFILE ANOTHER WOMAN ....men will be men ...it's on the women to protect themselves......that is why women always live in fear , just soaking in it and passing that fear on to our next generations because it is the only way we have known to survive .....

4. We do not want protection, as the inherent idea of "protecting a woman" stems from patriarchy ....it demotes us from being equal humans to mere possessions of men...and at its core women will only receive protection when the men can see in us their mothers or daughters or sisters .... We demand that you care about women's safety not because we see are your mothers or daughters.... But because we are your EQUALS....Not just because they see us as daughters, mothers, sisters. Not because we are doctors, astronauts, athletes. Not because we’ve won awards, invented something or excelled exceptionally in our fields. But simply because we are humans. Equal humans that deserve to feel safe because in the first page of our constitution we are promised equality...that all humans are to be treated equally despite their gender...we do not ask you to see in us some family member and reward us your protection....

5. WE DEMAND JUSTICE....we demand better policing , better lit streets , more surveillance , police that do not dismiss rape or assault cases , courts that give out convictions before witnesses are threatend or silenced , fear amongst people that use rape as a method of caste or communal discrimination or use rape in some false sense of honour, in the same way that someone would fear murder...and all of this information is readily available to politicians...they know exactly what they can do to make women feel safer but they won't since it's to much work and most politicians harbour rapists and assaulters in their own party.....

Mamta Banerjee a FEMALE chief minister says that she sees these protests as a conspiracy against her own party ...and then she goes on to say that she will give the death penalty to the rapists as some form of damage control...this is all in illusion as politicians like her know that there are 2 deterrents to a crime , the length of the punishment and most importantly the chance of actually being caught after committing a crime....it doesn't matter whether you will give a death sentence to the criminals if in 99 percent of times a rape case is filed the police get paid by the accusers , the victims get threatened into withdrawing their complaint , the court dates drag on , the prosecutors are paid off , evidence is mishandled and made to disappear. So it doesn't matter whether you will give capital punishments if you never go through the process of conviction of the criminals , it is all a lie and politicians who promise the death sentence are LIARS....

To all the men reading this all we demand is to be your EQUALS ....we demand equality in justice , in safety , in pay ....we demand to live out our lives how we want because it is our fundamental right...we DEMAND TO NOT BE PUNISHED FOR SIMPLY BEING BORN A WOMAN....

#rg kar medical college #desiblr #justice for rape victims #justice for moumita #stand against rape #fuck the government #fuck mamta #mamta must resign #rg kar rape case #west bengal

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rambheem-is-real · 8 months ago

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Gold Rings and Black Roses Pt 4

pt 3 here

On the fourth day Aadhya tries her luck in going outside. It’s been a while since she’s been exposed to direct sunlight, staying inside the house all these days. She walks up to the main door cautiously, but the men standing guard don’t even look at her. Now or never, she thinks, and takes a step outside. When she isn’t immediately shot, Aadhya slowly makes her way down the steps outside of the mansion until she gets to the gravel road. Here she notices the outside guards staring at her, but they make no move to bring her back inside, so Aadhya keeps walking, turning to see the mansion from the outside.

Somehow it looks a lot less scary now than it had when she was first brought here, though that was because Aadhya had thought she was being led to her death then. She’s no architecture buff, but she thinks it’s beautiful. She’s also more familiar with the inside of the mansion now, both in terms of the layout and the people. Aadhya’s made friends with some of the women working for Radha Rama, especially the tall one that gives her clothes to wear for the day, Sara. She’s spent a few hours every day talking to Sara and the other women about her life in America, and listening to their stories of Khansaar. She’s come to the conclusion that Khansaar seems like a terrible place to grow up, what with the constant threat of being murdered, but maybe Aadhya’s just soft. Sara had spoken of it with barely concealed longing, and Aadhya had sympathized with being stuck in a place far from home. She didn’t sympathize with the rest of it, though.

“I miss Khansaar’s government,” Sara had said last night. “Here in India, there’s way too many laws against killing people,” she scoffed.

“...I think that’s the case in every other country in the world actually,” Aadhya had replied.

Aadhya thinks about the rest of the conversation as she walks around the building, taking in the sights around her. She had gotten Sara and another woman working for Obullamma, Rohini, to spill about Radha Rama’s ex-husband.

“It was a political marriage, Bhaarava was a powerful warrior and Raja Mannar wanted him in his control,” Rohini explained.

Sara nodded. “And of course ammagaru didn’t oppose the marriage, she was willing to do anything for her father.” Rohini gave her a look. “Well, she wasn’t opposed to Bhaarava either,” Sara continued cautiously, looking like she was nervous of Radha Rama appearing behind her. “He was attractive, competent, and knew how to play the game of politics. Ammagaru… really liked him.”

Aadhya frowned. “Then what happened? Did he die?”

“Well yes, just after he was exposed as a Shouryanga spy,” Rohini spits.

Aadhya perks up at the familiar name. Was this man related to her too??

“But Deva killed him and many of his soldiers in his quest to hand Varadha the throne.”

Oh. Probably not, then.

“Good riddance,” Sara says. “He betrayed our ammagaru, that pig. Even before he went for the throne, he sided with Rudra against her during the ceasefire.”

So Radha Rama probably only felt resentment towards her ex-husband, Aadhya thinks as she makes it to the other side. She gasps as she realizes the back of the building is a huge garden, plants clearly only recently trimmed and wrangled into place. Delighted, she runs over, examining the different plants. She has no idea about the differences between the flowers, but she thinks they’re very pretty. Further along the path are ornate benches to sit on, and carved statues. There seems to be a fountain in the distance, in the center of the garden.

Aadhya loves it.

She spends the next hour exploring, and just enjoying the fresh outside air. Towards the end of the hour, she spies a cluster of beautiful black roses. The petals of the roses are pitch-black, looking almost alien amongst the rest of the white lilies and jasmines surrounding them. As she brushes her hand through them, Aadhya’s reminded of the black saree that Radha Rama wore on the first day she saw her, before she changed into the yellow one. She tilts her head, considering. Actually they remind her of Radha Rama in general. She knows there’s probably a superstition about black roses somewhere, that they represent mourning and loss, but beyond that Aadhya can see the elegance and mystery that surrounds the flowers, much like Radha Rama herself. Even though she was in mourning, and had been for the last seven years over her husband, her kingdom, and her father, Radha Rama had stayed strong throughout, still managing to be so regal despite her situation.

“Aadhya Krishnakanth.” Aadhya jumps as she hears a voice behind her, turning to find a bored man looking at her. “You are expected for lunch in ten minutes.”

“Oh, I’ll be there then,” Aadhya says, and it looks like the man is satisfied as he walks away.

She turns back to the flowers. Has Radha Rama ever received a bouquet of flowers in her life? Was Bhaarava the type to pamper her? Aadhya frowns as she thinks back to what she’s heard about the man. Probably not. She makes her decision, plucking a handful of black roses from the ground. She looks around and spots someone that looks like the gardener, digging a few yards away from her. Aadhya makes her way over to him.

“Hello!” She attempts a friendly greeting. The man, who was muttering angrily to himself, turns to look at her.

“What do you want,” he sneers.

Aadhya’s taken aback by the blatant hostility emerging from this man, but soldiers on regardless. “So sorry to bother you, but could you please dethorn these roses?”

The gardener stares at her. “...Aren’t you the kidnapped girl?”

Aadhya squirms. “Yes?”

He looks at the roses in her hand, then back up to her face. “Who the fuck are the roses for? You’ve been here for less than a week and you want romance?”

She blushes. “Radha Rama, actually.” He stares at her some more, then a grin spreads across his face.

“I want to see this play out. Give me the roses.” He pulls a device out of his back pocket, overflowing with other gardening tools, and proceeds to clip and dethorn the stems of the roses. He hands them back to Aadhya when he’s done. “Here you go. Hope you go out quickly.”

“...Thank you,” Aadhya says, and tries to walk back inside as fast as she can. She knows she’s impulsive, but hopefully this doesn’t backfire on her as much as the gardener clearly thinks it will.

Aadhya enters the dining room with the flowers held behind her back, wanting it to be a surprise. Radha Rama is already seated at the other end of the table as is their usual arrangement, scrolling through her phone. Aadhya had successfully convinced the older woman to download a few social media apps yesterday, but not before Radha Rama had gone through every sentence of the terms and conditions for each app.

