Kidnapped 5

The Nokia buzzed. Once. Shanta Devi looked at it. No name. Just numbers. The boys.  

She picked up. Listened. 17 seconds. Said one word: “Done.”  

Cut the call. Looked at Meena. At Kavita. At the bundle in Kavita’s lap—yellow frock, red flowers, 35 years old, asleep, mouth open like a child.  

“Company paid,” Shanta Devi said. “Fifty lakhs. In cash. Boys have it. Our share will reach the drop point by night.”  

Meena exhaled. It wasn’t relief. It was end. “So we let him go?”  

Kavita’s arms tightened around Rounak. Involuntary. He mumbled in his sleep, burrowed closer into her neck.  

Shanta Devi watched her daughter. 25 years old, holding a man she could have broken, like she’d hold a feverish kid. “Yes,” Shanta said. “We let him go. Dawn. Highway. Truck drivers find him. We’re ghosts.”  

No one spoke. The jungle kept its noise. Crickets. Frogs. The sound of a story ending.  

Kavita’s voice was small. “Now?”  

“Now,” Shanta said, “you wake him up.”  

Kavita didn’t move. Her chin rested on Rounak’s head. Her fingers traced the edge of the frock, straightening it. Again. Like she’d done 100 times.  

“Didi,” she said to Meena. Not Ma. Didi. “You do it.”  

Meena frowned. “He’s your doll. You wind him up, you wind him down.”  

“He’s not a doll,” Kavita snapped. Then quieter. “Not anymore.”  

Shanta Devi’s eyes narrowed. She missed nothing. She crouched. 50 years, knees cracking. Put a hand on Rounak’s shoulder. Shook. Not gentle. Not cruel. Done.  

“Rounak.”  

He woke gasping. Like every time. For a second he didn’t know where. Then he smelled tulsi. Felt arms. Saw Kavita’s face above him, blotchy with moonlight and something else.  

“Kya…?” His voice was sleep-paper.  

Shanta Devi stood. Towered. “Your company paid. You’re free. At sunrise, we leave you at the highway. You walk home.”  

The words hit him slower than a slap. Free. Home. Walk.  

He looked down. Yellow frock. Bare legs. Chappals. Her husband’s. He looked at Kavita. Her arms. Still around him.  

“Uth,” Shanta told Kavita. “Get up and get him ready.”  

Kavita didn’t uth. She looked at Rounak. “You heard Ma. You’re free. Khush? Happy ?”  

He should have been. He should have cried, laughed, scrambled off her lap. Instead his hands fisted in her kurta. Tight.  

“I…” His throat closed. “I can’t walk. Feet… hurt.”  

It was true. And it was a lie. And they all knew both.  

Meena snorted. “After all this, now you act helpless? Drama bandh kar. Ma said you’re going.”  

Shanta Devi said nothing. Just watched.  

Kavita’s jaw worked. Then, slow, she stood. Rounak with her. Not cradle. Not shoulder. Hip. Like morning, like yesterday, like every time now. His legs around her waist because they had to be. His arms around her neck because the world would drop him if he didn’t.  

“Chal,” Kavita said, voice rough. “Stream. You clean your face. You can’t go home looking like a ghost.”  

She carried him out. Meena didn’t follow. Shanta Devi didn’t stop them.  

At the stream, Kavita set him on a flat rock. Knees in water. Moon on water. She cupped water, brought it to his lips. He drank. She splashed his face. Rough. Efficient. Like washing a child after a tantrum.  

“Rounak ji,” she said. No ‘babu’. No ‘doll’. Ji.  

He looked up. She was 25. He was 35. She was 5'11". He was 5'3". She was free. He was… also free.  

“Why?” he whispered. “Why are you… you’re not laughing now.”  

Kavita sat on the rock. Water soaked her salwar. She pulled him, sudden, back into her lap. Facing her this time. His knees on either side of her thighs. Frocks don’t work like that. It rode up. He didn’t care. She didn’t care.  

