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CHAPTER 1
AYAAN
‘No smoking.’
The small poster with its bold red letters mocks me from the wall, an ironic reminder of the rules I have no intention of following. Leaning against the door of the washroom, I take a long drag of my cigarette, relishing the bitterness that fills my mouth. With a sardonic smile playing upon my lips, I lift my gaze to the ceiling, my eyes fixed on the fire alarm above. The acrid smell of smoke fills the air as I let another puff of smoke escape my lips. The cigarette dangles between my fingers, its glowing ember a symbol of rebellion, a tangible reminder of the fire that burns within me. So far, I have always remained focused and driven towards my goals. But in the last few days, life hasn’t been fair, and I’ve begun to detach myself from the righteousness that I once promised to stand by forever.
“The Walia’s car is spotted two lanes away from the building,” comes the voice of one of my sources over my Bluetooth earpiece.
“Is she in the car?” I ask, my gaze glued to the unresponsive fire alarm, my patience unwavering.
“Positive.”
Of course, she is! I clench my jaw. The smoke swirls around me, masking the storm that is brewing within my soul.
“Their car is entering the premises now,” my source updates me.
I, Ayaan Shergill, am a catalyst today, a spark waiting to ignite the chaos that lies dormant within this building. Fueled by the deceit that tainted my trust, the flames of vengeance have forged a new version of me. I’m treading the razor’s edge of righteousness, unafraid to embrace the darkness in my pursuit of justice and to conquer back what’s mine.
With each inhale, I get closer to the moment when the alarm will shatter the silence, echoing through the corridors and setting into motion a chain of events that will change everything. But until that moment arrives, I stand here with a cigarette in hand, defying the very rules that govern this space.
“The Walias have got down from the car and are on their way to the building.”
It’s showtime! With a final flick of ash, I take one last drag, savouring the taste of defiance before dropping the still-lit cigarette to the ground, waiting for the smoke to trigger the alarm.
The fire alarm above me remains silent, oblivious to the impending chaos. But I know that its shrill cry will soon pierce the air, and the carefully constructed facade of this media conference in the building will crumble like a pack of cards. Just like the foundation of the Walia family in the coming days.
3 Days Back…
Mumbai
The last seven hours have been the most f*cking fateful hours of my life. Right from learning about Dad meeting with a horrific accident while returning from Mahabalipur to landing in Mumbai from Dalhousie, my mind has been clouded in taking care of the situation. That long pressing beep of my phone call with Dad, disconnecting sharply after the crashing sound of his car, still reverberates through my being, piercing through the very core of my existence.
I step out of the car before the KMC hospital, one of the best in the country, where Dad is hospitalised. My frustration reaches its peak as I make my way towards the entrance of the hospital. Like vultures sensing their prey, the reporters swoop on me with their insensitive and intrusive questions. Ignoring their probing gazes, I try to maintain a semblance of composure, even though anger and sadness consume me from within. The audacity of their accusations stings, twisting the knife in my already wounded heart. Their words, laced with scepticism and innuendo, paint a sordid image of my relationship with Meher Walia, the woman who still holds my heart in her hands.
“Mr. Ayaan, with two shocking incidents hitting you one after the other – the exposure of your affair with Meher Walia and the news of your father’s tragic accident – Can you tell us what you are feeling at this very moment?”
“Do you believe that your affair with Meher Walia can bridge the long-standing feud between the Shergill and the Walia families? Or will this fuel the enmity furthermore?”
“Mr. Ayaan, is it true that your relationship with Meher Walia is purely a means to advance the Mashaal project, or is there a genuine emotional connection between the two of you?”
These accusations and insinuations further fuel my anger. How dare they reduce the depth of my feelings to mere speculation? How dare they question the authenticity of our love? I want nothing more than to lash out at them, to make them understand the pain I’m going through. But I know that giving in to this anger won’t change anything. Pushing through the commotion, I make my way to the entrance of the hospital, my steps heavy with determination and my heart sporting a flicker of hope. Inside those walls, my father is fighting for his life, and I must be strong for him. The echoes of the reporters’ questions fade into the background as I focus on the only thing that matters now—being there for my father, standing by his side in his darkest hour.
My heart pounds in my chest, the weight of fear and anger pressing against my temples. His condition is worse. Bhaskar uncle had called me when I landed at Mumbai airport a while ago and explained the situation. The accident happened on the ghats section of the highway on the outskirts of Mahabalipur. Dad and his driver were on their way to Mumbai following the scandal and the leaking of Meher and my pictures in Dalhousie in the media this morning. When the cops reached the accident location, Dad was unconscious and bleeding profusely with a grave head injury, whereas his driver Ramesh was dead on the spot. Dad was rushed to this hospital, where he was immediately operated on, but due to his severe head injury and blood loss, his condition was still very critical.
“Kailash Shergill, he is my father. Where is he?” I rush to the reception desk. Before the lady can guide me, I hear Bhaskar uncle’s voice.
“Ayaan.”
I turn towards the source of the voice and see Bhaskar uncle, his face pale and etched with worry and fear. Relief flashes across his eyes as he sees me, his trembling hands reaching out to me for a momentary respite. His usually composed demeanour crumbles, and I can sense the gravity of the situation taking a toll on him.
“Ayaan,” he whispers again. His cheerful face is lined with uncertainty and exhaustion.
His eyes, usually filled with warmth and wisdom, now hold a glimmer of vulnerability. I step closer, feeling the severity of the situation enveloping us both. None of us had ever imagined a crisis like this would be looming around us. Just like me, I see the unspoken fear in his eyes, the prayers he has silently uttered and the countless minutes he has spent hoping for a miracle to happen. I reach out, clasp his shoulder and hug him, offering a silent reassurance before asking him about Dad.
“How is Dad?” I ask, my voice weak and wobbly.
“The doctors are still unable to give any assurances,” he replies, wiping his moist eyes. “There are very few chances of his surviv—”