“I am not giving a random businessman my private information,” she sneered. But Radha Rama had seemed to find Twitter funny, which Aadhya counted as a win, as she believed getting the older woman on the Internet was the best way to integrate her into general society. She wasn’t royalty anymore, and it wasn’t healthy for her to hold onto that grudge for so long. Aadhya hoped Radha Rama would learn to have some fun soon.

Radha Rama looks up at Aadhya’s entrance, raising an eyebrow at Aadhya’s hidden hands. “Are you going to try to shoot me?” Aadhya�� decides not to be offended at how relaxed she is under the assumption that Aadhya has a gun behind her back.

“Nope. I brought you a gift.” Radha Rama blinks in surprise, and Aadhya shoves her nerves down. She presents the loose bouquet of black roses, holding them out in front of her like a shield.

When Radha Rama keeps staring at the flowers, Aadhya shifts on her feet. “I got you some roses from the garden. They’re black, and I thought of your saree, and also how cool you are…” Aadhya trails off as the older woman looks up at her, eyes piercing through her.

“You got me roses?” Radha Rama’s voice is hoarse. “Because of… how cool I am?”

“Well yeah. You haven’t killed me yet, and you’re mysterious and beautiful just like these roses.”

Radha Rama lifts her arms to take the bouquet, gently stroking one of the roses as she inspects the flowers.

“Radha Rama?” Aadhya asks. “Do you like them?” Aadhya hasn’t ever seen Radha Rama this unresponsive, and she’s nervous.

“Rama.” The older woman says, and there’s a hint of a shy smile on her face now. “Call me Rama. It’s what my dad and-” she stops herself. “It’s what my dad used to call me, and it’s the name I prefer.”

“Ok,” Aadhya says, relieved that Rama doesn’t hate the gift. “Rama, then.”

“I like the roses,” Rama says mildly, but Aadhya can see the blush high on her cheeks. Oh. Aadhya had done that, had put that blush there. Her heart starts to beat faster as she realizes her crush may have the remote possibility of being requited.

Rama turns her head to the doorway. “Obullamma!” she calls. When the woman comes in, Rama hands her the flowers. “Put these in a vase in my room.”

Obullamma gingerly takes the flowers and leaves, not before shooting Aadhya a look, a mix of jealousy and bewilderment. Aadhya tries not to do anything as childish as sticking her tongue out at Obullamma.

Rama turns back to Aadhya, then sits back down, gesturing for Aadhya to take her seat. “Let’s eat,” she says, smiling. Aadhya obeys, feeling very much like she’s accidentally rolled a Nat 20 on a charisma check.

The lunch tastes exceptionally good that day, Aadhya thinks.

Bilal finds Aadhya in her room sometime in the evening.

“You gave flowers to WHO?” he asks incredulously as he enters.

Aadhya sets aside the book she was reading, a political text that Sara had given her. She found it boring, but apparently it was a childhood favorite of Rama’s. Aadhya can unfortunately see that, all the talk about authoritarianism and the duties of a centralized government was right up Rama’s alley.

“I gave them to Rama.” She shrugs, but can’t help the flush that runs through her at the thought of Rama’s smile at the gift. “She liked them.”

Bilal stares some more. “Is this my life then? Am I to spend the rest of it running after Shouryangas who fall in love with Mannars?”

“Bilal!” Aadhya blushes. “No one’s in love with each other.”

Bilal scoffs, clearly disbelieving. “Uh huh. And you’re secretly Amma’s favorite child. Right.” He sits at the edge of her bed, keeping a respectable distance. “Whatever you’re doing to keep Radha Rama on your good side, keep doing it, but don’t get too close. Do whatever you can to get yourself out of here, then run. Don’t look back. Don’t come back. Forget about Khansaar and your biological family.”

Aadhya frowns. Her first instinct is to defend Rama, but she remembers that she’s here because Rama did have her kidnapped. But that was only to get Deva here, right? “Well, what’s the update on Deva? I’m here because of my brother, right? When’s he supposed to get here then?”

Bilal shrugs, looking uncertain. “I’m not sure, thalli. But when he does come, you should escape with him. He’s not going to let Radha Rama live when he realizes she’s kidnapped his little sister.”

“You assume he’ll care,” she mutters under her breath, but Bilal hears it. “Oh no, thalli. If Deva truly sees you as his, he’ll protect you in any way he can. He’ll tear Radha Rama to pieces if he needs to.” When Aadhya looks up, ready to protest, Bilal sighs, and lifts a hand to stop her. “You can’t protect her from him, Aadhya. You only know her good side. Deva has seen her at her worst, and if he realizes she was initially trying to set him up to kill Varadha, he’ll be even more angry.” Aadhya remembers what Bilal had told her days ago, about how Deva had beheaded a lord for daring to grip Varadha’s collar. “Think about it. That’s all I ask. Try to save yourself, Aadhya. If not for yourself, at least for your father who’s probably very worried.”

Once Bilal leaves, Aadhya lapses into thought. Deva, with his history, has every right to kill Rama, and it would be the smart thing to do for her to use the opportunity to escape. But Aadhya realizes, with a jolt, that she really doesn’t want Rama dead, that she’ll truly miss the woman. She resolves to try to negotiate with Deva, whenever he shows up, bargain for Rama’s life somehow.

Late that night Aadhya goes back outside. The skies are clear and she wants to see the stars, suddenly feeling homesick. As she tilts her head up to the sky, letting the vastness of space calm her down, she spots a familiar figure sitting on the roof. What was Rama doing up there? She wonders, but if Rama’s up there it means the guards will let her go up there. Aadhya finds the stairs that lead to the balcony of the mansion, giving an awkward wave to the unamused man standing on patrol near the staircase. She climbs up the stairs, then climbs up the ladder that leads to the rooftop.

Rama turns her head to the side slightly at Aadhya’s approach, but seems to realize who it is and relaxes, facing forward again. Aadhya takes the opportunity to observe Rama from the back.

The older woman is still in the red Banarasi saree she was in this morning, patterned with silver diamond designs. Aadhya absentmindedly wonders what her pajamas look like, or if she sleeps in the sarees she wears all day. Rama’s thick curls are gathered into a french braid, falling beautifully down her back, and Aadhya blushes as she realizes one of the black roses she picked this morning was carefully placed in the center, surrounded by silver earring chains. Rama’s still sitting as straight-backed on the roof as she does in chairs, but the set of her shoulders seems more relaxed than usual. As Aadhya sits next to her, crossing her legs, Aadhya’s breath catches as she observes the way Rama’s face gleams in the moonlight. The soft white light turns the hair in the front silver, making it look almost like a crown.

Rama glances at her, brown eyes shining from the moonlight. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“I wanted to see the stars, so I came outside. Then I saw you up here, so I came upstairs,” Aadhya explains.

Rama nods. “The stars are beautiful tonight.”

Aadhya just barely stops herself from responding to that the way she really wants to. “Yes, they are,” is what she replies with instead. “Is this a habit of yours? Coming outside to stargaze at night?”

“I never did anything as simple as stargazing in Khansaar, no.” Rama sighs. “I was too busy for things that weren’t related to politics. It was always ‘Rama, there’s a rebellion that needs to be put down in one of our territories, authorize the military’, or ‘Rama, can you go sort out whatever’s wrong with your brother’, or ‘Rama, your husband didn’t show up to the lords meeting today, find out what happened’. I was my father’s finest weapon, and I’m proud of it. But in the grand scheme of things, does all that I did even matter? If the owner of the weapon is dead, then what good is the weapon?”

She leans back a little, closing her eyes. “That bastard brother of mine didn’t even give my father an honorable death. Decapitated him right in front of everyone, then went and sat on the throne like it was his birthright. Of course that boyfriend of his slaughtered everyone on his way to the throne, then offered the crown he picked off my father’s corpse to my brother.” She swallows, and Aadhya can hear a deep bitterness in her voice. “It was still stained with my father’s blood when your brother crowned mine, did you know that?” Aadhya can only shake her head. “All those years Raja Mannar still kept that boy in his heart, even after he threw away my father’s greatest gift. He wanted to make him a lord, was willing to upset the Ghaniyars for it. And what did Varadha give him in return? Nothing. He kept taking and taking until he took what mattered most to my father.”

The two sit in silence for a few seconds, Aadhya thinking about her response. She doesn’t want to anger Rama, doesn’t want to ruin the vulnerable mood between them, but as a neutral observer she thinks Raja Mannar is also very much in the wrong.

