30-01-2026, 11:05 PM
(This post was last modified: 31-01-2026, 05:42 PM by heygiwriter. Edited 3 times in total. Edited 3 times in total.)
Chapter 20: Arrival of the Angel – Mirnaa
The constables didn’t waste time. They hauled Vikram up—arms over shoulders like a drunk friend—and half-carried, half-dragged him through the back corridors,
They dumped him in the back, doors slammed. The van lurched forward, tires crunching gravel.
Vikram lay on the metal floor, every pothole jolting fresh pain through his ribs. He tasted blood, felt the slow seep of it from his split lip. But his mind was quiet now—clearer than it had been since the hills.
They think they broke me. They didn’t.
He thought of Swathi—safe with Krish, probably. Thought of her father stepping in, not for him, but to keep the mess from exploding.
The van slowed, then stopped. Doors opened. Rough hands pulled him out, dropped him on the edge of a deserted stretch of highway—dust, distant truck lights, the smell of diesel and dry earth.
One constable leaned down, voice low.
The constable gave back his phone in the dirty torn shirt.. The phone just stick to it..
“Walk away. Don’t come back to the station. Ever.”
They got in, drove off. Taillights faded.
Vikram pushed himself to his knees, then to his feet. Ribs burned like fire. He spat blood into the dirt, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
Instead, he started walking—slow, limping—toward the faint glow of a roadside tea stall half a kilometer ahead.
He limped toward the faint orange glow half a kilometer ahead: a roadside tea stall, plastic chairs scattered under a tin roof, a single bulb swinging like a tired pendulum. The owner—a thin man in a faded lungi—looked up as Vikram staggered closer. One glance at the bloodied face, the swollen eye, the way he clutched his side, and the man’s expression closed.
“Tea?” Vikram rasped.
The owner shook his head, eyes sliding away. “No change, anna. Only water.” He pushed a steel tumbler across the counter, lukewarm, tasting faintly of rust.
Vikram drank it in slow gulps, water cutting tracks through the blood in his mouth. He set the tumbler down, nodded once, and kept walking. Further down the road a faded flex banner flapped in the night breeze—white letters on blue: FREE MEDICAL CAMP – 2 KM AHEAD – ORGANISED BY a FOUNDATION. He almost laughed. Hope. The word felt like a bad joke tonight.
But his legs had other ideas.
One step blurred into the next. The world tilted. Asphalt rushed up to meet him. He collapsed face-down in the dirt shoulder, arms splayed, cheek pressed to cool gravel.
Time slipped.
An hour? Two? Trucks thundered past, headlights washing over him like indifferent searchlights. People on two-wheelers slowed for a second, then accelerated away. No one stopped. In this city, a bleeding man on the roadside was just another hazard sign.
His mind drifted, looping through old wounds. Malar’s cold smile as she pinned the blame on him. Malavika’s laughter while the world believed her lies. Affairs he never asked for, accusations he never earned. Imposed. Always imposed.
But this time was different.
This time he had chosen.
Swathi and Krish—whatever messy, desperate love they carried—he had guarded it with silence. With cracked ribs and split lips. For once the beating served something real. Not revenge. Not lust. Just… protection.
A small, broken smile tugged at his bloody mouth.
My beatings finally used for some real love.
The thought warmed him as the edges of the world began to fray. His grip on consciousness loosened. No one was coming.
An angel who had wandered into the wrong story.
Then—an auto-rickshaw’s putt-putt engine, slowing.
Tires crunched to a stop.
Footsteps—quick, light.
A voice, soft and urgent, sliced through the fog.
“Sir… Sir! Enna aachu ungalukku?” (What happened to you, sir?)
He felt hands—small, gentle—turn him over. A face swam into view: wide eyes, innocent round cheeks, a simple cotton salwar streaked with road dust. Hair tied back in a loose braid, no makeup, just worry written everywhere.
She looked like something out of a dream he didn’t deserve—an angel who had wandered into the wrong story.
“Ayo… ivalo ratham…” (So much blood…)
She pressed fingers to his wrist, checking pulse. Her touch was cool against his fevered skin.
“Sir, please hold on. Pulse is there. Nothing to worry. Just injuries. Please hold…”
Another woman climbed out of the auto—older, stern-faced, arms crossed.
