Amitav Jadhav
Chapter 1: The Secrets of Sinhagad
The road to Sinhagad Fort curved like a sleeping serpent, wrapped in mist and memories. As Riya Joshi’s car climbed the last stretch, her phone signal faded, and with it, the last threads connecting her to the buzzing city below. She rolled down the window. The crisp wind of the Sahyadris filled the car, carrying with it the scent of wet stone, forgotten battles, and something else—something metallic and raw.
It was supposed to be a simple assignment.
A freelance journalist with a reputation for chasing obscure stories, Riya had been tipped off by a local history professor in Pune—Dr. Devdatta Gokhale—about a series of letters that could rewrite what people knew about Tanaji Malusare’s final hours at Sinhagad. The letters, he claimed, hinted at a betrayal. That alone was enough to intrigue her. But what truly pulled her in was the death.
Just last week, a local guide named Pandurang was found dead near the cliff’s edge of Sinhagad Fort. Officially, it was ruled an accidental fall. But villagers whispered that he had seen something—something he shouldn’t have.
Riya parked near the half-abandoned tourist shack, slinging her canvas bag across her shoulder. Her recorder, notebook, and pepper spray were all in place. A forest path stretched ahead, flanked by overgrown bushes and eerie quiet. The usual tourist chatter was missing today.
At the fort’s entrance, the iron-studded wooden gate loomed like a threshold to another time. Moss clung to its hinges, and the watchtower above looked down like a brooding sentinel. She walked through, her boots echoing against the time-worn stones.
“Ms. Joshi?”
The voice startled her. Dr. Gokhale stepped out from behind a weathered arch, his appearance as scholarly as ever—beard neatly trimmed, round spectacles misted from the hike, and a folded file held tight against his chest.
“Welcome to Sinhagad. Sorry for the theatrics,” he smiled apologetically. “Didn’t expect you to be early.”
“I thought it was just us,” Riya said, glancing around. “Place feels… deserted.”
“It should be. Locals won’t come here anymore. Not after Pandurang.”
Riya raised an eyebrow. “You think his death was linked to the letters?”
“I think,” he said slowly, “he knew something. Just like the man who found the first letter… who also died mysteriously in 1998. But that story never made the headlines.”
He handed her the file. Inside were yellowing sheets, partially translated from old Modi script. One in particular caught her eye. Dated February 6, 1670—just days after the famed battle—it bore no signature, only a symbol of a broken sword drawn at the bottom.
“He fell not by the blade of the enemy but by the hand of a brother.”
“The hill we call victory is soaked in secrets. The walls bleed, and the winds remember.”
Riya looked up sharply. “This isn’t historical poetry. This is… accusation.”
Dr. Gokhale nodded gravely. “Tanaji’s death has always been heroic. But what if it wasn’t so simple? What if someone wanted it that way?”
Before Riya could respond, a loud crash echoed from within the ruined barracks above. Both turned toward the sound.
“Could be monkeys,” Dr. Gokhale muttered.
But Riya wasn’t convinced. Something in that noise carried too much… intention.
They climbed the steep stone steps toward the sound. The barracks stood partly collapsed, grass growing between stones. But nothing stirred now. Just the soft whistle of the wind weaving through the ramparts.
“You mentioned Pandurang saw something?” Riya asked, breaking the silence.
“Yes,” Gokhale said. “He told his wife he’d found a new entrance. A sealed chamber that didn’t match any archaeological record. The next day, he was dead.”
“Where is this entrance?”
Dr. Gokhale looked uneasy. “He said it was below the northern bastion. Near the cliff. But I haven’t dared check.”
Riya pulled out her flashlight. “Then let’s check.”
They circled the fort’s edge until the path thinned into an overgrown trail, barely visible under wild grass. The cliff dropped steeply on the left, mist curling like ghostly fingers.
“Careful,” Gokhale warned. “The ground is soft here.”
They reached a stone outcrop half-covered by vines. Behind it, the edge of a broken arch peeked through. Riya crouched, brushing aside the foliage. Her flashlight caught the faint outline of a carved symbol: the same broken sword from the letter.
“It’s real,” she whispered.
A gust of wind blew, and with it came the sound—like someone exhaling behind them.
They both turned.
No one.