“Your father shouldn’t have punished him so harshly for what he did as a child,” Aadhya says hesitantly. Rama looks at Aadhya sharply, but Aadhya decides to keep going. “Not to mention killing Varadha’s friend’s entire family, and turning a blind eye to Varadha’s suffering all the years after.”

Rama scoffs, quickly standing up, and Aadhya’s stomach turns. Oh, now she's done it. All the times she kept pushing, hoping that Rama would be charmed by her instead of offended, and now the worst has actually happened.

“Of course you’d take his side,” Rama hisses at her. “You’re one of them Shouryangas too. I don’t know what I expected from you.” This is the first time Aadhya has seen Rama angry, and the shock is made worse by the fact that it’s directed at her.

“Rama wait! I have nothing to do with the Shouryangas, I just got here! And I can’t just blindly take your side either,” Aadhya tries to explain.

“No.” Suddenly the anger is gone, replaced by sadness. “No you can’t.” Rama wraps her arms around herself after a sudden cold gust of wind, and Aadhya’s horrified to realize that she looks close to tears. “No one takes my side, not even my own brothers, and not even my own fucking husband.”

“Rama…” Aadhya trails off, not knowing what to say.

Without another word, Rama turns and descends the ladder.

Aadhya stays up there for a few more hours by herself, feeling miserable and even more homesick than she was when she first came outside.

@illusions-of-serendipity @just-a-lazy-person @nini9224 @recentinterest @omgdontlookatmeuniverse @greatkittykoala @theimmortalprince

#salaar #ramaadhya #ramaadhya fic

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swarapatil8 · 3 months ago

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78th Year of Independence but still women live in fear

Criticizing Vinesh Phogat, not getting her correct physiotherapist when needed, not providing proper support, supporting people like Brij Bhusan, criticizing her when disqualified for Olympics even after not knowing her story. Hating her not knowing how many times she cried for her country and its success.

RG Kar College case : A 31 year old Doctor raped and murdered brutally. Not proper safety for Doctors who save others lives. I guess men like the murderers think it's a joke to say "Doctors are like gods". "Beti bachao beti padhao", beti padh likh kar doctor bhi ban gayi aur raat me patients ko problem na ho isliye night shift lag gai uski, par uske sath kuch bura hua. And to make it worse, politicians blabber nonsense about her too.

Jharkand : A 3 year old nursery girl raped by near about 30 year old van driver. Now the babies are also not safe?

A girl killed for wearing jeans for a religious ritual. They say wearing jeans is against our culture so is murder in our culture? Is killing our culture?

A employee of cafe in Bengaluru, a pretty well developed city, puts his phone inside the ladies washroom. Now using a washroom is also not safe for women?

I guess men got the independence but women are still fighting for their.

Being a girl you will always listen to things like : don't go outside at night, return home before 7, dress properly, don't wear revealing clothes, don't put too much makeup, don't wear short clothes. It's ridiculous that these days wearing your own traditional attire like saree will still make men objectify on women.

To dear parents, before telling your daughters how to live, instruct your boys to behave properly, keep a eye on what their thoughts are, keep a watch on who are the people in their friend circle, make sure them to respect women. Khud ko alpha male, masculine agar sach me bulana hai to take inspiration from Lord Rama, Lord Krishna, Lord Shiva.

There are men in my circle who respect women so much.

Not all men are same.

I wanna conclude with saying only one thing that is, if people no matter men or women behave and stay in their own limit, this country will truly develop and be independent for each and every living being.

#justice #rg kar medical college #we want justice #women safety

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thevividgreenmoss · 1 year ago

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How can a person make up for seven decades of misrepresentation and willful distortion in the time allotted to a sound bite? How can you explain that the Israeli occupation doesn’t have to resort to explosions—or even bullets and machine-guns—to kill? That occupation and apartheid structure and saturate the everyday life of every Palestinian? That the results are literally murderous even when no shots are fired? Cancer patients in Gaza are cut off from life-saving treatments.2 Babies whose mothers are denied passage by Israeli troops are born in the mud by the side of the road at Israeli military checkpoints. Between 2000 and 2004, at the peak of the Israeli roadblock-and-checkpoint regime in the West Bank (which has been reimposed with a vengeance), sixty-one Palestinian women gave birth this way; thirty-six of those babies died as a result.3That never constituted news in the Western world. Those weren’t losses to be mourned. They were, at most, statistics.

What we are not allowed to say, as Palestinians speaking to the Western media, is that all life is equally valuable. That no event takes place in a vacuum. That history didn’t start on October 7, 2023, and if you place what’s happening in the wider historical context of colonialism and anticolonial resistance, what’s most remarkable is that anyone in 2023 should be still surprised that conditions of absolute violence, domination, suffocation, and control produce appalling violence in turn. During the Haitian revolution in the early 19th century, former slaves massacred white settler men, women, and children. During Nat Turner’s revolt in 1831, insurgent slaves massacred white men, women, and children. During the Indian uprising of 1857, Indian rebels massacred English men, women, and children. During the Mau Mau uprising of the 1950s, Kenyan rebels massacred settler men, women, and children. At Oran in 1962, Algerian revolutionaries massacred French men, women, and children. Why should anyone expect Palestinians—or anyone else—to be different?

...AT ANY MOMENT, without warning, at any time of the day or night, any apartment building in the densely populated Gaza Strip can be struck by an Israeli bomb or missile. Some of the stricken buildings simply collapse into layers of concrete pancakes, the dead and the living alike entombed in the shattered ruins. Often, rescuers shouting “hadan sami’ana?” (“can anyone hear us?”) hear calls for help from survivors deep in the rubble, but without heavy lifting equipment all they can do is helplessly scrabble at the concrete slabs with crowbars or their bare hands, hoping against hope to pry open gaps wide enough to get survivors or the injured out. Some buildings are struck with such heavy bombs that the ensuing fireballs shower body parts and sometimes whole charred bodies—usually, because of their small size, those of children—over surrounding neighborhoods. Phosphorus shells, primed by Israeli gunners to detonate with airburst proximity fuses so that incendiary particles rain down over as wide an area as possible, set fire to anything flammable, including furniture, clothing, and human bodies. Phosphorus is pyrophoric—it will burn as long as it has access to air and basically can’t be extinguished. If it makes contact with a human body it has to be dug out by scalpel and will keep burning into the flesh until it’s extracted.

...In 2018, the United Nations warned that Gaza—its basic infrastructure of electricity, water, and sewage systems smashed over years of Israeli incursions and bombings, leaving 95 percent of the population without ready access to fresh drinking water—would be “unlivable” by 2020. It’s now 2023, and the entire territory, cut off from the outside world, is without any access to food, water, medical supplies, fuel and electricity, all while under continuous bombardment from land, sea, and air.5 “Attacks against civilian infrastructure, especially electricity, are war crimes,” pointed out Ursula von der Leyen, the president of the European Commission. “Cutting off men, women, children [from] water, electricity and heating with winter coming,” she continued—“these are acts of pure terror.” Von der Leyen is right, of course, but in this instance she was referring to Russia’s attacks on Ukraine’s infrastructure. As for Israel’s attacks on Gaza’s infrastructure, Von der Leyen says that Israel has the right to defend itself.

#*#essays

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willowwhispers01 · 2 years ago

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Forevermore (1)

A 15 year old boy arrested for murder the of a Party Leader.

The headline on the first page of newspaper read.

Why?

The question was raised within the two young minds reading the newspaper.

This was the start of their journey, a journey which led to a discovery that defined their life’s whole purpose.

“It’s a shocking news that no information regarding the kidnapping of the daughter of business man KMR and three other girls has been found. The parents and the public both are anxious for their safety. And in past few days cases of child abduction have increased in the city.”A news report plays on the T.V.

“If these kidnappers are a part of local group or of an international group, police is still investigating on the matter.” Continues the anchor.

A woman walks about the mall to the parking space to return to her car. Three men, suspiciously, keep their vision trained on her, one subtly following her.

The woman then goes to sit in her car and is startled to find her driver to not be the person she had arrived with. The ‘driver’ pulls out a knife and places it near the startled woman’s throat before she can retaliate.

One of the unknown men following the woman steps in front of a driving car, which causes the woman driving the car to pull the breaks. The man is not startled by this and trains a gun on the windshield of the car in the direction of the driver’s seat, on the woman.

A man in a grey t-shirt, burly, with a bushy beard and a piercing on his right ear, stands in front of the mall, chewing on his snack, he looks to his left only to get startled and runs away in the rain looking scared.