“Because,” she said, hands on his back, holding him upright, holding him here, “if I laugh, you’ll think this was a game. And if I cry, you’ll think I’m weak.”  

“You’re not weak,” he said. Automatic. Truth. “You carried me for miles.”  

“I know,” she said. “That’s why I’m asking.”  

Her eyes were wet. Not crying. Full.  

“Do you want to go?”  

The jungle stopped. No crickets. No frogs. Just his breath. Just her heartbeat against his chest.  

He could lie. Say yes. Make it easy. She’d put him on the highway. Wave. Go back to being 25. He’d go back to being Assistant Manager. Buy new shiny glasses. Pretend.  

He could tell the truth. Say no. Make it hard. For both of them.  

His forehead dropped to her shoulder. 35 years old. 5'3". Broken. In a frock. In the arms of his kidnapper.  

“I don’t know,” he cried. Not wailing. Breaking. “I don’t know who I am if I’m not in your arms. I don’t know if I can walk without you. I don’t know if I want to.”  

Kavita’s arms became iron. Became home. She buried her face in his hair. Smelled fear. Smelled him.  

“Shhh,” she said. Not teasing. Not mocking. Ancient. “Bas. Shhh.”  

Footsteps. Shanta Devi. Meena. They stood at the treeline. Watching.  

Shanta Devi saw her 25-year-old daughter holding a 35-year-old man like he’d break. Saw his hands, clinging. Saw Kavita’s face, choosing.  

Shanta Devi turned to Meena. “Get the saree. The green one. Not the frock.”  

Meena blinked. “Ma?”  

“He’s not going home in a child’s dress,” Shanta said. “If he’s going, he’s going as a man. If he’s staying…” She didn’t finish. Looked at Kavita.  

Kavita looked up. Eyes red. Jaw set. “He’s not staying, Ma. He’s going.”  

Rounak flinched in her arms.  

“But,” Kavita said, voice shaking, “he’s walking out. Not thrown out. I’ll carry him to the road. I’ll put him down myself. On his feet.”  

Shanta Devi studied her daughter. Her doll. Her soldier. Nodded once. “So be it.”  

Dawn came grey. Rounak in a green saree. Badly draped. Still humiliating. Still him. Chappals on his feet. Meena holding his elbow on one side. Kavita on the other. Shanta Devi ahead, leading them through the jungle like she’d led them into it.  

They reached the highway. Trucks thundered. World returned.  

Kavita stopped. Didn’t let go.  

“This is it,” Shanta said. “Go.”  

Rounak looked at the road. At the city beyond. At his life. Then at Kavita. At 5'11" of can’t breathe without her.  

He didn’t walk. He turned. Buried his face in Kavita’s chest. Arms around her waist. Holding her now.  

“I can’t,” he sobbed. “I can’t go. I don’t know how. I’m not… I’m not that man anymore.”  

Kavita’s hands came up. Slow. Covered his head. Held him to her. Looked at her mother. Over his head. Tears finally falling.  

“Ma,” she whispered. “He’s not ransom anymore.”  

Shanta Devi was stone. Then, slowly, she closed her eyes. Opened them.  

“No,” she said. “He’s not.”  

Meena inhaled sharp. “Ma! Police! Company! If he stays—”  

“If he stays,” Shanta Devi said, “he stays as mine. Not prisoner. Not doll.” She looked at Rounak. “You choose, Assistant Manager. Highway is there. Or jungle is here. But if you stay, you work. You eat. You sleep. You live. And you never, ever wear shiny glasses again.”  

The truck horn blew. The world waited.  

Rounak lifted his head from Kavita’s chest. Looked at Shanta Devi. At Meena. At Kavita.  

At the saree. At the chappals. At the women who broke him to see what was inside.  

He didn’t look at the highway.  

He looked at Kavita. “Will you… will you still carry me? Sometimes? When my feet hurt?”  

Kavita broke. Crying, laughing, holding. “Every time, you idiot. Every time.”  

