Dawn filtered in as pale gold across the compartment. Roshni woke before the world fully roused — the rhythmic sway of the train still steady, the hush of early morning settling over sleeping passengers.
She blinked and saw Sameer across from her, half-asleep, his jaw relaxed, a faint crease of care on his brow. For a moment the grief and exhaustion receded; something almost like peace softened her features. A small, involuntary smile touched her lips.
She rose quietly and, with careful, loving motions that surprised even her, adjusted his posture and tucked the blanket up to his chin. The gesture was simple — a daughter smoothing a father's shawl — but it made her chest ache in a new, small way.
Across the aisle, the two elderly women who had joked the night before were already awake, sipping steaming tea and trading whispers. One of them peered over and, eyes wide with all the certainty of gossip, said with a teasing smile, "Arre beti, tum hi ho uski patni kya?"
Roshni stiffened. "Nahi, aunty. Aisa kuch nahi. Main sirf uski trainee hoon. Woh—woh bas mujhe ghar chhodne jaa rahe hain. Mera papa—" Her voice broke. "Mera papa... ab nahi rahe."
The women's faces softened for a beat, then curiosity nudged them back to chatter. "Accha, beta. Par raat bhar jo usne tumhara khayal rakha — bilkul pati jaisa. Humne aise bahut dekha hai." One of them crooned with the fond authority of someone who reads destinies in tea leaves.
An older woman, her eyes milky with age but fierce with conviction, leaned forward. "Sun lo beti," she said in a low, sudden voice. "Bura mat mano, par tum dono ki kismat ek saath likhi hai. Uparwale ka ishara hai — jo ho raha hai, usi ki marzi." Her words landed heavy and strangely tender.
Roshni managed a shaky laugh. "Dadi-maa, main aisi cheezon par yakin nahin karti. Aur woh sirf mera trainer hain." But even as she spoke, a small, unsettled silence passed through her that had nothing to do with superstition and everything to do with the warm steadiness she'd felt overnight.
The old woman smiled, not unkindly. "Theek hai, beti — jo tum samjho. Par yaad rakhna — zindagi ajeeb cheezein karti hai. Kabhi kabhi jo rishta sach mein banta hai, woh sabse ajeeb palon mein janam leta hai." or ha mai tera hato kii lakiro sa bata rahi huu jal hii teri sadi hona wali hai , She tapped the side of her cup like a tiny benediction.
Roahni said ,jii nahi dadi abhi meri koi ummar nahi hai or, yee sabb paa mai wiswas nahi karti
Sameer woke slowly, blinking against the pale morning light that spilled through the train window. Across from him, Roshni was already awake, sitting quietly and talking to the women who had mistaken them for a married couple the night before. She looked calmer now — exhausted, but composed.
"Roshni," Sameer said softly.
She turned, startled for a moment, then gave a small, polite smile. "Sir, aap uth gaye? I'm sorry... kal raat meri wajah se aapko dikkat hui. I wasn't myself."
Sameer shook his head gently. "It's okay. But now — are you alright?"
Roshni hesitated, then nodded faintly. "Haan sir, ab theek hoon. Bas kal... samajh nahi paayi. Shayad situation sambhal nahi paayi."
Sameer's gaze was steady, voice calm. "It's nothing new, Roshni. Anyone would react like that. When you hear about losing someone you love... no one's ever ready for it."
Roshni looked down, her eyes glistening, but a faint, grateful smile touched her lips. "Sir... aap bohot understanding ho. Thank you."
Sameer gave a brief nod, his expression unreadable. The train slowed as the announcement came — "Rampur Station. Next stop, Rampur Station."
They gathered their things silently.
Outside, the air was heavy and still, carrying the faint smell of dust and burnt firewood. A man in his late thirties was waiting on the platform — Roshni recognized him instantly. Her Bade Papa's elder son, Ravi bhaiya.
He approached quickly, eyes red-rimmed. "Roshni, chalo. Aaiye sir ji, aap bhi saath chaliye."
He took their bags before either could protest and led them to a waiting cab. The ride from the station to the village was quiet, broken only by the distant sound of temple bells and the faint murmurs of people gathering ahead.
When they reached the house, the sight that greeted them froze Roshni in place.
The courtyard (angan) was filled with relatives, neighbors, and elders sitting on the ground — the air thick with grief and murmured prayers. White sheets, garlands, the dull scent of incense — everything blurred together.
Roshni stepped forward, her breath catching in her throat. And then she saw him — her father, lying still beneath a white shroud, surrounded by marigolds and silence.
Her legs buckled.
"Papa..." she whispered, and then louder, broken, "Papa!"
She stumbled forward, falling beside the body, her sobs shattering the muted air. Her cries pierced through the courtyard — raw, aching, desperate. She clutched her father's cold hand, pressing it to her forehead, pleading as though he might wake.
Sameer stood at the threshold, frozen.
His chest tightened painfully — every sob felt like it tore through him. He wanted to step forward, to hold her, to calm her shaking shoulders, but he couldn't. Not here, not in front of so many people.
He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms. His duty and his heart were at war.
From where he stood, he could see Roshni breaking — her pain spilling into the ground like something sacred and unbearable.
And yet, in that sea of mourning, Sameer remained still — the only anchor holding himself together while everything around him fell apart.