“I think we’ve seen enough for today,” Gokhale said, his voice trembling slightly. “Let’s head back. I’ll get this transcribed, and we’ll meet again tomorrow.”
Riya agreed, but something about his tone unsettled her. On the way back, he didn’t speak. Not even when she offered to drop him at his office.
She drove back to the city alone, the dusk spreading across the sky like a bruise.
That night, as she uploaded her notes, her phone buzzed with a single notification:
“Pune Times Breaking: Professor Devdatta Gokhale found dead in his study. Apparent heart attack. Authorities suspect natural causes.”
Riya’s breath caught.
There had been no history of illness. No indication of stress. And just hours ago, he was standing beside her, steady and alert.
She opened the file he’d given her again, reading the last line of that ancient letter.
“The walls bleed, and the winds remember.”
She didn’t believe in curses.
But something had followed them from the fort.
And it had already claimed its next victim.
Chapter 2: Letters in the Rain
Riya stared at her laptop screen, the cursor blinking beside the words: Professor Devdatta Gokhale found dead in his study. She refreshed the news site three times, as if the headline would change. But it remained.
Natural causes, they said.
She knew better.
There had been no signs—no wheezing, no fatigue, not even a passing mention of chest pain. He was a man who climbed fort hills and dug through dusty archives for fun. The timing wasn’t coincidence. It was message.
Riya closed her laptop and sat back, the file he gave her still on the desk. One of the loose pages had slipped out—the one with the broken sword symbol. She stared at it, heart pounding.
The dead historian had mentioned that someone else died in 1998 after discovering the first letter. That meant the letter she held was not alone.
There were more.
The next morning, under a steady drizzle, Riya made her way to the Pune University archives. A marble plaque outside read “History and Heritage Department,” though the building itself looked like it had given up on time long ago—faded shutters, mossy railings, and leaky windows.
She found Dr. Meenal Gupte, Gokhale’s old colleague and perhaps his only friend.
“Riya Joshi,” she introduced herself. “I was working with Professor Gokhale before he—”
“Yes,” Meenal cut in softly. “I read the news. It was… sudden.”
Her eyes searched Riya’s face. “He told me about you. Said you had a good nose for dead stories.”
Riya hesitated. “He mentioned a set of old letters. One of them he gave me. But he said there were others. Some dating back to the late ’90s?”
Meenal’s expression darkened. “You’re chasing those again?”
“I need to know. Professor Gokhale died less than twelve hours after showing me the first one.”
“And you think it’s related?”
“I don’t think. I know.”
Meenal exhaled and stood up. She walked toward a tall cabinet at the back of the office. “There’s a box we kept. Gokhale wanted it burned. I didn’t have the heart.”
She pulled out a wooden case labeled T.M. Letters and handed it to Riya. Inside were weathered envelopes, each sealed with wax.
Some had names scribbled on the back. Some were blank. All smelled like rain and rot.
Riya flipped through them carefully. One caught her eye—a pale blue envelope dated March 17, 1998, the day after the previous researcher had died.
She opened it.
The handwriting was almost illegible, ink smudged by time and water.
“We were fools to think secrets stay buried under stone. The symbols are not just marks. They call. They choose. He is watching from the edge.”
The note ended without a name.
Riya looked up at Meenal. “Who wrote this?”
“A researcher named Ravi Sawant. Died in a motorcycle crash the next day. Helmet untouched, head crushed. No one could explain it.”
Riya’s throat tightened.
“And the symbols? What do they mean?”
Meenal hesitated. “Gokhale believed they were part of a secret code used by Maratha spies—like hidden communication embedded in stone carvings. He said they weren’t random, but locations. Keys.”
“Keys to what?”
“That,” she said gravely, “was what scared him.”
It rained harder as Riya left the university. Her auto-rickshaw sputtered past puddles and honking cars, the city blurring into grey. She clutched the file tight, her mind racing. If the symbols were part of a map, then the broken sword might lead somewhere—perhaps the chamber Pandurang had found.
But someone clearly didn’t want it discovered.
She texted a contact at the archaeology department: Need access to northern bastion map. Confidential.
No reply.
Just the icon that said “seen.”
By the time she returned to her apartment in Model Colony, the rain had turned aggressive, slamming against the windows like desperate fingers. She brewed some coffee, sat by the window, and began decoding the letters, laying them out on the floor.