One of the unknown men carefully approaches a truck and unlocks it using a tennis ball. All of the men boarded the truck and the truck was driven down the road in the rain, until, it was interrupted.

There on the middle of the road stood a Bullet, two figures leaning against it. The man in the grey t-shirt, sitting on the road, leaning against the wheel, in pain. While another figure leans against the bike, backlit.

The men in the truck step out, all four of them, standing in front of the truck as the rain continues to pour.

The man on the bike pushes off of it, and walks half way toward them, lifting the umbrella to reveal his face. Both sides glare at each other, before, the man with the umbrella smiles at them. The men then smile at each other and the man, before walking towards their partner in crime, exchanging high-fives and handshakes.

The door to the back of the truck is opened to reveal the two women and the boy with their hands tied behind their back and crying.

“Who are you people?! Why did you kidnap us?! Do you know who I am?! I am Mutthu Malik’s wife!” The woman in the lavender saree exclaims as Dhruva and few of his friends climb in.

“Didi!” woman in white saree calls the one in the lavender saree.

“My child. I don’t know who her parents are but she has been calling me didi all this time.” coos the wife. “Don’t be scared sister, I will also get you out of here with the help of my husband, Hmph!” She continues.

“Thank you didi!” the woman in white replies, smiling.

As this happens, Dhruva places a call on his phone unbothered and almost amused.

“Hello?” comes a voice of a man from the phone as he holds it up to the wife. “Suniye Ji!” she calls out to the man.

“Kaun?” the man questions. “Kaun?! I am your wife Vasundhara!” She growls. “Bolo” her husband speaks.

“Suniye ji! someone has kidnapped me and your son!” She replies, distressed. “Kidnap?! Vasundhara! don’t be scared, I am sending my brother, he will come to save you.” Malik replies. The woman nods reassured.

“Kyun Ji! ‘You are my Jaan!’, ‘ You are my Life!’, now where did those promises go? You are only concerned about your wife, you have no concern for me?” whines the woman in white saree. “Amrita! Did they kidnap you too?!” Malik questions surprised.

“Amrita! Meaning, she’s the woman huh?! Dekh Lungi!” Vasundhara growls. “Didi!” Amrita calls to her. “Uggh, call me didi one more time and I will kill you!” she growls again and hits Amrita with her shoulder.

“Maa! Maa! You call a little girl Jaanu then she- ” The boy speaks but gets interrupted by the grey t-shirt wearing man being slammed against the truck floor.

“Bhai” the man croaks in pain as Dhruva holds the phone to him.

“Bhai!” Malik calls out upon recognizing. Dhruva lifts the phone back to his ear.

“Who are you people?” Malik asks threateningly.

“Kyun, you don’t want to see our faces?” Dhruva asks back unbothered by the threat lacing Malik’s voice.

“I do” Malik replies back. “Half a kilometer from where you are standing is Khairatabad signal, turn right from there, a little futher take a left, a railway station is located there, right in front of it is Anita Kirana and General Store. Buy a one litre bottle of water, the water should be cold.” Dhruva instructs.

“You kidnapped them for a water bottle?” Malik questions. “Bilkul nahi, with the bottle of water bring the four kidnapped girls on the local train to Vijay Nagar. Where you have to drop them, I will tell.” Dhruva answers back.

Malik and his goons travel to the said destination with weapons as Dhruva waits for them at the train station.

Malik’s phone rings, he accepts the call recognizing the number.

“Hello?” He answers the call on speaker mode.

“Sunn, on the next arriving station you will get off the train alone with the kids.” Dhruva instructs.

“Arrey iski to-.” Malik gets interrupted by the stopping of train at the said station. “CHALO!” The goons exclaim together as they stand up. “Arrey ruko! I have my two families in danger, go a little further and get off by pulling the chain.” He instructs his goons. He gets off the train while looking around while one of the goons also gets off with the children.

The trains moves down the track to their respective ways, and soon reveal Dhruva on platform on the other side.

“Are you gonna relieve all you anger on the poor bottle? Pass it this way.” Dhruva muses as he motions for him to throw the bottle.

“Where is my family?!” Malik questions in anger as Dhruva goes to take a sip of water.

“I just sent them, on the same train with your people.” He replies back and smiles.

His friend Gautam, punches Malik in the back as he pulls out a gun. His other friends take care of the goons and tie them up, free the children and inform the police.

“Due to the information of some anonymous students the police was able to arrest the people responsible for the kidnappings and safely return the girls to their respective families. The police thanks the anonymous students for the important information.” A reporter reports on the scene as Dhruva and his friends watch this with smiles on their faces.

They quickly leave before anyone notices, riding back happily on their bikes. They quickly park their bikes in their parking spots and rush to one side of a boundary wall. They jump over the wall on the other side and run toward the front of their hostel rooms in National Police Academy.

“Dhruva, let’s do fifteen seconds today.” Gautam chimes as Dhruva pulls out his phone to hack the security cameras.

“Sure na?” Dhruva confirms as everyone nods in agreement. “Barabar train ho gaye ho.” he compliments proudly as he stops the cameras. “Go!”

They all take a quick start as the timer starts, running down the memorized hallways, being careful of the wardens. They part ways, saying byes to each other and reach their rooms on time.

On the morning of a new day, all of them emerge from their rooms in their uniforms, going to their schedules for the day.

“The videos of the kids who were saved last night are blowing up the internet” A news anchor reports as Dhruva and his friends watch the news with smiles on their faces.

“I thank the government and the police department for returning my daughter to me, safe and sound.” The video of the mother of one of the victims plays as everyone watches with admiration and happiness.

“Dhruva, I feel so happy while watching their reactions and it’s all because of you and your motivation” Gautam speaks with a smile on his face. “Haan yaar! No matter how many problems appear, I want to do more of such work” Ranveer chimes in. “Really I feel so proud” Vijay too continues patting Dhruva’s shoulder .

“We are all like-minded people, and it all worked out” Dhruva replies. “Then till the time of our posting, if we, together, continue with this pace, we can make big changes.” Karan states happily. “The day we decided to become police officers, we had become police officers.” Dhruva replies back. “And let’s not wait for the change, let’s be the change.” He states while walking away. The officers-in-training continue on their schedules for the day and then retiring to their rooms for the day.

A moment later when everyone is in their rooms, Dhruva walks out cautiously, a cap and a backpack with him. He looks around before locking his door. He walks out of the building carefully, so as to not get spotted. He climbs over the surrounding boundary to the other side. There, he meets his accomplice, their face hidden by the cap and a duffle bag on their shoulder . They both nod at each other before sitting on his bike and driving off to the location.

They both reach a secluded high spot from where a open garden dinner setup can be spotted. Dhruva and his accomplice pull out the needed equipment and arrange them as needed. Dhruva turns on the receiver and pulls out a pair of binoculars. They both put on the headsets attached to the receiver and Dhruva looks through the binoculars. Looking through, he spots the target, approaching the venue.

Dheeraj Chandra - CEO of Eco Pharma Labs

Dheeraj arrives shaking hands with the attendees of the dinner party. Dhruva’s partner shoots a bug on one of chandeliers hanging and he turns on the receiver. Both of them listen in as Dheeraj talks to his accomplices.

“Today I am very happy!” He starts as he spreads out his arms with a smile on his face. “Do you know what this is?” He questions everyone as he holds up a brown file for everyone to see. “A revolution in the Pharma Industry” He continues. “Our government is trying to bring Generic medicine in India by tying up with foreign companies. If this gets implemented, a thousand rupee medicine can be bought for ten rupees only and no poor ill citizen will die of diseases. The only one to die will be the Pharma companies who make profit off of sick people.” He explains with a fake happy smile.

“Now we can envision a disease-free India in the future!”He continues. “Great na?! Give a round of applause!” He exclaims while clapping his hands.

Dhruva and his partner share a look, Dhruva goes back to look through his binoculars.

“Why aren’t you clapping?” He says as he looks to everyone. “I am so angry!” He exclaims as he slams his fists on the table. “If we didn’t stop this, we would have to shut down our pharma industries and start begging on the roads!” He continues, anger lacing his voice.

“Sir, please do something about this.” One of the attendees pleads to him.

“To do so we would have to buy a lot of people. Collect together all the funds you have collected over the years by selling kidneys and medical college seats. All of it. If you don’t, you won’t be able to keep what you have now neither will you be able to earn it in the future!” Dheeraj explains. “We have to stop Generic medicine from arriving in India” He grimly states.