Shanta Devi turned her back on the road. Walked into the jungle.  

“Come,” she said. Not to Rounak. To her daughters. To her family. “We have work.”  

And Rounak?  

Rounak didn’t walk.  

Kavita scooped him up. Cradle carry. Head on her shoulder. Legs dangling. Saree and all.  

And he let her.  

___

Shanta Devi didn’t sleep that night. She sat on the shrine steps, Nokia in her lap, listening to the jungle. To the boys’ voices in her head: “Hissa do, Masi. Pachaas lakh ka hissa. Give us our share, Aunty. Our share of fifty lakhs.” To the police sirens she hadn’t heard yet, but knew were coming. To Kavita’s breathing inside, hitching every time Rounak shifted in her lap.  

Dawn came. No gold. Just grey.  

Shanta stood. “Meena. Kavita. Uthao use. Wake him up.”  

Kavita was already awake. She hadn’t slept. Rounak was curled against her, face in her neck, one hand fisted in her kurta like a child who knows the dream is ending. She didn’t want to move. If she didn’t move, maybe time wouldn’t.  

“Ma,” Kavita whispered. “Ek din aur. Please. One more day.”  

Shanta Devi’s face was stone. But stone cracks. “Ek din aur, aur police kutte ki tarah soonghte hue aa jayegi. Ek din aur, aur woh ladke chaku leke aa jayenge. Hissa maangne. Usko nahi. Tujhe kaat denge, Kavita. One more day, and the police will come sniffing around like dogs. One more day, and those boys will show up with knives. To demand their share. Not from him—they’ll cut *you* down, Kavita”.

Meena was already packing. Rope. Water. The green saree, washed, folded. “Ma sahi bol rahi hai,” Meena said, not looking at her sister. “Yeh sheheri babu hai. Hum junglee. Hum usko kha jayenge, ya duniya humein kha jayegi. Beech ka koi raasta nahin. Ma is right. He is a city slicker; we are wild. If we devour him, the world will devour us. There is no middle ground.”

Rounak woke to the words. Not slowly. Like a drowning man. “Kya…?”  

Kavita didn’t answer. She just held him tighter for one second. One stolen second. Then she stood. With him. Always with him. Cradle carry. Last time. His head on her shoulder. His legs dangling. His face hiding in her hair because he couldn’t bear their eyes.  

Shanta Devi walked ahead. Not looking back. “Highway. 3 kilometer. Main road pe chhodenge. Truck wala le jayega. Police tak khabar pahunch jayegi. Company tak. Biwi tak. We'll leave him on the main road. A truck driver will pick him up. Word will reach the police. The company. His wife.”

The word biwi hit Rounak like Meena’s slap did on day one. He’d forgotten her face.  

They walked. No teasing. No ‘babu’. No ‘doll’. The jungle was quiet, like it knew.  

Half kilometer in, Rounak broke. “Kavita…” His voice was rust. “Niche utaro. Please..put me down”  

She stopped. Meena stopped. Shanta Devi stopped.  

Kavita set him down. Gently. First time ever. His chappals—Shanta’s husband’s—touched mud. He swayed. She didn’t hold him.  

He looked up at her. 5'11" of ‘I won’t let the jungle eat you’. Eyes red. Jaw locked.  

“Why?” he asked. Only that. Why are you sending me? Why did you carry me if you’re letting me go?  

Kavita’s mouth opened. Closed. She looked at her mother.  

Shanta Devi spoke, to the trees, to the sky, to the daughter who’d disobeyed without disobeying. “Kyunki agar hum nahi chhodenge, toh police usey chheen legi, Kavita. Aur tab woh teri godi mein nahi, tu jail mein dekhegi.”  

“Because if we don’t leave him, the police will snatch him, Kavita. And then you’ll not see him in your lap, but you will see yourself in jail.”

Kavita broke. Not crying. Crumbling. She dropped to her knees, right there, in the mud. Grabbed Rounak’s hands. Small. City hands. Soft.  