The same broken sword symbol appeared in four of them. In another, she saw a triangle of dots arranged in a curve. Her mind kept returning to what Gokhale had said:
“He fell not by the blade of the enemy but by the hand of a brother.”
Could Tanaji Malusare have been betrayed?
She jotted down the letter dates, locations, and recurring symbols. A pattern began to form—a spiral of incidents, all circling back to Sinhagad.
Her phone buzzed. It was a voice message from an unknown number.
She hesitated, then played it.
A raspy male voice whispered just two words:
“Stop digging.”
She dropped the phone.
That night, Riya couldn’t sleep.
Thunder cracked across the city, and with each flash of lightning, the silhouette of the fort appeared in her mind’s eye—watching, waiting.
At 2:11 a.m., someone knocked.
Not on the door.
On her window.
She froze.
She lived on the third floor.
She tiptoed toward the curtain and peeked out, expecting—hoping—it was just the rain. But on the outer glass pane, drawn in wet streaks, was a symbol.
The broken sword.
Chapter 3: Footsteps in the Fog
Riya didn’t sleep that night. Not after the voice message. Not after the symbol appeared outside her third-floor window.
She waited until dawn, then packed her bag with a flashlight, portable recorder, energy bars, and the file of letters. The rain had stopped, but a cold fog now blanketed the city like a shroud. She didn’t call anyone. She didn’t want anyone else getting involved. Not after what happened to Gokhale.
By 7:30 a.m., she was back at the base of Sinhagad Fort. The path was slick, the trees on either side dripping mist. The few early-morning trekkers heading up gave her polite nods, oblivious to the weight she carried.
She followed the same overgrown trail toward the northern bastion.
This time, she came alone.
The spot where they had found the carved arch was almost hidden again, as if the forest had tried to reclaim it overnight. She pushed aside the vines and brambles, ignoring the scratches on her arm, and reached the stone with the broken sword symbol. She ran her fingers across the carving.
Cold. Damp. But… was that an indent?
She pressed her palm against the center.
With a low groan, the stone shifted slightly inward, then slid to the side with a grinding moan. Earth and leaves trembled at her feet.
Behind it, a narrow staircase descended into the earth—dark, damp, and smelling of mildew.
She paused at the threshold.
Something primal screamed at her to turn back. But curiosity had long since eclipsed fear.
She switched on her flashlight and stepped down.
The steps were older than she expected—uneven, half-eaten by moss, slippery with mold. The air grew colder with every descent. Her flashlight beam danced across crumbling walls, then caught a glimmer of something metallic embedded in stone.
A broken sword.
Real this time.
Just the blade, half-buried in the wall, pointing downward.
She crouched beside it and noticed an engraving beneath: “स्वराज्याची किंमत रक्ताने मोजावी लागते.”
The price of Swarajya must be paid in blood.
She shivered, not from the chill.
At the bottom of the staircase, the passage opened into a small chamber—round, windowless, with a stone pedestal in the center. Dust danced in the beam of her light. But the object on the pedestal made her heart lurch.
A journal.
Leather-bound. Untouched by age.
She reached for it.
A crack sounded behind her.
She spun around, flashlight shaking.
No one.
But someone had just stepped.
She was sure of it.
She held her breath and waited. Nothing. Only the faint drip-drip of water somewhere behind the walls.
She turned back and opened the journal.
The handwriting was identical to the old letter Gokhale had given her—same sharp strokes, same curved signature with the broken sword symbol.
The first page read:
“To those who find this, know that not all traitors wear enemy colors. Some raise the same flag while planting the knife. Sinhagad’s last night was not one of glory but guilt. We buried it in stone. But truth, like blood, seeps through.”
The rest was a blur of names, dates, accusations. Names she didn’t recognize—except one.
Sawant.
The same surname as the researcher who died in 1998.
Riya snapped a photo with her phone. As she did, her light flickered. Once. Twice. Then died.
She hit the power button. Nothing.
Dead.
Even the backup flashlight in her bag wouldn’t turn on.
And then came the footsteps.
Slow. Measured. Approaching from the stairway above.
She held her breath and backed against the pedestal.
The steps stopped.
She saw the silhouette—a tall figure blocking the entrance, unmoving. No face, just the outline of someone watching. Waiting.
“Who’s there?” she called out, her voice hollow in the stone chamber.