In that moment, he silently promised himself —
"As long as I'm here, I'll make sure she doesn't face this alone."
The faint orange glow of dawn spread slowly across the rooftops of Rampur. The night's silence still lingered in the air, broken only by the soft rustle of leaves and the distant call of a temple bell.
Sameer Pandey sat cross-legged on the terrace, eyes closed, his breathing slow and steady. Dressed in a plain white T-shirt and track pants, he was deep in meditation. The stillness around him reflected the discipline that defined his life — even in a village far from the Himalayan Civil Academy, his routine hadn't changed.
He had refused Ravi's offer to sleep inside the house the previous night.
"Main theek hoon, Ravi," he had said politely. "Yahan ki hawa aur shaanti mujhe achhi lagti hai. Aasman ke neeche sona mujhe yaad dilata hai — zameen se jude rehna hi asli strength hai."
And so, under the open sky, he had slept peacefully, letting the summer breeze replace the biting cold of the mountains he was used to.
As dawn grew brighter, Roshni's mother woke up. Her heart felt heavy yet oddly calm — grief was still there, but the house felt a little lighter today. Out of instinct, she decided to check on Sameer Sir, the man who had brought her daughter home safely.
When she stepped onto the terrace, she paused — her eyes softened at the sight.
Sameer sat motionless, back straight, his hands resting on his knees, face calm and focused.
"Aise guru mile hain meri beti ko..." she whispered to herself, a small smile appearing for the first time in days. "Achha asar hai iska Roshni par."
But then, a sudden thought struck her, and she frowned lightly.
"Par Roshni toh subah uthti hi nahi thi. Academy mein kaise sambhalti hogi bechari... abhi bhi so rahi hogi shayad."
She turned and quietly went to Roshni's room, ready to wake her up.
But as she opened the door, she froze.
Roshni was already awake — standing near the mirror, tying her shoes. She was wearing her jogging uniform, her hair tied neatly in a ponytail. Her face looked pale but determined, her eyes reflecting a strength her mother hadn't seen before.
"Beta... tu kahaan ja rahi hai?" her mother asked softly, still half in disbelief.
Roshni turned, smiling faintly. "Kahin nahi, Maa. Bas thoda jogging par. Academy mein nahi hoon par training toh chalu rehni chahiye. Fitness pe dhyaan dena padega."
Her mother blinked, stunned. "Tu... tu subah itni jaldi uth gayi? Pehle toh bina chai ke bed se nahi uthti thi."
Roshni's expression softened, but her voice carried resolve.
"Maa, ab sab badal gaya hai. Papa ka sapna tha ki unki beti IPS bane. Main unka sir jhukne nahi dungi. Aur... sirf Papa ka nahi, Maa. Ab mujhe unhein bhi dikhana hai—Sameer Sir ko—ki unka mujh par jo vishwas hai, main uske layak hoon."
Her mother looked at her silently, eyes moist.
Roshni continued, her voice trembling but strong,
"Maa, main bas teen din ke liye aayi hoon. Sirf teen din. Sameer Sir bhi mere saath aaye hain... meri wajah se. Academy ne meri safety ke liye unhein bheja. Main nahi chahti ki unhein lage unka time waste hua. Academy mein sabko unki zarurat hoti hai, aur main nahi chahti ki meri wajah se unki responsibility adhoori rahe."
She paused, taking a deep breath. "Aur haan... meri performance bhi kuch dinon se achhi nahi thi. Maine Sir ko disappoint kiya. Agar Papa zinda hote, toh unhein bura lagta ki unki beti kamzor pad gayi."
Roshni's voice broke slightly, but she straightened her shoulders. "Isliye Maa... main haar nahi manungi. Papa gaye hain, par unka sapna nahi gaya."
For a moment, her mother could only stare at her — this was not the same girl she had sent to the academy. This was a woman who had found her purpose in pain.
She stepped forward and pulled Roshni into a tight embrace, her tears soaking her daughter's shoulder.
"Beta... tu bas mehnat kar," she whispered. "Teri Maa tere saath hai. Main teri Maa bhi hoon aur teri Baap bhi. Bas tu IPS ban ja, Roshni. Har uss insaan ke muh pe tamacha hoga jo kehta tha meri beti kuch nahi kar sakti."
Roshni hugged her tighter, tears slipping silently down her face — not of weakness, but of strength reborn.
After talking to her mother, Roshni went straight upstairs to the terrace. The early sun was soft, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink. The air smelled faintly of wet soil and blooming jasmine from the garden next door.
As she stepped up, her eyes landed on Sameer — and she stopped.
He was in the middle of his workout — doing push-ups. His movements were firm, disciplined, rhythmic. Sweat rolled down his neck, tracing the sharp line of his shoulders before dripping onto the floor. His breath came steady and deep — in... out... — the kind that carried both strength and calm.
Roshni just stood there, transfixed.
Her fingers gripped the edge of the railing unconsciously. Why am I staring? she thought, but her eyes refused to move away.
She had never seen him like this — raw, unguarded, just a man lost in his focus. The Sameer she knew was her strict trainer, composed, serious, always behind a crisp uniform or formal shirt. But this Sameer — with sweat gleaming over his skin and muscles tightening with every movement — was something entirely different.