“Unakku idhu theva illaadha velai,” she muttered. (This is unnecessary work for you.)
The angel didn’t look up. “No. It’s my job. Our job. We are nurses. We are here to serve humankind.”
The words landed like scripture—simple, earnest, the kind of line only cinema or textbooks dared to speak anymore. Vikram’s eyelids fluttered. He tried to focus on her face. So much concern for a stranger. More than anyone who ever claimed to care about him.
Hands—more now—lifted him. Two, three people. Careful. He was carried, weightless, into the auto.
The angel sat first. They laid his head in her lap. The fabric of her salwar was soft against his cheek; her hand rested lightly on his shoulder, steadying him as the auto lurched forward.
The engine’s rattle became a lullaby. The warmth of her lap seeped into his battered body like medicine. For the first time in days, pain felt distant.
A phone rang—sharp, tinny.
The older woman answered.
“Where are you? Why late?”
“Sister, someone… a man is beaten badly. Wounds everywhere.”
“So what? Why are you late?”
“We are carrying him here.”
“What beaten? We need to file a security officer case before taking him into the camp.”
“Will she hear?”
“Who?”
“Mirnaa.”
Vikram’s blurred eyes cracked open wider.
Mirnaa.
The name floated through the haze like a lifeline. He looked up—into those worried eyes again. The angel’s name was Mirnaa.
His cracked lips moved, barely a whisper.
“Mirnaaa…”
She leaned closer, brow furrowed, thumb brushing a streak of blood from his temple.
“Shh… hold on, sir. We’re almost there. You’re safe now.”
The auto rattled on toward the medical camp lights glowing in the distance.
Vikram let his eyes close again.
Not because he was giving up.
Because—for the first time in a long time—he believed someone might actually mean it when they said he was safe. The eyes that had mercy he never saw in his life before...
An angel in disguise, maybe.
Or maybe just a human who still remembered what mercy looked like. Mirnaa never let go of his hand.
Women, in his world, were always the ones who accused, who used, who left scars that never quite healed. He had built walls so high he no longer expected anyone to scale them.
And yet here she was—the first woman he actually wanted to keep looking at, not for her body, not for what she might promise or take away, but purely for the mercy she carried like it was the most ordinary thing in the world.
His lips moved, again calling in peace..
“Mirnaaa…”
The constables didn’t waste time. They hauled Vikram up—arms over shoulders like a drunk friend—and half-carried, half-dragged him through the back corridors,
They dumped him in the back, doors slammed. The van lurched forward, tires crunching gravel.
Vikram lay on the metal floor, every pothole jolting fresh pain through his ribs. He tasted blood, felt the slow seep of it from his split lip. But his mind was quiet now—clearer than it had been since the hills.
They think they broke me. They didn’t.
He thought of Swathi—safe with Krish, probably. Thought of her father stepping in, not for him, but to keep the mess from exploding.
The van slowed, then stopped. Doors opened. Rough hands pulled him out, dropped him on the edge of a deserted stretch of highway—dust, distant truck lights, the smell of diesel and dry earth.
One constable leaned down, voice low.
The constable gave back his phone in the dirty torn shirt.. The phone just stick to it..
“Walk away. Don’t come back to the station. Ever.”
They got in, drove off. Taillights faded.
Vikram pushed himself to his knees, then to his feet. Ribs burned like fire. He spat blood into the dirt, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
Instead, he started walking—slow, limping—toward the faint glow of a roadside tea stall half a kilometer ahead.
He limped toward the faint orange glow half a kilometer ahead: a roadside tea stall, plastic chairs scattered under a tin roof, a single bulb swinging like a tired pendulum. The owner—a thin man in a faded lungi—looked up as Vikram staggered closer. One glance at the bloodied face, the swollen eye, the way he clutched his side, and the man’s expression closed.
“Tea?” Vikram rasped.
The owner shook his head, eyes sliding away. “No change, anna. Only water.” He pushed a steel tumbler across the counter, lukewarm, tasting faintly of rust.
Vikram drank it in slow gulps, water cutting tracks through the blood in his mouth. He set the tumbler down, nodded once, and kept walking. Further down the road a faded flex banner flapped in the night breeze—white letters on blue: FREE MEDICAL CAMP – 2 KM AHEAD – ORGANISED BY a FOUNDATION. He almost laughed. Hope. The word felt like a bad joke tonight.