No reply.
She reached into her bag for the pepper spray, hands trembling.
The figure turned and disappeared.
She raced up the stairs two at a time, nearly slipping. When she reached the surface, she burst into the light, lungs gasping. The fog had thickened, and the world felt warped—quieter, stretched thin like old paper.
But no one was there.
No footprints. No broken branches. Not even the shift of leaves.
Had she imagined it?
She looked down at her phone. Dead.
The journal, however, was still in her hand.
She hadn’t imagined that.
Back in Pune city, Riya found an old cyber café still open, tucked between two paan stalls. The internet was slow, but stable. She scanned and saved the journal pages, uploading them to a hidden cloud folder.
Then she searched the Sawant name.
A 1998 article popped up:
“Young historian Ravi Sawant dies in mysterious accident near Sinhagad. Was working on unpublished letters linked to Tanaji Malusare.”
The article included a quote from his last known lecture: “History is not written by the victors. It is buried by survivors.”
Another chill ran down her spine.
She looked at the journal again. The last page had one more message:
“The bloodline continues. The sword never rests. One must guard the truth. Or silence it.”
She was starting to understand.
These weren’t random letters. This was a legacy. Passed down. Protected. Or… punished.
And someone out there believed she wasn’t just reading history.
She was part of it.
That night, as she lay in bed, her power cut out.
Her flat went completely dark.
Then her doorbell rang.
Once.
Then again.
And then a voice—clear through the silence.
“Miss Joshi. We should talk… before you end up like the others.”
Chapter 4: Blood and Manuscripts
Riya froze.
The doorbell didn’t ring again, but the voice still echoed in her head:
“We should talk… before you end up like the others.”
She stood silently in the dark of her apartment, one hand clutching her pepper spray, the other tightening around the journal. No more sounds followed—no footsteps, no knocking. Just the oppressive silence of a cut power line.
She inched toward the peephole. Nothing. The corridor outside her door was dimly lit by emergency lights, flickering like an old film reel.
She unlocked the door quietly and opened it a crack.
There was no one there.
But something was.
At her doorstep lay a brown envelope with her name handwritten in a sharp, slanted script.
RIYA JOSHI
She brought it inside, bolted the door, and sat on the floor. Hands shaking, she opened the envelope and pulled out the contents.
A single photograph.
It showed her and Dr. Gokhale—standing beside the carved stone at Sinhagad, taken from a distance through thick brush.
Someone had been watching them that day.
She flipped the photo over. A line was scrawled in red ink:
“You are in deeper than you realize. Stop. Or be buried with them.”
Her heart pounded. This was no longer historical curiosity. This was now a threat. A very real one.
The next day, she didn’t go home.
She stayed at a cheap business hotel in Shivajinagar, where no one knew her name and the curtains remained drawn. Using a burner phone, she contacted the only person who might help without asking too many questions—Inspector Ramesh Athavale, her late father’s friend and a long-retired officer who had once served in Pune’s intelligence division.
They met at an Irani café near Camp, behind faded glass windows and Formica tables.
Athavale looked older than she remembered—grey stubble, tired eyes—but his presence still radiated caution and control.
“I don’t usually get involved,” he said after hearing her out. “But you’re your father’s daughter. And you’ve clearly stepped into something dangerous.”
“You believe me?”
“I believe two people are already dead. And you’re being followed. That’s enough.”
She handed him the journal. “Whoever’s behind this… they want the truth hidden.”
Athavale flipped through the pages, expression hardening. “Some of these names… they belonged to men who served in the Peshwa court. But this one—” he tapped the last page, “—this name is still alive.”
Riya blinked. “What do you mean?”
“Raghu Nath Deshpande. That’s not a Maratha-era name. That’s a modern one. He runs a private heritage trust now. Funds restoration projects around forts. Quiet man. Wealthy. Powerful.”
“Do you think he’s connected?”
“Maybe. Or maybe he’s just the keeper of a truth too dangerous to be public.”
That evening, Athavale arranged a discreet meeting with Deshpande under the pretext of discussing a donation for a Maratha archive.
Riya went along as his research assistant.
They met Deshpande at his bungalow in Koregaon Park—an old colonial-style house guarded by tall iron gates and silent security.