He looks... so calm... yet so powerful, she thought, her heart thudding faster than she wanted to admit.
Every time he exhaled, she could hear it — the low, steady rhythm of his breathing. Somehow, even that sound was affecting her. It wasn't just admiration — it was something unfamiliar, something that made her chest feel tight and her skin warm.
Her gaze followed the bead of sweat that slid down his jawline to his collarbone — and she quickly blinked, realizing where she was staring.
Roshni! Control yourself! she scolded silently, pressing her lips together.
But no matter how much she tried to look away, her eyes wandered back again. His focus, his discipline, the quiet strength in his every movement — it drew her in like a magnet.
Her face turned crimson. Her heartbeat had lost its rhythm.
And just then—
"Roshni! Roshniii!"
Lakshmi's loud voice echoed from the next terrace, snapping her out of her trance.
She blinked rapidly, stepping back as if caught doing something forbidden. "Kya hai, Lakshmi!" she yelled, irritation clear in her tone.
Hearing her voice, Sameer stopped mid push-up and looked toward her. He grabbed his towel, wiped the sweat off his face and neck, and reached for his T-shirt.
But before he could wear it, Lakshmi — who had been calling Roshni — suddenly went silent. Her wide eyes said everything. She was clearly staring too.
Roshni followed her gaze — and instantly understood.
Her jaw tightened. She folded her arms, glaring at her friend.
"Lakshmi! Kuch kaam hai toh bol, warna aankhon ka test karwa le! Kya dekh rahi hai itni der se?"
Lakshmi blinked, embarrassed.
Meanwhile, Sameer was just standing there, towel in one hand, still wiping his neck, unaware of the chaos.
Roshni turned toward him, eyebrows raised.
"Aur aap, Sir! Yeh kya ang pradarshan chal raha hai? T-shirt pehniye zara!"
Sameer froze mid-step, looking like someone who had been wrongly accused.
"Sir, aapke kaan band ho gaye kya? Sunai nahi diya? T-shirt pehniye!"
He nodded innocently, quickly slipping on his T-shirt.
"Good," Roshni muttered, still fuming — though even she didn't know whether it was from embarrassment or something else entirely.
Then she turned to Lakshmi. "Ab bol, kya keh rahi thi tu?"
Lakshmi giggled, still a bit dazed. "Arey kuch nahi! Bas yeh batane aayi thi kii jan sa phal ek bar milana aa jana pta chal hai 2 din mai jaa rai hai tuu!"
roshni sai thikk hai mai aa jau gii ...with that lakshmi went down
Roshni sighed, rubbing her forehead. She glanced once more at Sameer — now tying his shoelaces, completely calm, as if nothing happened.
Sameer had just finished tying his shoes, ready to go for a run when he noticed Roshni walking toward him. Her steps were steady — neither too fast nor hesitant. There was something different in her eyes — no tears, no blankness, only a quiet fire.
"Sir..." her voice broke the silence.
Sameer turned, his brows relaxing slightly. "Yes, Roshni?"
She took a deep breath. Her face still looked tired, eyes swollen from the night before, but her spine was straight, and her tone was firm.
"Sir... I don't want to sit and cry on my father's death," she said softly, her voice steady but filled with emotion. "Because my papa will also not like it. I don't want to disappoint him... or the belief he had in me."
Sameer's gaze softened. He didn't interrupt. He just watched her, sensing that this moment was coming from deep within her heart.
She looked up at the sky for a second, as if searching for her father's face among the clouds. Her lips trembled slightly as she continued,
"Papa bola tha — agar tum lagay raho, sab rasta band ho jaye, toh Bhagwan ek rasta zarur kholta hai... aur agar saara diya bujh jaye, aur andhera chha jaye, tab bhi Roshni ki ek kiran tumhe uss musibat se nikal degi."
Her voice cracked at her own name, but she didn't stop. Her eyes glistened, but no tears fell.
"Unhone kaha tha, meri beti hi Roshni hai... use kisi aur roshni ki kya zarurat? Wo khud chamkega, apna rasta khud banayegi."
Sameer could feel his throat tightening. Every word carried the weight of a daughter who had loved, lost, and yet chosen to rise.
Roshni took a small step closer, her eyes meeting his — honest, vulnerable, and yet blazing with strength.
"Sir... iss waqt mera rasta Bhagwan ne khol diya hai. Aur wo rasta... aapse hokar jaata hai."
Before Sameer could respond, Roshni slowly bent down on one knee.
The gesture was pure respect — not worship, not surrender — but a silent acknowledgment of the man who had stood beside her when her world fell apart.
Her voice trembled, but her words were filled with conviction.
"Abhi aap mera teacher hai... jo mujhe success ki woh stair dikhate hai. Zindagi ke andheron se bahar laane wale. Sir, iss waqt... aap hi meri woh kiran ban kar khade ho."
Sameer stood frozen. The morning wind brushed through his hair, carrying her words straight into his heart.
"Sir, main ready hoon," she said finally, standing up straight again. Her hands were clenched by her sides, but her expression was calm. "Main aapki har tough training ke liye tayyar hoon. Main discipline ke liye ready hoon. Bas ek baat hai, sir..."