Both Dhruva and his partner share another look which confirmed that both of them had the same thought.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

✎ I couldn't find the name of one of Dhruva's friends hence i named him Vijay. If you did happen to know his name let me know.

✎ If anyone wants to be tagged let me know. ο(=•ω＜=)ρ⌒☆

@yehsahihai @sada-siva-sanyaasi

#desiblr #dhruva x reader #ram charan #dhruva

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radhikxo · 2 years ago

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Top 10 haunted places in India that will give you a cold sweat

By Radhika R Gokul

If you are captivated by supernatural activities and have an interest in ghostly activities then you must surely visit some of the amazing and haunted places within India. All you daring travelers out there be ready and explore some of the finest spooky places.

1.Bhangarh Fort, Alwar

Bhangarh Fort is known as the most haunted place in India, and perhaps the greatest unsolved mystery. There is no doubting the fact that anything associated with the supernatural attracts a huge amount of attention and the deserted city of Bhangarh cashes in on that very idea. The many haunted stories of Bhangarh Fort have transformed it into a bucket list destination of sorts.

Most people are of the belief that Bhangarh Fort is haunted and there is no dearth of tales that help in amplifying the mystery that is Bhangarh. Venturing into the fort after sunset is nothing short of an act of bravery as it is supposed to be a Centre for paranormal activity and the Archaeological Survey of India therefore has prohibited people from visiting the Bhangarh Fort at night.

2. Brij Raj Bhavan, Kota

A palace that was once home to Major Charles Burton and is now a heritage hotel, is rather infamous for being a haunted property. The property soon became the talk of the town when people began saying that it was haunted by the ghost of Major Charles Burton.

Even though his spirit does not really harm anyone, guards working here have often heard a man’s voice speaking in English and commanding them to not fall asleep or smoke. And if they do fall asleep on duty, the ghost even slaps them to wake them up. This incident has happened with quite a number of guards.

3. Charleville Mansion, Shimla

Even Rudyard Kipling in his book My Own True Ghost Story talks about this mansion in Shimla. According to the legend, Victor Bayley came to Shimla with his wife in 1913 when he was appointed the Assistant Secretary of the Railway Board. The couple decided to stay at Charleville Mansion because of its low rent however they did not know that the previous owner of the house, an army officer left the mansion because of a poltergeist’s activities in it.

Since then, the house has seen several occupants and all of them have their own experiences to share. Even though the experiences are enough to send a chill down the spine of the readers and audience, the fact that these ghosts have never been violent in nature brings a sense of relief

4. Kundanbagh Witches’ Lair, Hyderabad

Located in the Kundanbagh area, this house has a peculiar story behind it. According to the story, a burglar went into the house to loot the owners but when he entered the house, he found the dead bodies of three women there. A mother and her two daughters who lived here. He panicked and informed the police about it. Upon further investigation, it was found that the women had been dead for almost six months.

Despite this fact, there were no reports or inquiries about them by the neighbors or locality people. It was also because these women had weird rituals that they would perform every night. The three would light candles and walk around the house. They would also have bottles filled with what looked like blood that they would hang in the veranda. The mother would often scare people off with her antics. Thus, no one really interacted with them.

5. Vas Villa, St Mark’s Road Bangalore

The story is that there were two sisters Dulcie and Vera Vaz. Since their house was in the main market place, they were under constant pressure by the land dealers. Then one fine day, Dulcie was murdered, and Vera Vaz escaped. Since then, the house is left untouched with no information about Vera Vaz.

“It was past mid night and there in the road we saw a woman with white hair and white saree collecting garbage. Her features were just the same as we see the movies of old female ghosts, but at that time she didn't appear to be anything different. She said something to one of us but we could not understand and moved ahead.” told by one of the neighbors.

6. Tunnel No.33, Shimla-Kalka Train Route'

One of the longest tunnels is on the Shimla-Kalka route that is a straight tunnel and lasts for over two minutes. Colonel Barog who was a railway engineer was given the task of constructing a tunnel in this region Alas, he had miscalculated and even after boring holes and digging till the center of the mountain, the laborers from different ends did not meet in the middle. Due to the colonel’s folly, he was fired from the job and also fined by the government. This really depressed him and he felt absolutely humiliated.

Colonel Barog shot himself out of his misery. Barog was buried outside the incomplete tunnel to pay homage to his work. But locals believe he never left the place. His spirit still haunts the tunnel. But even today, people say Colonel Barog pays a visit to the tunnel. He even chats with people who are unaware of his existence but those who know who he is get spooked out. He is also spotted there and then vanishes after a while. The government tried sealing the incomplete tunnel but every time the lock was broken.

7 .House Number W-13 At GK-II ,Delhi

Located in Greater Kailash-1, one of the most affluent localities of Delhi is house number W-3. This house is a dark reminder, a dark song that things that go bump in the night do exist, and they're closer to us than we will ever know. The case was never solved and the property was abandoned. As time passed, the property came to be known as the ghost house. Call it human nature to attach paranormal thoughts to murder and abandonment, the house remained an attraction for over 27 years. Nobody dared enter the premises after sunset and many reported screaming and wailing noises over time.

8. Bonacaud Bungalow, Thiruvananthapuram

Popularly known as 25 GB, the bungalow is located amidst lush thick green forests of the Agastya Mountain ranges. The story goes that the Britisher, who built the bungalow, was the manager of a tea estate. He lived in a single-storied mansion with his family. Although he was said to have loved his home, he returned to London with his wife when his child was found killed under mysterious circumstances. Seeing a young girl by the window, the sound of breaking glass and the screams and laughs of a child appeared and the Bungalow entered a state of disrepair.

9. Dow Hill, Kurseong, West Bengal

Located around 30km from Darjeeling is the Dow Hill of Kurseong, which is the boss of haunted places in India. It is one such place where paranormal activities do not seize whether day or night! Often compared to Beauty and the Beast, Kurseong’s beauty has enough ghost stories too. The Death Road which lies between the Dow Hill Road and Forest Office is the hotspot. People have seen a headless ghost of a young boy walking and disappearing into the forest and also experienced being followed or watched by a bodiless entity. While some have seen a red pair of red eyes staring at them from the forest, others have seen the ghost of a woman in grey. The paranormal activities are so intense that most visitors lose sense or kill themselves.

10. Lambi Dehar Mines, Uttarakhand

Located 10 km from Mussoorie, this abandoned mine stretches a couple of kilometers in length, adding to the eerie factor and one of the most haunted places in India. The story goes that during the 1990s, around 50000 mineworkers lost their lives here due to inappropriate mining practices. The workers succumbed to a painful death coughing and lung disorder. Ever since then people have reported mysterious incidents at the site like helicopter crashes or hearing wailing and crying in pain.

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harshada-journal · 1 year ago

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Paoli Dam's Spectacular Performances: A Look at Her Finest Roles

Paoli Dam has a long roster of impressive performances since her debut in Bengali cinema. She has showcased her acting prowess in films that span across genres, reflecting her versatility.

Some of her finest roles include her performance in the film "Hate Story," where she played a woman seeking revenge, a role that was as bold as it was intense. In the critically acclaimed "Ankur Arora Murder Case," Paoli explores the complexity of medical negligence, portraying a sympathetic and realistic character. Her roles in Bengali movies like "Natoker Moto" and "Moner Manush" have won accolades for her portrayal of versatile characters, reiterating her ability to perform seamlessly across varied genres.

The Social Advocate: Paoli Dam's Activism and Philanthropy Apart from her acting career, Paoli Dam is known for her dedication to social causes. She has been part of several campaigns and initiatives that aim at improving lives and advocating for social justice.

Paoli has been very active in raising awareness about child abuse and women's rights. She uses her platform to shed light on these pressing issues and has also supported several non-profits that work towards child welfare, education, and empowering the underprivileged.

In addition to her philanthropy, Dam's social advocacy also extends to environmental concerns. She is a proponent of sustainable living and often uses her social media platforms to propagate environmentally friendly habits among her followers.

Paoli Dam's Wedding Diary: Inside her Majestic Bengali Wedding Paoli Dam's wedding to Arjun Deb was a celebration of love, tradition, and culture. Tying the knot in a traditional Bengali ceremony, the couple embodied the elegance and beauty of their heritage.

The décor was a mix of rustic and classy, with a royal stage set for the bride and groom. Brightly lit with fairy lights and elegant flowers, the ambiance was serene and festive. dam donned a bright red Benarasi saree, embracing her Bengali roots, accompanied by traditional gold jewelry that added to her bridal charm.

