Chapter 5Dawn of a lover
The CBI lawn lay in ruins—scorched earth, shattered glass, and the metallic tang of blood hanging thick in the rain-soaked air. Five protesters and two officers lay motionless under tarps, their outlines barely visible through the downpour. Ambulance lights pulsed like a failing heartbeat, casting eerie reflections on the puddles gathering around their boots.
Antonio stood frozen, rainwater mingling with the tears streaking his cheeks. His breath came in shallow gasps, fingers trembling at his sides. Beside him, Vanya surveyed the carnage with detached indifference, her posture rigid, her eyes dry.
An armored van idled nearby, its engine growling like a caged beast. They climbed inside, the heavy doors slamming shut behind them, sealing them in muted silence. The vehicle lurched forward, carrying them toward temporary sanctuary at the army base.
Antonio wiped his face with his sleeve, then turned to Vanya, his voice low but urgent.
”Vanya... last night, I went back to the bunker.”
She didn’t look at him, her gaze fixed on the rain-streaked window. ”Hmm.”
”It was worse than we thought,” he continued, his words spilling out in a hushed rush. ”They weren’t just records—they were experiments. On children. Orphans. Most of them didn’t survive, but some... some got out.”
Vanya exhaled sharply, finally glancing at him with a flicker of something—annoyance? Disinterest? ”And?”
”And—don’t you see? This connects to everything. The killings, the protests—“
”God, Antonio,” she snapped, rubbing her temples. ”Not now. I have a splitting headache.”
His shoulders slumped. ”I just thought... you’d want to know.”
Silence settled between them, the van’s tires humming against the wet asphalt. After a long moment, Antonio shifted closer, his voice barely above a whisper.
”What about... what I asked you?”
Vanya’s jaw tightened. She didn’t pull away, but her voice was ice. ”I told you. It’s a yes. Just not now.”
Antonio’s breath caught—hope and heartbreak warring in his chest. He searched her face for any sign of warmth, any flicker of truth behind her words.
But Vanya had already turned back to the window, her reflection a ghost in the glass.
The armored van rumbled through the storm-lashed streets, but Antonio had already retreated—into the hollowed-out caverns of his own mind.
What do I lack?
The question pulsed in his skull, a second heartbeat of shame. Outside, rain blurred the world into streaks of gray, but inside him, the images burned sharp and cruel:
Vanya laughing with Commissioner Roy in the break room, her fingers lingering on his sleeve.
Vanya slipping into a taxi with that banker last winter, her breath visible in the cold as she leaned in too close.
Vanya, always Vanya, giving so easily to men who demanded nothing—while he poured out his devotion like an offering at a shrine no one visited.
Is it the face? His fingers twitched toward his jawline—too sharp, too severe. The money? He thought of his cramped apartment, the peeling paint, the second-hand shoes.
A spasm of pain lanced through his chest, so visceral he almost gasped. She’s with someone right now. The certainty of it was a knife twist. Some faceless man running hands over the skin Antonio had only ever dreamed of touching.
Antonio turned to the window, his reflection a ghost over the bleeding city.
”You okay?” Vanya asked, not looking up.
”Just tired,” he lied.
She hummed, already bored. ”Sleep, then.”
But sleep required peace. And peace required forgetting.
Antonio kept his eyes open, staring at the rain until it washed everything away.
The Panjim police station ceiling fan groaned under the weight of the coastal humidity as Nasir burst through the doors, his shirt clinging to his back with sweat. His eyes—red-rimmed and swollen—scanned the room with the frantic energy of a man clinging to the last frayed thread of hope.
”My wife—Selema—she’s gone,” he choked out, slamming his palms on the duty officer’s desk. ”Two days. No note. No calls. Her purse is still in the house.”
The constable behind the typewriter didn’t look up. ”Fight with husband?” he droned, fingers hovering over the keys.
”Never!” Nasir’s voice cracked. ”We were happy. She was... she was everything.” His wedding band caught the fluorescent light as he gripped the counter—still polished to a shine after twelve years.
Across the room, Inspector Rao sighed and reached for the FIR booklet. The pages stuck together with monsoon damp as he wrote ”Housewife missing (suspected elopement)” in lazy blue ink.
”We will check brothels first,” Rao announced, watching Nasir flinch. ”Many good women go there for secret life.”
Nasir’s knees buckled. ”You don’t understand—“
”Sign here.” Rao slid the form forward, already reaching for his stamp. ”We find her. One week.”
Outside, a street vendor fried fish in coconut oil, the scent mixing with the station’s mildew and sweat. Nasir stumbled into the sunlight, clutching the FIR copy like a death certificate.
Somewhere beneath Veraopur, Selema’s head watched from a steel table as Hamir hummed along to the radio.