She looked straight into his eyes. "Papa ke jaane ke baad... main aap pa trust kar rahi hoon. Please... mera haath mat chhodiye ga ."
Sameer's lips parted, but no words came out. For a man who had trained hundreds of cadets, this was the first time silence felt like the most appropriate response.
He had seen tears, fear, ego, and ambition in trainees — but this... this strength born from pain, this quiet surrender to purpose, was something else.
The girl he had once seen struggling with emotions, the one who used to break under pressure — she wasn't standing in front of him anymore. This was Cadet Roshni Mishra, the girl whose name meant light — and who was finally beginning to live up to it.
Sameer inhaled deeply, suppressing the heavy lump in his chest. His voice, when it came, was calm and low — the voice of a mentor who had just been reminded why he loved his duty.
"Candidate Roshni," he said, straightening his stance, "
For a brief second, she blinked — then nodded, a faint, determinewould you like to join me , iam going for joging
d smile curving on her lips.
"Yes, Sir."
And as she jogged toward the stairs, her silhouette against the sunlight seemed brighter than the morning itself.
Sameer stood still for a moment longer, watching her go. A rare warmth spread across his heart.
For the first time, he didn't see her as just another trainee —
He saw her as a fighter.
A spark.
A light.
And somewhere deep down, he knew — that this Roshni... was destined to shine far beyond his imagination.
The clock struck 5:00 a.m. and the Himalayan Civil Academy buzzed to life.
The air was sharp and cold — that kind of mountain chill that bit through uniforms and demanded discipline even before the first whistle blew.
On the wide ground, under the faint light of dawn, rows of cadets stood in attention — backs straight, hands firm at their sides. Their breath formed tiny clouds in the air as they waited for one voice — Arpita Ma'am.
She walked in, her steps crisp, posture perfect, the sound of her boots echoing across the field. The moment she entered, every candidate straightened even more, voices rising together:
"Good morning, Ma'am!"
Arpita's gaze swept over them — sharp, assessing, but not unkind.
"Good morning, cadets," she replied, her voice steady and strong. "Let's begin. Warm-up first. Two rounds of the ground. Move!"
The whistle blew, and the line broke into motion.
Feet pounded against the gravel track, breaths synchronized in rhythm.
At the far end, Vihaan, of course, had already started his usual antics — jogging with exaggerated expressions, muttering loud enough for the cadets beside him to hear.
"Arre yaar, ye thand mai bhagwan bhi soya hua hoga, par hum log duty pe!"
The cadets around him tried not to laugh, but failed. Ishita, running just behind him, glared.
"Vihaan! Focus! It's not a comedy show."
He grinned without missing a beat. "Bas mood light kar raha hoon, Madam IPS!"
From across the field, Arpita's sharp voice cut through the air —
"Candidate Vihaan!"
He froze mid-step.
"Ma'am?" he asked, suddenly serious.
She walked closer, her hands behind her back. "Since you have so much energy to joke, maybe you can burn it better. Twenty pushups, right now. In front of everyone."
A collective "Ooooh!" rippled through the trainees.
Vihaan sighed dramatically, dropping to the ground.
"Yes, Ma'am," he said, beginning his pushups. "One... two... three... ma'am, I think I saw snow melting from my sweat already!"
A few cadets snickered again until Arpita's glare silenced them. "And ten more for commentary."
"Yes, Ma'am," he groaned, continuing while the others tried to hide their smiles.
After warm-up, Arpita clapped her hands once. "Form lines. Today's schedule — endurance, combat basics, and target drill for accuracy. I want speed, precision, and focus. The ones lagging behind will repeat the session tomorrow — double intensity."
The trainees straightened instantly. No one wanted to repeat Arpita Ma'am's version of "double intensity."
The first session began — obstacle course endurance.
Cadets sprinted, jumped over hurdles, crawled under nets, climbed the rope tower, and balanced across narrow beams.
Mud splattered, breaths turned heavier, and the faint sunrise painted golden lines across their faces.
Ishita, as always, was ahead — her focus unbroken. She climbed the rope faster than anyone, her grip steady, her movement fluid. When she landed on the ground, she didn't even pause to catch her breath before sprinting to the next obstacle.
Arpita watched her quietly, nodding in approval.
"That's the level of control and commitment I want," she said aloud. "Candidate Ishita — excellent form."
Ishita gave a small, proud smile and continued running.
Meanwhile, Vihaan, still recovering from his punishment, arrived panting at the beam section.
"Oh bhagwan," he muttered, "agar main gir gaya toh mountain mujhe apna part-time tourist samjhega."
He tried balancing on the wooden plank — arms wide, face comically serious — until Arpita's whistle nearly made him fall.
"Candidate Vihaan!" she barked again.
"Ma'am?"
"Keep your focus straight. You're not on a dance floor!"
"Ma'am, trying to dance with balance only!" he joked, but one sharp look from her made him freeze again.
By the time the obstacle course ended, everyone was sweating despite the cold.
Next was combat basics — partner drills.
Pairs faced each other, practicing defensive and offensive stances under Arpita's keen supervision. Ishita sparred with another cadet — her movements sharp, precise, controlled. Vihaan, partnered with a tall trainee, kept joking mid-drill.
"Bhai, haath halka rakhna, mujhe kal academy ki canteen mai chai peeni hai."