Both the pre-wedding festivities and the wedding ceremony reflected the richness of Bengali traditions. It was a memorable affair that beautifully celebrated the couple's love while paying homage to their cultural heritage.

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imab00kwh0r3 · 2 years ago

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i haven't been here for so long but life update

1. i got into an academy which is one of the best skls in my country so ive been busy revising and stuff

2. i got a new saree and its GORGEOUS

3. this is smth that pissed me off but it doesn't affect me directly but, there's a guy in my class who's interested in philosophy and politics like me so i thought i could be friends with him. then in english we were doing oral class and it was about games, he goes on about chess (a game we both like) so i was like "i should talk to this guy he's interesting," THEN he says and i quote "...women have more opportunities than men..." because the queen piece can move the most and the king the least. HOW TF COULD HE SAY THAT

like women still face discrimination at work, in society, in their personal affairs like afghani women and girls can't get an education anymore cus of the taliban, women (and everyone but u get my point) in iran have had their freedom of choice and speech taken away, they are being murdered for simply speaking out. women get told they can't do jobs cus they're a woman, they have to live with people questioning their every point just cus they're a woman.

this guy also is part of the national youth parliament and spoke in parliament, i don't trust this guy.

how does a fucking chess piece relate to societal issues like that

4. ive been trying not to relapse which is getting to be a struggle

so yeh IM BACKKK

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asthadwivedi · 2 years ago

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//LAST CALL TO EVE//

We're too broke, too millennial, too young, too crazy

Too mad genius artist for the suits to write about us

Not until they find our note when we're gone

We wear too much clothes for them to cast us

And we have too much voices for families to buy us

But I keep this secret code of club to women like us inside my blouse

When you reach the door you'll be greeted by a witch resembling me

And you'll need to chant all your sins and believe they're

Your good deeds in chains with forced masks if you want in

You'll be asked to leave your pouch of tears, book of fears by the door

To shed your human skin and become the goddess

Who breathes fire and consumes them alive

Join in as we rehearse final murder plan

Act it out, draft it in, paint it all, call it art

Look at the torch we're holding, it is burning on the fossils of our childhood

Take it, let it ignite you and burn the list of your victims to ashes

/NO WONDER WE'RE NEVER OUT OF KOHL/

Repeat those names till the blueprint of our alibi fits on the tip of your tongue

Laugh it off, call it lyrics to the next hit or script

Of the psychological thriller someone left at your doorstep for

They thought you'll be perfect for the psych ward scene

Come, take my hand, the space ship is about to leave

Venus has been calling us for so long now, crying

The vapours have started to settle to form rings now

The moons are not able to unveil the eclipses

Come, we're about to take off to our home

We tried our best. These Martians, they don't deserve us.

We should have stopped at the 286th warning sign

We should have stopped when we came across our gutted bodies wrapped in torn saree

The bleeding vaginas, they called us.

Who were we bleeding for? Why were we bleeding?

We should have thrown our saviour complexes before entering earth

We should have let them die before they killed us.

So let's pick whatever is left of us and go home to mother

We did our best and now they deserve to rot motherless

Take this torch, Eve and hold my hand before it is too late.

But it is too late isn't ? Goodbye sister!

I'll use the last bit of my voice that is left

To pray to God, if he isn't dead yet, that death comes quick

-ASTHA

#poem #writers #writerscreed #poetry #poets on tumblr #spilled thoughts #spilled words #spilled ink #writing #spilled poetry #bangalore #poets of india #writeblr #writeblrcafe

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cas-sims · 4 years ago

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No rights for women

So our government just passed a law that bans abortion when the fetus is dead, badly damaged or terminally ill.

Yes, that means that if we’ll know that we carry a dead fetus, we will need to carry it to full term.

It means we have to carry to a full term a child with malfuncttioning lungs, who will die seconds after birth.

It means we will be forced to give birth to fetuses with illnesses so severe they do not even look human.

It means we will need to explain if we had a miscarriage, or performed an abortion.

If you go to another country to have a medical abortion as to not carry a dead fetus for 9 months only to be forced to give birth and bury it immediately - you will officially be a murderer by law.

A country with children’s homes badly underfunded, with disabled people getting almost no money or help whatsover, somehow decides a disfigured fetus is more important than living children.

That’s all you need to know about Poland, the country of beautiful Tatra mountains, of scenic lakes of Mazury, of Kraków and Malbork.

It is now a country of dead bodies as well.

It’s not what my tumblr is about, but rarely have I been so disappointed and sared in my life.

#polska #aborcja #kurwa mać

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lovemishikasworld · 3 years ago

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Mimicry, story telling & joke with daddy & my satires in the air on 'think & grow rich', 'secret'; 'the law of attraction' & 'Bakha' & 'Sandeep Maheshwari' & Indian political representatives who give flats to these Bakha(s) under their slum yojana & other media personality (I love to imitate or mock through mimicry corrupt people & not honest & liked ppl of mine on self written script showing their follies & creating a satire). The Indian illiterate boy 'Bakha' who leaves the wealth, english & education for masturbation.

The deep desire of 'Bakha' to masturbate 24 *7 make him lose everything & make him a saint on the path of masturbation with no money, no home,no food & no education & just masturbation & sex.

Now, that 'Bakha' comes to my home & out of jealousy breaks my home's glass because I am rich & 'Bakha' is not & his girls are not.

- Story of all the youth of India that failed in life & are jealous on educated people & me who didn't masturbated like 'Bakha' & others & read english, maths & science & accounts & made our glass & home & car etc.

Now, these Bakha(s) & there women saints on the road of masturbation feels more jealous & abnormal envy towards me & other educated ppl like 'Piyush'.

They want to murder us & give threats all day long. But, the situation is so repetitive; daily assault in a law absent 'India' that you can't do anything but enjoy your tea, banana rice & other things with the assault as it will never solve or very hard problem to fix that 'Indians' are not proper thinking ppl & their burden comes on other citizens of the country.

But, very hard to solve this problem ; reason I never worked on it as prime problem as it will solve with time when these ppl will fail in everything family, health etc. which is going & they will die internally naturally because of their sex & masturbation.

-Lovely satire in the air & I typed approx. words of mine in the tone of self development book author 'Napolean Hill' mixed with english men & foreign media(scam or true I don't know; can be Indians in different skin tone, hair colour etc.) personnel speaking style that suggest to cease(end the day successfully young boy: dialogue of dead poet society) the day & take this day as your last & other suggestive works where these foreign to look people like Steve Jobs etc.(the guy that stores data in plastics & gold in smartphone said in the tone of 'Napolean Hill' by me & my joke if this day would have been my last " I would have done make up" & other Indians would have watched daily soap & movies & masturbated & did sex & cease their days; when Indians take advice from their competitors so called fake west or real scam west not knowing that competitors never gives right advice to the young men of India😃 or even to their own men) speaks senseless things on earth.

Moving towards my tea after my banana rice that charged me to say this satire in the air.

Had both & now editing this post written while taking yum lunch.

- Satire on piyush to not cease the day & read tax instead of watching Indian tv shows 'nagin' & 'simar' & listening to 'Sir Robin Williams' from dead poet society; a revolutionary teacher (who is just like Indian Sabina Shergill & Sheena & Ruby of St. Marks with no mind, seriousness & intellect & they used perfume & sarees & khans & movie ppl & tv ppl) who teaches western kids to be 'Bakha' of the west that is John & Oprah(example west names for satire with the fact that I don't know they are west or east in cloths of west) with no money.

Your career is in danger 'Piyush' as you read tax & accounts & didn't watched 'nagin'.

How would you know the colleagues of the office without social awareness said the 'HR' to the little 'Piyush' scared in 'PWC' & 'ENY' & Indian slum world where amazing shows comes to follow the words of renowned 'Steve Jobs' that if this day would have been our last we would make ' India TV' & news that will give shock to human's sensibility said media people & other group said we will watch bollywood & hindi dangerous movies by bad actors & cease our last day of life 'Sir Williams' muttered a daily soap women from colors with a happy agreement to the thought by Indian employees to various companies.

'Sir Williams & Steve Jobs' smiled & happily gave interview to CNBC ppl who came to the office after completing all the daily soaps & all net flix etc. on earth & porn & their affairs as they followed saint steve jobs & took every day as last of their life & did sex or watch porn on all days.

