25-01-2026, 11:14 PM
(This post was last modified: 25-01-2026, 11:14 PM by untamable_rohini. Edited 1 time in total. Edited 1 time in total.)
The next morning dawned grey and muggy. Vikram woke before Tulika, his body aching from the bruises the lenders had left—dark purple marks blooming across his ribs and a split lip that stung when he spoke. He lay still for a long time, staring at the ceiling fan spinning lazily, replaying the night: the knife at her throat, her saree falling, the envelope disappearing into the leader’s pocket. Five lakhs gone. Three from Rashi, two scbangd from their own hiding spots. And nothing to show for it except shame and silence between them.
Tulika had barely spoken after the men left. She’d dressed again with mechanical movements, made him tea without asking if he wanted it, then gone to bed facing the wall. He hadn’t dared touch her.
By 10 a.m., Vikram was dressed in yesterday’s shirt—blood speck on the collar—and heading back to Laxmi Nagar. He needed answers. Or money. Or both.
Malhotra was in his usual spot under the tin awning, reading a Hindi newspaper, kulhad of chai balanced on his knee. He looked up when Vikram’s shadow fell across the page.
“Kapoor sahib,” Malhotra said mildly, folding the paper. “You look like you had a rough night.”
Vikram didn’t sit. He stood rigid, hands clenched at his sides.
“Five lakhs,” he said, voice low and rough. “Last night. Three men came to my house. Beat me. Threatened my wife with a knife. Took everything we had in cash. Including the three lakhs we were going to use for your… arrangement.”
Malhotra’s eyebrows lifted slightly. He took a slow sip of tea, eyes never leaving Vikram’s face.
“Loan sharks?”
“Obviously.”
Malhotra sighed, setting the kulhad down. “People borrow from the wrong places, things get ugly. Classic story. What do you want from me? Sympathy?”
“I want to know if you can still help,” Vikram said. “We’re short now. Very short. But if you lower the amount—or give us time—I can still arrange something.”
Malhotra leaned back, chair creaking. “You think I’m running a charity? I told you—eighteen and a half. No discounts after the first one. And definitely no after your little midnight drama.”
Vikram’s voice cracked. “They stripped her, Malhotra. Held a knife to her throat. She’s… she’s broken. We did this because we believed you could fix things. Now we have nothing. Nothing.”
For the first time, something flickered in Malhotra’s eyes—pity, or calculation, it was hard to tell.
He gestured to the empty chair. “Sit. You’re drawing attention standing there like a wounded dog.”
Vikram sat. His hands shook on the plastic table.
Malhotra spoke quietly. “Listen carefully. I don’t control who your wife borrows from. That’s on you. But the deal stands. Eighteen and a half. If you can bring even half by tomorrow—nine lakhs—I’ll talk to my people. Maybe push her name enough for prelims. But no more haggling. No more stories. Money talks. The rest is noise.”
Vikram stared at the muddy ground. “Nine lakhs. By tomorrow. After last night… we have maybe two left in the bank. The rest is gone.”
“Then find it,” Malhotra said flatly. “Sell the car. Pawn jewellery. Beg your relatives. People do miracles when they’re desperate. You want a miracle? Make one.”
Vikram’s laugh was bitter. “You make it sound easy.”
“It’s not easy. It’s survival.” Malhotra picked up his newspaper again, unfolding it like the conversation was over. “Tomorrow, same time. Bring what you can. Or don’t come at all. Your choice.”
Vikram didn’t move for a long minute. The tea-w,.' passed by, offering fresh chai. Malhotra waved him away without looking up.
Finally Vikram stood. His voice was barely audible.
“If I get the money… you swear it’ll work?”
Malhotra glanced up, eyes flat. “I swear nothing. But I deliver what I promise. Always have. Now go. And tell your wife to stop looking so scared. It doesn’t help negotiations.”
Vikram walked away without another word, shoulders hunched against the gathering rain. The weight of last night clung to him heavier than any bruise. Nine lakhs by tomorrow. A knife at her throat. A promise that might be a lie.
He didn’t know how he would face Tulika when he got home. But he knew one thing: he couldn’t go back empty-handed again. Not after what they’d already lost.
Tulika had barely spoken after the men left. She’d dressed again with mechanical movements, made him tea without asking if he wanted it, then gone to bed facing the wall. He hadn’t dared touch her.
By 10 a.m., Vikram was dressed in yesterday’s shirt—blood speck on the collar—and heading back to Laxmi Nagar. He needed answers. Or money. Or both.
Malhotra was in his usual spot under the tin awning, reading a Hindi newspaper, kulhad of chai balanced on his knee. He looked up when Vikram’s shadow fell across the page.
“Kapoor sahib,” Malhotra said mildly, folding the paper. “You look like you had a rough night.”
Vikram didn’t sit. He stood rigid, hands clenched at his sides.
“Five lakhs,” he said, voice low and rough. “Last night. Three men came to my house. Beat me. Threatened my wife with a knife. Took everything we had in cash. Including the three lakhs we were going to use for your… arrangement.”
Malhotra’s eyebrows lifted slightly. He took a slow sip of tea, eyes never leaving Vikram’s face.
“Loan sharks?”
“Obviously.”
Malhotra sighed, setting the kulhad down. “People borrow from the wrong places, things get ugly. Classic story. What do you want from me? Sympathy?”
“I want to know if you can still help,” Vikram said. “We’re short now. Very short. But if you lower the amount—or give us time—I can still arrange something.”
Malhotra leaned back, chair creaking. “You think I’m running a charity? I told you—eighteen and a half. No discounts after the first one. And definitely no after your little midnight drama.”
Vikram’s voice cracked. “They stripped her, Malhotra. Held a knife to her throat. She’s… she’s broken. We did this because we believed you could fix things. Now we have nothing. Nothing.”
For the first time, something flickered in Malhotra’s eyes—pity, or calculation, it was hard to tell.
He gestured to the empty chair. “Sit. You’re drawing attention standing there like a wounded dog.”
Vikram sat. His hands shook on the plastic table.
Malhotra spoke quietly. “Listen carefully. I don’t control who your wife borrows from. That’s on you. But the deal stands. Eighteen and a half. If you can bring even half by tomorrow—nine lakhs—I’ll talk to my people. Maybe push her name enough for prelims. But no more haggling. No more stories. Money talks. The rest is noise.”
Vikram stared at the muddy ground. “Nine lakhs. By tomorrow. After last night… we have maybe two left in the bank. The rest is gone.”
“Then find it,” Malhotra said flatly. “Sell the car. Pawn jewellery. Beg your relatives. People do miracles when they’re desperate. You want a miracle? Make one.”
Vikram’s laugh was bitter. “You make it sound easy.”
“It’s not easy. It’s survival.” Malhotra picked up his newspaper again, unfolding it like the conversation was over. “Tomorrow, same time. Bring what you can. Or don’t come at all. Your choice.”
Vikram didn’t move for a long minute. The tea-w,.' passed by, offering fresh chai. Malhotra waved him away without looking up.
Finally Vikram stood. His voice was barely audible.
“If I get the money… you swear it’ll work?”
Malhotra glanced up, eyes flat. “I swear nothing. But I deliver what I promise. Always have. Now go. And tell your wife to stop looking so scared. It doesn’t help negotiations.”
Vikram walked away without another word, shoulders hunched against the gathering rain. The weight of last night clung to him heavier than any bruise. Nine lakhs by tomorrow. A knife at her throat. A promise that might be a lie.
He didn’t know how he would face Tulika when he got home. But he knew one thing: he couldn’t go back empty-handed again. Not after what they’d already lost.
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