When his opponent didn't hold back, Vihaan got a light punch to his shoulder and yelped, "Ma'am! Ye toh asli IPS banne ka junoon leke aaya hai!"
The whole batch burst into laughter again — until Arpita raised an eyebrow.
"Candidate Vihaan," she said, walking toward him.
"Yes, Ma'am," he said cautiously.
"Since you enjoy drama so much, maybe you'll find some emotion in ten frog jumps around the field."
Vihaan groaned, "Ma'am... frog bhi mujhe judge karega ab."
But he started — hopping around the field while everyone chuckled silently.
By 7:00 a.m., training wrapped up. The cadets stood in line, drenched in sweat but charged with energy.
Arpita stood before them — calm, authoritative, and proud.
"Good work, all of you," she said. "Discipline isn't about orders — it's about choices. And today, I saw determination. Keep that alive."
Her eyes landed on Ishita. "Candidate Ishita — top performer today. Keep it up."
"Thank you, Ma'am," Ishita said, a small smile tugging at her lips.
Her gaze then shifted to Vihaan, who stood half-tired, half-proud. "And you, Candidate Vihaan...?"
"Yes, Ma'am?" he asked hopefully.
"You performed... adequately. But next time, less commentary, more consistency."
"Yes, Ma'am," he said with mock seriousness, saluting dramatically, making the cadets giggle again.
Arpita couldn't help the small smile that crossed her lips before she turned away.
As she dismissed the batch, she thought to herself — The academy may be cold, but these cadets... they're pure fire.
And even though Roshni wasn't there that morning, her friends — Ishita's strength and Vihaan's spirit — kept her presence alive in every breath of the academy's discipline.
It was late evening in Rampur. The house still carried the heaviness of mourning — faint sounds of relatives whispering, the dull flicker of the lamp near Rajesh's photo, and the weight of silence that wrapped every corner. Outside, men sat on charpoys in the courtyard, discussing life, fate, and debt — the kind of talk that always followed tragedy.
Inside the angan, Mahesh — Roshni's bara papa — sat beside the sarpanch, both sipping tea. Mahesh looked tired, his eyes sunken, his kurta slightly crumpled. The sarpanch, an older man with a sharp mind and an even sharper tone, leaned closer.
"Mahesh ji, main samajhta hoon mushkil ghadi hai... par dekhiye, insaan ke paas jab zimmedariyan hoti hain, to kuch faisle dimaag se lene padte hain, dil se nahi."
(He paused, taking another sip before continuing.)
"Main aapki madad kar sakta hoon — paise ki bhi aur izzat ki bhi. Aap chahein to main aapko muu maangi keemat dila sakta hoon... aur wo zameen jo girvi rakh rakhi hai, main khud usse chhuda dunga."
Mahesh lifted his eyes slowly, unsure where this was going.
"Lekin iske badle... aap chahte kya hain, Sarpanch ji?"
The sarpanch smiled faintly, his tone softening.
"Bas ek chhoti si baat hai... tumhare bhai Rajesh ki beti, Roshni. Mera beta Veer usse pasand karta hai."
Mahesh frowned slightly, unsure if he had heard it right. The sarpanch leaned forward again.
"Yeh baat nayi nahi hai. Jab Roshni pandrah saal ki thi aur Veer teiis ka, tabhi se usse pasand karta tha. Lekin Rajesh ko yeh baat pata chal gayi thi aur wo aapni ladki ko le kar sheher chala gaya. Tab se Roshni kabhi hmara najar mai nahi ayi ... ab dekho, kismet ka khel, Rajesh chala gaya."
He paused meaningfully and continued in a lower tone:
"Ab main chahta hoon yeh rishta ho jaye. Tumhaare liye bhi fayda hi fayda hai — zameen, paisa, izzat... sab mil jaayega. Tum bas haan kar do."
Mahesh sat still, his hands trembling slightly as he held his glass of tea. He was not an evil man — just a helpless one. The burden of debt, the fear of villagers' judgment, and the temptation of a secure life all pressed against his conscience. His eyes darted away from the sarpanch, guilt flickering across his face.
He hesitated for a moment and then exhaled deeply.
Mahesh (quietly): "Thik hai... aap bas shaadi ki taiyari kar lijiye. Baaki main dekh loonga."
The sarpanch smiled, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes.
Sarpanch: "Bahut accha faisla liya hai, Mahesh ji. Aap dekhna, sab kuch theek ho jaayega."
Mahesh stood up, avoiding eye contact. His conscience was burning, but the weight of need was heavier. He folded his angochha over his shoulder and left the courtyard without another word, his steps slow and heavy — each one echoing the price of his decision.
As he disappeared into the dimly lit lane, the sarpanch leaned back in his chair, murmuring to himself with a smug smile,
"Ab dekhta hoon kaun rokh sakta hai is rishte ko."
The sun was setting behind the tall sugarcane fields, painting the sky in orange and gold. The air in Rampur was calm — the kind of calm that hides a thousand untold worries. The mourning crowd had slowly dispersed; only a few people still sat outside Roshni's house, whispering in low voices.
Roshni stepped out of her room after lighting the evening diya near her father's photo. Her eyes still carried a dull pain, but her face showed quiet strength. She needed air — to breathe, to think, to steady her heart. She wrapped her dupatta around and walked toward the front gate.