- Satire by me when they fool in dialogues of steve jobs like " Follow your passion & take every day as last".

Steve a man who came to India to learn from illiterate India(as per his biography) who cannot eat & sleep on roads & beg & scam.

I was stunned by Steve's choice; what a learning resource for enlightenment & ceasing the days of his life with the beggars of India. That's why all the videos on laptops or smartphones says data is stored in these beautiful shining silicone & micro chips.

My heart said that if this day would be my last day ; I will write the videos are scam & it is pages in laptop & phone & is grown from small writing & drawing & viewing toy for kids into smartphones & laptop which change in materials & sizes & paper & allied product quality. So, I wrote my write-ups on this aspect & had fun like having banana rice.

- Speaking in the tone of 'Napolean Hill' & mix of the gentleman of 'English world'. " Young boy; mark my words" sort of men.

" I also have to tell the myths of periods(women menstruation) in science book; its told wrong by people who ceased/screwed their days".

Saying in the tone of 'Napolean Hill & mix voices of the self development guru & media personnel of west'. In the hot scorching heat of Delhi; the truth of women periods will come from my mouth in my coming write-ups.

A story which is worthy to be noted in 'Forbes' & 'your story' papers said 'Sir Williams'.

Sir Williams; the forced 'English' persons who will speak to paid/favour given audience through their videos & shows whether anybody ask from them anything or not.

😃

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everythingshouldbereality · 4 years ago

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'Won't wear the green saree': Indrani Mukerjea refuses to take convict's uniform in jail

‘Won’t wear the green saree’: Indrani Mukerjea refuses to take convict’s uniform in jail

Image Source : PTI Indrani Mukerjea is lodged at the Byculla women’s jail in Mumbai. Indrani Mukerjea, a prime accused in the Sheena Bora murder case, on Tuesday moved a special CBI court in Mumbai seeking exemption from wearing convict’s uniform in prison. Mukerjea is lodged at the Byculla women’s jail in Mumbai. ALSO READ: Sheena Bora murder case: CBI Court allows Indrani Mukerjea to turn…

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#byculla jail #cbi court #indrani mukerjea #indrani mukerjea convicts uniform #indrani mukerjea news #sheena bora murder case #who is indrani mukerjea

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creativitytoexplore · 4 years ago

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The Innocent and the Beautiful by Iftekhar Sayeed https://ift.tt/2YcutQS In Bangladesh, CIA agent Maryam becomes a target for assassination and flees with her lover - but neither are sure where their loyalties lie; by Iftekhar Sayeed.

"The death of 1.7 million children through sanctions in Iraq has aroused no interest whatsoever in the drawing rooms of Bangladesh, as far as agent Maryam has been able to judge." Something seemed to trouble Maryam, as her fingers hovered above the keyboard; the hum of the air-conditioner rose above the tap-tap of her fingers; she smelled the starched pillows and breathed heavily; in the light from the quite redundant lamp, she deleted 'death' and typed 'murder'. She sighed relief, turned off the laptop, disengaged the wireless modem, switched off the lamp, and turned on her side to get some sleep.

I hated her. So I avoided the street - road 9A, Dhanmandi - where she worked and waited for a trishaw or an auto rickshaw every weekday at around 5:00. The situation was dire. After the Gulf and Af-Pak wars, the mujahideen had grouped themselves together, as elsewhere, in Bangladesh, as freedom fighters. No empire can exist without collaborators, and the local elite and government both sided with the American and European powers. A death-squad was formed with the aid of the imperial west, and an unknown number of jihadis died in so-called 'cross-fires', the euphemism for assassination. It was then that the jihadis changed strategy. Instead of bombs and bullets, which had to be bought abroad and smuggled in, they resorted to - knives. An expert 'Knifer', as they came to be called, could aim for a target's heart from a distance safe enough for a get-away. Less efficient ones would stab in a busy thoroughfare, or operate from shadows. The frequent power failures were a boon. The targets also were changed. Instead of attacking government buildings with bombs or agents of the state with bullets, they went for members of what is known politely as 'civil society'. The collaborators, they had figured out, were to be found among the academics and artists who gave legitimacy to collaboration. Two of their biggest kills were a lawyer and an economist, both PhDs from American universities. And where did feminine, friendly Maryam fit in all this? I first met her at the intellectual salon of a socialite: she wore a light green chiffon saree that went with her fair complexion, her dark eyes, dark brows; her arms were bare and I could imagine the rest of her. She asked pointed questions about politics and society, and then sat back, legs crossed, listening in earnest. It was flattering to be heard like that. Soon, we were lovers, meeting regularly in my flat. It was after one of our devouring love-makings that she came out with it. "I actually work for the CIA, Zafar." By then she knew my views, knew how I would feel, and that prompted her to be frank. "After all, we're all collaborators." She was right there: we were all collaborators. And what was the nature of her collaboration? "Nothing much: I just listen in on conversations and ask questions and report what people are thinking and saying. It's not much, Zafar. I just collaborate a bit more closely, that's all." That was the last time we met.

On this fateful day, I spotted her on road 9A, waiting for her usual trishaw. There was traffic on the road, but I stayed focused. She was in a red-and-black shalwar-kameez, her arms bare, revealing teasingly her white shoulders and armpits. Then our eyes met: fortunately I looked away, and watched with horror a man, pillion-riding on a motorcycle, raise a knife towards Maryam. "Maryam, get down!" I screamed, and ran towards the bike. The knife missed, as she ducked. The bike wove between the vehicles, and disappeared. "That was close, Maryam," I said, panting, as I reached her crouching figure. She was weeping. "They tried to kill me!" she repeated. It was as if she couldn't believe that they would try to kill her. And they would try again. Nowhere in Dhaka was safe for her anymore. I could feel eyes watching us, reporting, sharing... Bystanders began to gather around, so I grabbed her arm and asked her if she had any money. She nodded, wiping away her tears. I had some money, enough to buy a pair of tickets. I hailed a trishaw and we made our way towards Kolabagan. We were greeted at the counter of Shohag bus service by the usual smell of urine emanating from the toilet inside. The day was hot and humid, and we were both perspiring. Inside, we sat at the back of the stifling room, a few fans whirring overhead. Our bus wouldn't leave until 11:00. There were a few passengers waiting for the next bus. "You mustn't cry here, Maryam. Let's not draw attention to ourselves. We'll be safe in a few hours." I went out, bought a mild sedative, and a bottle of cola. I made a call to Sujon Chakma from my mobile. His bungalow would be ready for us. The cola was cool against the parching throat. "There's something I have to tell you, Zafar." Her voice sounded cracked. She poured the cola down her mouth. "Not now. We'll have a chance to talk later." After interminable minutes, the Chakma boys and girls began to appear. They were headed home: to the hills in the south-east, to Khagrachari and beyond. They spoke in their dialect which I could vaguely decipher. You could tell them, not only by the language, but the slanted, Tibetan eyes. They were mostly students, but now and then a couple with a child would plump down in the seats before us. I kept a watchful eye open for any of my race. The bus left promptly at 11:00. We would be at Khagrachari by dawn. Most of the journey would be over hills, after the left turn at Baroier Hat at Feni. We stopped at night at a road-side restaurant where I forced Maryam to eat some rice and - very spicy - chicken curry. I was ravenous, and thirsty. Fear had been relegated to remoter parts of the mind. Fatigue began to take over. We reached Baroier Hat just before sunrise. The buses - a Shohag, two S. Alams, and a BRTC bus - stopped to form a convoy, for the road was potentially dangerous. Armed bands, carryovers from a recent insurgency, roamed the hills. Outside, there were five policemen in steel-grey shirts, blue trousers, green felt boots and deep purple berets. Each had a rifle. They all got on our bus, which was a relief, and then we started. At Jaliapara, they got off. We went a little further ahead and two policemen got on - they sat on the raised leatherette bench next to the driver. The one nearest me was called Selim - his shoulder-tag said as much. He was dark with close-cropped hair. The other one was fairer. Selim cradled a rifle on his lap. He held a black walkie-talkie in his right hand, close to his mouth, though he wasn't speaking. The magazines were in a holder attached to his belt at the hip. The other policeman held a rifle between his thighs, nozzle upward. Neither men wore a beret - not very surprisingly, given the heat. They got off a after a few minutes. It was a switchback road. We watched the sun rise - a pale, orange disk - above the forested hills. The gibbous moon floated like a spectre in the west, trying to steal light. The sky was cloudlessly blue. We now turned east, then completely west, the sun now on our right, now on our left. We were bending every way. The sides of the road were sometimes sheer drops of several hundred feet - into seeming green jungle. Sometimes a green wall rose on our right and a sheer drop sloped to our left. Sometimes the road was a break between two hills. The colour was green - green bamboo groves, green banana leaves, green teak leaves, tall green grass. The sun became less benign. From orange, it turned gold. The relative cool of dawn evaporated. The golden rays beat down on our heads. Maryam was nodding in sleep. Various vehicles crossed us and we overtook various others. One pick-up was stacked with bamboo poles; another with jackfruit. We overtook trucks laden with goods under brown canvas. There were regular sentry posts roofed with bamboo and with bamboo sides on hill-tops. Sometimes a soldier with a walkie-talkie could be seen. Tribal women in bright thamis and blouses worked on hillsides. The road ascended towards Alutila and then descended, with many a spiral in either direction. At times, one espied a bend in the road up ahead or below, a graceful inflection. We drove through seemingly ghost towns and deserted bazaars. Only the fascias of the stores spoke to us: STAR cigarette, one announced in blue and white, was bright with its own light. The people were still asleep. Maryam had woken up, and the majesty of the scene held her in submission a while. But she finally spoke above the clatter of the bus and the moan of the engine. "I have to tell you something, Zafar." "The Knifers have put you on their hit list, Maryam." She shook her head vigorously. "They weren't the Knifers." I was surprised, but I didn't want to talk about it then. "Look!" I pointed to egrets flying in echelon. I had seen the knifer, taking aim, casting his missile. What was she talking about? The taste of fear, a dryness of the mouth, a quickening of the pulse, returned.