But his legs had other ideas.
One step blurred into the next. The world tilted. Asphalt rushed up to meet him. He collapsed face-down in the dirt shoulder, arms splayed, cheek pressed to cool gravel.
Time slipped.
An hour? Two? Trucks thundered past, headlights washing over him like indifferent searchlights. People on two-wheelers slowed for a second, then accelerated away. No one stopped. In this city, a bleeding man on the roadside was just another hazard sign.
His mind drifted, looping through old wounds. Malar’s cold smile as she pinned the blame on him. Malavika’s laughter while the world believed her lies. Affairs he never asked for, accusations he never earned. Imposed. Always imposed.
But this time was different.
This time he had chosen.
Swathi and Krish—whatever messy, desperate love they carried—he had guarded it with silence. With cracked ribs and split lips. For once the beating served something real. Not revenge. Not lust. Just… protection.
A small, broken smile tugged at his bloody mouth.
My beatings finally used for some real love.
The thought warmed him as the edges of the world began to fray. His grip on consciousness loosened. No one was coming.
An angel who had wandered into the wrong story.
Then—an auto-rickshaw’s putt-putt engine, slowing.
Tires crunched to a stop.
Footsteps—quick, light.
A voice, soft and urgent, sliced through the fog.
“Sir… Sir! Enna aachu ungalukku?” (What happened to you, sir?)
He felt hands—small, gentle—turn him over. A face swam into view: wide eyes, innocent round cheeks, a simple cotton salwar streaked with road dust. Hair tied back in a loose braid, no makeup, just worry written everywhere.
She looked like something out of a dream he didn’t deserve—an angel who had wandered into the wrong story.
“Ayo… ivalo ratham…” (So much blood…)
She pressed fingers to his wrist, checking pulse. Her touch was cool against his fevered skin.
“Sir, please hold on. Pulse is there. Nothing to worry. Just injuries. Please hold…”
Another woman climbed out of the auto—older, stern-faced, arms crossed.
“Unakku idhu theva illaadha velai,” she muttered. (This is unnecessary work for you.)
The angel didn’t look up. “No. It’s my job. Our job. We are nurses. We are here to serve humankind.”
The words landed like scripture—simple, earnest, the kind of line only cinema or textbooks dared to speak anymore. Vikram’s eyelids fluttered. He tried to focus on her face. So much concern for a stranger. More than anyone who ever claimed to care about him.
Hands—more now—lifted him. Two, three people. Careful. He was carried, weightless, into the auto.
The angel sat first. They laid his head in her lap. The fabric of her salwar was soft against his cheek; her hand rested lightly on his shoulder, steadying him as the auto lurched forward.
The engine’s rattle became a lullaby. The warmth of her lap seeped into his battered body like medicine. For the first time in days, pain felt distant.
A phone rang—sharp, tinny.
The older woman answered.
“Where are you? Why late?”
“Sister, someone… a man is beaten badly. Wounds everywhere.”
“So what? Why are you late?”
“We are carrying him here.”
“What beaten? We need to file a security officer case before taking him into the camp.”
“Will she hear?”
“Who?”
“Mirnaa.”
Vikram’s blurred eyes cracked open wider.
Mirnaa.
The name floated through the haze like a lifeline. He looked up—into those worried eyes again. The angel’s name was Mirnaa.
His cracked lips moved, barely a whisper.
“Mirnaaa…”
She leaned closer, brow furrowed, thumb brushing a streak of blood from his temple.
“Shh… hold on, sir. We’re almost there. You’re safe now.”
The auto rattled on toward the medical camp lights glowing in the distance.
Vikram let his eyes close again.
Not because he was giving up.
Because—for the first time in a long time—he believed someone might actually mean it when they said he was safe. The eyes that had mercy he never saw in his life before...
An angel in disguise, maybe.
Or maybe just a human who still remembered what mercy looked like. Mirnaa never let go of his hand.
Women, in his world, were always the ones who accused, who used, who left scars that never quite healed. He had built walls so high he no longer expected anyone to scale them.
And yet here she was—the first woman he actually wanted to keep looking at, not for her body, not for what she might promise or take away, but purely for the mercy she carried like it was the most ordinary thing in the world.
His lips moved, again calling in peace..
“Mirnaaa…”
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