Just as she reached near the aangan, she saw Sameer standing near the banyan tree, phone pressed to his ear, his posture straight and calm as always. His deep voice carried faintly in the breeze. When he ended the call, Roshni took a step closer.
"Sir... kis se baat kar rahe the?"
Sameer turned slightly and gave a soft nod.
"Academy se call aaya tha. Training resumes day after tomorrow. They were asking about you too — whether you'll be reporting back."
For a moment, Roshni just stared at him — the thought of returning to the academy, to her routine, to discipline — felt like a new beginning. Her father's words echoed in her heart: 'Roshni apni roshni khud banegi.'
She took a deep breath.
Roshni (firmly): "Sir, main chalungi. I can't sit here and cry anymore. Papa would want me to move ahead."
A small, proud smile appeared on Sameer's face.
Sameer: "Good. We'll leave early morning then. I'll make the bookings."
Roshni nodded, her eyes filled with quiet determination.
That night, she went to her mother's room and told her everything — about the academy's call, her decision to go, and Sameer's plan to leave in the morning. Her mother's eyes softened.
Roshni's Mother: "Tu jaa, beta. Yehi sahi hai. Tere papa bhi yahi chahte."
Just then, from the courtyard, Mahesh's voice interrupted. His tone was firm and authoritative.
Mahesh (sternly): "Nahi Roshni. Tum kahin nahi jaogi abhi. Do–teen din aur ruk jao. Rishtedaar aayenge, kuch kaam hai ghar ke. Tumhare sir chahen to chale jaayein, main tumhe khud chhuda doonga baad mein."
Roshni froze for a moment. The decision she had made with so much courage suddenly felt heavy again. She looked toward her mother for help, but even she looked helpless in front of Mahesh's command.
Sameer, who was standing near the gate, heard Mahesh's words. His jaw tightened slightly, but he didn't speak — not wanting to create a scene in a grieving house. He turned to Roshni quietly.
"It's okay. I'll go first. You come when it's possible."
Roshni's throat felt dry, but she nodded. Her voice came out faint —
"Ji, sir..." par abhi app kah jaa rha hai train kal hai naa
Sameer gave a short nod and said dont worry i will stay in hotel , then turned away, picking up his small bag and walking toward the village road where his cab waited. The fading evening light fell on his back as he left — calm, composed, but with a strange ache inside.
Roshni stood at the doorstep, watching his figure disappear down the dusty path. Her heart whispered softly —
"Papa ne kaha tha... jab sab raaste band ho jaayein, ek raasta khul jaata hai. Kya mera raasta phir band ho gaya, ya yeh bhi ek naya mod hai?"
The night deepened, bringing silence — but somewhere between the weight of duty and dreams, Roshni's resolve began to glow again, quietly but surely.
The golden sunlight had just started spreading across the quiet village. The morning breeze carried the smell of wet soil and paranthe being cooked in nearby houses.
In the open ground behind her home, Roshni was doing her warm-ups — push-ups, squats, and stretches — her face glowing with sweat and focus. She had tied her hair in a tight ponytail, and every movement reflected her renewed determination.
She was in the middle of a sprint when a shadow fell across the path.
A slow, mocking clap echoed behind her.
Roshni turned sharply.
Standing a few feet away, wearing a half-buttoned shirt and a smirk on his face, was Veer — the son of the village sarpanch.
Veer (grinning): "Wah Roshni, subah-subah itni mehnat?
Lagta hai meri hone wali biwi apne pati ke fayde ke liye itni exercise kar rahi hai."
He stepped closer, lowering his voice, his tone turning filthy.
Veer: "Aakhir mujhe bhi to yahi exercise apne kamre mein, apne bed pe karni padegi... tere saath."
For a second, everything inside Roshni froze — then boiled. Her eyes blazed. Without thinking, she snatched up a bamboo stick lying nearby, her fingers trembling with rage.
Roshni (furious): "Apni zubaan sambhal, Veer! Warna isi stick se tod dungi teri haddiyan!"
Veer only laughed and caught the stick mid-air as she swung it. He yanked it away and gripped her wrist tightly, his eyes dark with arrogance.
Veer (leaning closer): "Bohot gussa hai naa tujhe mai ?
Main to soch raha hoon abhi ke abhi le jaun tujhe, lekin bas... tera baap ki tervi khatam hone de.
Shaadi ke baad to tu khud mere saath chalegi."mera bistar paa ,mera neecha
Roshni's entire body stiffened. Her jaw clenched, her eyes shone with tears — not of fear, but fury.
Roshni (through gritted teeth): "Tu chhoo bhi nahi sakta mujhe, Veer!
Do baatein yaad rakh —
Pehli, main tujhe kabhi haan nahi kahungi.
Aur doosri... tu aakhiri insan zinda bacha gaa tabhi ,main marna pasand karungi lekin tera saa sadi nahi karu gii !"
With a sudden surge of strength, she twisted her wrist free and shoved him back with full force. Veer stumbled, his smirk vanishing.
Before he could regain balance, Roshni grabbed the bamboo stick again and began to hit him — hard, mercilessly.