We got off before the bus reached Alutila. "But there's nothing here!" insisted the driver, his mouth red from chewing betel leaf. I nodded, and got off. The passenger next to him on the leatherette chair continued to sleep with his mouth open. It was good that nobody had noticed, except the driver and his sleepy helper. We disappeared among the teak trees. I soon found the faint footpath that led to Sujon's bungalow. Sujon was an affluent businessman, and he built a modest retreat in the forest for friends like me to spend a few pensive days in. I say 'modest' but it had all the creature comforts of home. The bungalow of whitewashed walls and green, sloping tin roof stood in a clearing in the forest. "Sahib, you have arrived!" The disembodied voice belonged to Robindro Tripura, caretaker of the place. He appeared from behind the trees, a short, dark, stocky character in a lungi. He looked from one of us to the other, for we were quite a sight. It wasn't so much the fatigue as the stress of running that had got the better of us. "I have made omelette and bread," he announced, and draped his coloured towel over his shoulder. The inside of a forest has a stifling humidity. Cicadas crooned without cease. Needless to say, we downed the breakfast in a trice. Next, we proceeded to drink a gallon of water. Robindro told us that the shower was ready and before leaving for the city, informed me that he would try to get clothing for the lady the next day. Considerate Robindro! I stood in the shower, washing off the heat, the fear, the sweat, and the stress. I just stood there, forgetting everything. When I entered the bedroom, I found a showered and refreshed Maryam sitting on the edge of the bed. She wore one of my striped shirts - and nothing else. After we made love like enemies, we got under the sheet and lay there, each with separate thoughts. She was the first to speak. "Do you hate yourself for making love to me?" I did, so I said nothing. "You don't have to. I have a lot to say, Zafar." Her voice came soft and contrite. "I'm listening," I said, opening my eyes, and gazing into hers. I thought again how mesmerizing were those dark circles. "After you left me, I found I was pregnant." I sat up. "What? You should have -" "What would have been the use? You hated me! You wouldn't have married me, and even if you had, what kind of marriage would it have been? Anyway, marriage was out of the question for me as well. I had the abortion soon after." I lay back, breathing a sigh. "But that's not all. Having nearly been a mother, I began to realize what those Iraqi mothers must have gone through. Thank God we didn't meet then, Zafar! My mind was so confused. I stopped seeing everyone. My work for the agency came to a stop." She paused, frightened, for a Tokay gecko had suddenly broken out into its mating call from the roof of the bungalow. "It's all right, it's just a lizard; it won't hurt." "Then I began to work for the agency again. But this time I passed on the messages to the Knifers as well. I started telling them about potential targets, about the biggest collaborators, about the worst of the lot... And the agency found out." "The Knifers would never have tried to kill you, then." "No. It was the agency, imitating the Knifers." "O Maryam, why didn't you tell me all this before? We could have worked it all out together!" "No, Zafar, there are some things you have to work out alone. But now we are together." We put our arms around each other. Then we fell into a deep, long sleep, lulled by the whizzing fan beating down its breeze.

I woke to the scent and rhythm of rain. The bedroom was dark. How long had we slept? The taste of fear had worn off, and hunger remained. While Maryam was still asleep, I warmed up some beef curry and rice in the microwave oven. Then we swooped hungrily. The power failed. We sought some coolth in the netted verandah. It had stopped raining, and in the evening, between the teak trees, we could see the stars. Crickets chirped and frogs croaked. There were no other sounds. "I am wondering about our next move, Maryam," I said. We sat beside each other in plastic chairs. A nightjar called. The air smelled fresh after the rain, and the leaves murmured. The taste of fear had given way to the taste of curry. But we could see nothing around us, only the stars through a chink. She snuggled close to me, in her shirt. "I'm not thinking at all, Zafar. I'm safe here with you." I smiled in the darkness. If only it were so simple. How long would it be before the agency knew where we were? After all, the entire state was at their disposal. "Look!" I said involuntarily. "What?" She raised her head from my shoulder. A solitary blinking appeared above the horizon in the east. It was too slow to be a plane, which would also have had several lights. "It's a satellite," I observed. "Do you think it can see us?" "Not in this power failure," she giggled, and we both laughed. The satellite went out of view between the leaves, and in its stead rose, in a few minutes, a red apparition. "Antares!" I breathed. "What?" "The opposite of Ares, the god of war," I explained. "How I love that name! An-ta-res!" The opposite of war, the affirmation of peace, how I love Antares! "Can we ever have peace, Zafar?" In the dark, I could sense her looking up at me. My breast heaved. I dared not reply, for fear of breaking down. "Can we ever be husband and wife and mother and father?" I swallowed. "Why not?" I asked without conviction. Then her mobile rang. She spoke a few words, and turned to me. "It's them, the mujahideen. They wish to speak to you." "Yes?" I spoke into the phone. "I see... Yes... I understand... Yes, I'll see you there." "What did they want?" I hung up. "They want me to meet them tomorrow at Labanga in Dhaka." Then the power came on, and she had tears. I never thought I would never see her again.

Labanga was a kebab restaurant on Mirpur Road on the first floor overlooking the drag. I walked past the glowing embers, emanating heat and the odour of burnt meat, past the counter, and up the steel stairs. I sat in the corner table next to the door, overlooking the street, and ordered four plates of kebab and nan as instructed. The room was air-conditioned, and outside, in the sunny heat, the traffic jammed on Mirpur Road. I waited. Finally they arrived. They wore pyjamas and punjabis, and turbans and beards. There were three of them, and they drew the chairs around me. "Zafar sahib," began the eldest of them. "Salaam walaikum." They salaamed me each in turn and I salammed them. There was a noisy family, with husband and wife and two children, in the other corner. Two men ate silently at the next table. The men and I began to eat without speech. "Zafar Sahib," resumed the eldest. "The less you know about us the better," I nodded. "Zafar sahib," spoke the eldest through his graying beard and moustache. His eyes were gentle. "You have written in our favour despite your unbelief." "I am an agnostic," I said, swallowing the kebab, "and this is my civilisation." "We know your views. Please tell us where Maryam Apa is, and we'll take her to safety." "You mean, outside the country." "Probably. But I cannot say for her sake." "I'll never see her again?" "No." "Why?" "Look across the street." I looked through the tinted window, and the tangle of wires. A man in black pants and white shirt paraded the other side of the pavement. "You have been followed," he said, calmly ingesting kebab and nan. "The moment you entered Dhaka, you were followed." "So what do we do now?" I asked. "He'll be taken care of." And he was. A stream of men and women flowed past the figure, but one stopped to ask for a cigarette flame; after which, the figure sprawled on the sidewalk, clutching a knife-blade in his belly. "Let us leave." I paid the bill, and hurriedly left with the three men.

Since then, every year, I have been to the cottage in Khagrachari, and have watched Antares rise.

#FICTION on the WEB short stories

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