“Toh le ja!” she screamed at her mother, at the jungle, at God. “Police le jaye! Goli maar de! Par mere se mat chheen! Maine… maine isko ped se giraya aur pakda tha! Mera hai!”  

"Then take him away!" she screamed at her mother, at the jungle, at God. "Let the police take him! Let them shoot me! But don't snatch him from me! I... I was the one who caught him when he fell from the tree! He's mine!”

Rounak fell to his knees with her. Not because she pulled. Because his legs gave. He touched her face. Tears. Hers. His. Mixing.  

“Kavita…” He choked on the word. It didn’t fit anymore. It was too small. Too big. “Mein… I’m not… I’m not worth jail. Not worth your life.”  

“Tu worth hai!” she sobbed, forehead to his. “Tu meri godi mein sota hai! Tu ‘paani’ bolta hai! Tu… tu…You sleep in my lap! You say ‘water’.”  

Meena turned away. Her shoulders shook. She wouldn’t let them see.  

Shanta Devi walked to them. Two children in the mud. One 25. One 35. Both broken.  

She put her hand on Kavita’s head. Then on Rounak’s. Heavy. Final.  

“Utho, get up.”  

They did. Helping each other. Holding each other.  

Shanta Devi took the green saree’s pallu. Ripped it. One sharp pull. The sound was gunfire in the quiet. She tied the strip around Rounak’s wrist. Tight. Not rope. Mark.  

“Police poochhegi kya hua,” Shanta said. “Bolna, teen auraton ne bachaya. Naam mat lena. Gaon mat batana. Bas itna bolna—*unhone* mujhe paani diya.”  

"The police will ask what happened," Shanta said. "Say that three women saved me. Don't mention names. Don't tell the village. Just say this—*they* gave me water.”

Rounak nodded. Couldn’t speak.  

Shanta looked at Kavita. “Utha use. Aakhri baar. Highway tak. Pick him up. For the last time. To the highway.”  

Kavita didn’t cradle. Didn’t shoulder. She lifted him chest-to-chest. His legs around her waist. His arms around her neck. Her face in his neck. Walking. Carrying. Claiming, one last time.  

1 kilometer. He cried quiet. She cried quiet. Meena walked ahead, clearing the path, not looking back.  

Highway. Trucks. Horn. World.  

Kavita stopped 20 feet from the road. Couldn’t go closer. Wouldn’t.  

She set him down. On his feet. Held his shoulders. Looked at him. Memorized him. Yellow frock was gone. Green saree was torn, tied around his waist like a dhoti. But her arms remembered his weight. 63 kilos. Forever.  

“Jao,” she whispered. “Run. Don’t look back. Kabhi mat aana. Bhool jaana.”  

“Go. Run. Don’t look back. Never come. Forget.”

Lies. All lies. Her eyes begged him to stay.  

Rounak touched the strip on his wrist. Touched her hand. Brought it to his lips. Not kiss. Bidaai.  

“I won’t forget,” he said. “You… you carried me when I couldn’t walk. You… you were my... my…” He couldn’t say it. “Everything.”  

A truck honked.  

Shanta Devi’s hand on his back. One push. Not cruel. Freeing.  

“Jao, beta,” she said. Beta. Not babu. Not ransom. Son.  

He stumbled. One step. Two. Onto the asphalt. The world roared back.  

He turned. Once. Last time.  

Kavita was on her knees. Meena holding her, face buried in her sister’s hair. Shanta Devi standing, stone again, but her hand was on Kavita’s shoulder. Holding her daughter together.  

Rounak raised his hand. The one with the green strip.  

Kavita raised hers. Answering.  

Truck brakes. Shouting. “Arre bhai! Kaun hai?!”  

Rounak was pulled into the world. Into noise. Into police. Into questions. Into home.  

Into the jungle, three women turned. Walked. Didn’t look back.  

But Kavita’s arms were empty. And they stayed empty.  

The End.