Each strike landed with the sound of her rage —
THWACK! "Shaadi karega mujhse, haan?"
THWACK! "Apna chehra dekha hai kabhi, gunde!"
THWACK! "Mawali kahi ka!"
Veer staggered, trying to shield himself, but Roshni's anger was uncontrollable. Her eyes were burning, her breaths ragged.
Finally, she threw the stick aside, glaring at him one last time — her voice shaking but strong.
Agle baar paas aaya na, to zinda gaad dungi tujhe yahi!"
She turned on her heel and walked away, her steps steady, her heartbeat wild. The villagers nearby peeked out from their courtyards — whispering, stunned to see the fire in her eyes.
That morning, Roshni Rajesh's daughter was no longer the girl people could scare.
She was the woman who had learned to fight back — the true reflection of her father's spirit and Sameer's training.
Roshni, her eyes swollen from crying but her heart full of resolve, stormed into her house.
Her mother turned, startled, as Roshni threw her small bag on the bed and began packing clothes furiously.
Roshni (determined, breathless): "Maa, mai yahan nahi rukne wali. Mujhe ab jaana hai. Mujhe academy wapas lautna hai.
Aur haan, mai wahin ek kamra dekh loongi, aap bhi wahi aa jana. Mujhe yahan ab aur nahi rehna!"
Her mother tried to hold her hand — "Par beta—"
"Nahi maa! Ab bas. Mujhe rona nahi, ladna hai."
She slung her bag over her shoulder and stepped out... only to freeze.
Outside, in the lane, the Sarpanch stood waiting — with Veer, his face bandaged, a smear of dried blood near his lip. Behind them, four men stood with lathis in hand.
The Sarpanch's eyes were red with rage.
Sarpanch (roaring): "Mahesh! Bahar aa! Dekh tera ghar kaisi beti paida karta hai!"
Inside, Mahesh — her bara papa — came rushing out, nervous, hands trembling.
"Jii... Sarpanch ji, kya hua?"
Sarpanch (pointing to Veer): "Yeh dekh! Tere bhai ki beti ne mere bete ka kya haal kar diya!
Maine to socha tha usse apne ghar ki bahu bana lunga, lekin ab to soch bhi sharminda ho gayi hai!
Yeh rishta main todta hoon, mujhe apne bete ki shaadi isse nahi karni!"
Before anyone could react, Veer stepped forward, his voice venomous —
"Nahi papa! Yeh rishta ab tootega nahi, bane ga.
Aur shaadi bhi aaj hi hogi!"
He turned to his men, barking orders —
"Pakdo isse! Mandir le chalo!"
Roshni's mother came running, shielding her daughter.
(shouting): "Yeh kya zabardasti hai! Meri beti kisi ke saath nahi jayegi!"
One of the men shoved her hard —
Man: "Hatt, budhiya!"
Roshni's eyes widened in horror as her mother stumbled to the ground.
Something snapped inside her.
She caught the man's wrist mid-grab, twisted it sharply till he screamed, and with a powerful kick, sent him falling back into the wall.
Then she grabbed a wooden rod lying by the door — her eyes blazing.
Roshni (furious): "Jo haath meri maa ko chhoo gaya... ab woh haath bachkar nahi jayega!"
She swung the rod hard — thud! thud! — hitting one after another. The men staggered back in shock.
Even Veer stepped back, spitting blood again, shouting —
"Papa! Dekha aapne? Yeh ladki academy jaa ke aadmi ban gayi hai!
Us tranner ne ise hadh pair chalana sikhaya hai!"
The Sarpanch's pride and anger flared.
He shouted to his men —
"Bandook lao!
Aaj poora khandan bandook ke mooh ke aage hoga!
Yeh shaadi toh aaj hi hogi, chahe khoon hi kyu na bah jaye!"
One of the goons ran inside and returned with a gun. They surrounded Roshni's family — her mother, her bara papa Mahesh, and others — forcing them to kneel.
Roshni froze. Her chest rose and fell in panic as she saw the gun pointed at her mother's head.
Roshni (trembling): "Veer! Tu mujhse ladh raha hai toh mujhse ladh! Meri family ko chhod de!
Agar tu mard hai, to unhe haath mat laga!"
Veer's eyes burned with twisted satisfaction.
"Ab kuch nahi ho sakta, Roshni.
Yeh shaadi hogi... yahan, abhi, isi waqt.
Agar zara si chalaki ki na, to teri maa bhi teri baap ke paas pahunch jayegi.
Aur sun... teri badkismati yeh hai ki tere bara papa ne mujhe teri keemat pe bech diya hai."
Roshni's breath caught.
Her gaze slowly turned toward Mahesh — who stood frozen, head hung low.
Roshni (broken whisper): "Bara papa... aapne...?"
Mahesh couldn't meet her eyes. His silence was the answer.
In that moment, Roshni felt as though the earth had slipped beneath her feet.
The betrayal from her own blood hurt deeper than Veer's violence.
Her fists clenched, her tears dried instantly.
Her lips trembled — but her eyes had turned cold, like steel.
Roshni (whispering to herself): "Bas. Ab sabka hisaab hoga."
Ravi's bike hissed down the narrow lane toward the market, the sun already climbing and the village waking around him. He had gone out for a routine errand — nothing more — but when he returned home a little later, the courtyard was eerily empty. Doors that were usually open were shut. A few women whispered on the steps, faces drawn.
Ravi's stomach sank. He hurried through the lane and grabbed the nearest neighbor.
"Arre, bhaiya — kya ho gaya? Ghar mein sab kaha hain?" he asked, breath quickening.
The neighbor's eyes flicked away, reluctant to speak. Finally he muttered, "Sarpanch... uske beta aur kuch gunde le gaye hain Roshni ko. Keh rahe hain shaadi karwaenge aaj hi. Baki sab ko bhii lee gay hai . Bandook kii noke paa ."
Ravi's heart went cold. His mouth went dry. For a moment he could only stare, the world condensing into a single furious point — Roshni.
He ran toward his bike without another thought. No time to think. Call for help. He fumbled the phone number from his pocket and dialed the only person he believed could act fast — Sameer Sir.
The call rang and rang. No answer.
Panic pushed him on. "The train," he thought. "If I can reach the station and stop him—" He kicked his bike into life and sped for the railway.
At the station, the platform clocks ticked slow and cruel. Sameer sat on a bench, bag at his feet, eyes fixed on the distant tracks. The train was delayed by three hours; the night had been long, and his eyelids heavy. He watched a family farewell, the way people tried to fold grief into small gestures — a lesson he wore like armor.
Twenty minutes to departure, the platform a hush of passengers waiting, and suddenly his phone vibrated. He checked the screen: Unknown number, then — Ravi. Relief hit him — someone had found a way to reach him.
He stood up to take the call and moved away from the crowd to speak in private. As he scanned for a quieter spot, a hurried passenger brushed him hard. His phone slipped from his fingers and hit the concrete. The sound seemed louder than the jolt in his chest.
Sameer crouched, fingers fumbling to grab it. The display lay cracked, dark — dead. He tapped it, prayed, but the screen stayed black. No call. No voice.
For a second everything slowed: the whistle of the distant engine, the rustle of a newspaper, the faint wail of a child. He thought of the number on the display and the name that should have spoken — Ravi calling .
The announcement over the PA system boomed: "Train arriving shortly on Platform 2." The train that would take him back to the academy in time for duty, the train that would leave him two hours from now if he stayed.
A cold calculation passed through him: duty to the academy, responsibility to many; or duty to a single desperate human He felt the pull both ways — the uniform's obligations and the promise he'd made, silently, to protect his trainees.
His jaw set. He stood there, phone useless in his hand, hearing the train roll in on the far track. The platform thrummed with the incoming engine. He felt the weight of a choice pressing like a hand on his chest: stay and keep his duty to the institution, or run toward a single life pleading with eyes for help .
Sameer's eyes tracked the train, then the darkened phone, then the road leading out of the station. The whistle screamed closer.
He did not hesitate.
He dropped the broken phone onto the bench and moved — not to the waiting train, but toward the station exit, toward the path that would take him back to Rampur. Whoever needed him, if Roshni was in danger, he would not be found wanting.
As he ran, the train pulled into the platform behind him like a clock striking a moment he had chosen to miss. The engine's steady thrum became the heart of the decision he'd already made.
menwile ravi at station ,
Ravi sat on the cold bench, head in his hands. The last train had just left — his final hope of finding Sameer in time gone. His phone was dead; the local police had not helped. He felt trapped, helpless.
A firm hand landed on his shoulder. Ravi looked up and nearly fell over with relief.
"Sir?" he breathed.
Sameer Pandey stood there, calm and hard-eyed, wearing the shirt and pant . He had the look of a man who did not accept bad news.
"Ravi," Sameer said quietly. "You called me?"
Ravi's words stumbled out. "Sir — they've taken Roshni. Sarpanch, his son Veer, and some men — they've took all family also and forcing Roshni into this marriage. They have guns. My phone—no one's answering. I came to stop you on the train, but the train left." i thought you also left and my hope for saving my sister died
Sameer's jaw tightened. For a moment he was ice-cold silent, then he nodded once as if confirming what he already feared.
"I had a feeling," he said ,when you call me i felt somthing is wrong . "That's why I got off. Come on — tell me everything fast."
Ravi told him quickly: where the temple was, who was there, that the men had guns and had and wher thay kept family . Sameer listened without interrupting.
When Ravi finished, Sameer reached into his kit, pulled out his service pistol, and checked the magazine with calm, practiced hands. He loaded it with deliberate motions — no panic, only purpose.
sameer said, pocketing the weapon. "We don't have time to wait for reinforcements. Tell me the fastest way to your house."
Ravi pointed. Sameer grabbed his bag. "Let's go," he said.
They ran to Ravi's bike. Ravi threw his bag on the carrier; Sameer mounted behind him in a flash. The engine roared, and they sped off through the village lanes — dust kicking up behind them, hearts pounding, every second counting.
Ravi looked back once at the empty platform where the train had stood, then forward at the road home. Hope flared again in his chest. Sameer's voice was low, steady over the engine's noise: "Stay calm. Tell me if anything changes. We go in, we end it quickly."
Ravi nodded, grip tight on the handle. They raced toward Rampur, two determined figures against the sinking sun — one a desperate brother, the other an officer who would not let someone trust on him be down.
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