Deshpande greeted them in a spotless white kurta, his demeanor pleasant but distant. His eyes, though—cold. Calculating.
Athavale made small talk about Maratha heritage, preservation funds, and Gokhale’s recent death. Deshpande offered polite condolences, but Riya noticed a twitch in his jaw at Gokhale’s name.
Then Athavale casually mentioned Tanaji’s letters.
Deshpande’s smile faltered. “Those… are old rumors. Romantic nonsense. No historical basis.”
“I’ve seen them,” Riya said.
He turned to her, visibly irritated. “And who are you?”
“Someone who wants to know why people are dying over words written centuries ago.”
He stood up, suddenly sharp. “People die every day. Don’t try to assign meaning to accidents. Some histories should stay buried—for our own peace.”
Athavale stood too, calm but firm. “We’ll be in touch.”
Deshpande gave Riya a long look before nodding. “If you insist on continuing this, I’d advise you to check the Manuscript Room at the Bhandarkar Institute. But tread carefully. Sometimes, the past bites.”
That night, Riya and Athavale returned to the Bhandarkar Oriental Research Institute. With the help of one of Athavale’s old contacts, they accessed the sealed archives.
The Manuscript Room smelled of dust and silence.
In the center was a locked cabinet marked: 17th C. Political Letters – Restricted.
Inside, under glass, was a faded bundle of parchment sealed with a wax imprint. The broken sword again.
Riya opened the topmost letter with gloved hands.
“Tanaji knew. He had learned of the bribe. But before he could speak, he was led to death. Shivaji Maharaj was told it was a brave sacrifice. But Tanaji died with betrayal on his lips.”
Tears welled in Riya’s eyes.
History was wrong. And someone had killed to keep it that way.
But they weren’t alone.
Athavale noticed it first—the faint red light blinking from a bookshelf. A hidden camera.
“Time to go,” he whispered.
They slipped out the back entrance, into the drizzle.
As they walked away, the entire institute’s power went out.
A car down the road roared to life.
And suddenly, Athavale pulled Riya into an alley as a bullet hit the metal lamppost beside them with a crack.
Someone wasn’t just watching anymore.
They were hunting.
Chapter 5: Truth Beneath the Stone
The alley reeked of damp garbage and diesel. Riya pressed her back against the wall, her heart thudding in her ears, breath shallow. Beside her, Athavale remained unnervingly calm, scanning the dark street like he was back in the field.
“Stay low,” he whispered. “And stay quiet.”
Another shot cracked through the night—this time closer. A dry puff of cement sprayed from the wall inches from Riya’s face. Whoever was behind that scope wasn’t trying to scare them.
They wanted silence.
Permanently.
Athavale motioned toward a drainage shaft. It looked barely wide enough for a child, let alone two adults. But there was no choice.
They crawled through it, emerging into the back lot of an abandoned printing press. Riya wiped muck from her face, lungs burning. The entire manuscript room had been under surveillance. Deshpande had sent them there on purpose.
It wasn’t a warning.
It was bait.
Two hours later, they regrouped in Athavale’s cousin’s flat in Kothrud. The place was small, unremarkable—perfect for staying off the grid. Riya sat cross-legged on the floor, drying her soaked notebook with tissues while Athavale stitched a graze on his forearm.
“Now,” he said grimly, “we talk about who really wants this buried.”
Riya opened her bag and laid out everything: the broken sword letters, the leather-bound journal, the photo from her doorstep, the manuscript from the institute.
“We’ve been thinking of this as history,” she said. “But what if it’s not just about the past? What if the secret is still in play?”
Athavale frowned. “You’re saying… this betrayal wasn’t just about Tanaji?”
“I think it started there,” she replied. “But it didn’t end. Someone benefited from keeping the truth hidden. For centuries. Someone powerful. And they’re still protecting it.”
She opened the journal to a name she hadn’t recognized before: Girish N. Malusare.
A note beside it read:
“The bloodline must guard the silence. Shivaji’s legacy must be kept clean.”
Riya flipped to the final page. Something she’d missed earlier was now clear under the lamplight: a family tree. Scribbled in ink, barely visible. And at the very bottom, circled twice, her own surname—Joshi.
She stared in disbelief.
“My grandfather was a Malusare?” she whispered. “But my father—”
“Changed the name?” Athavale finished. “To protect you, maybe. Or to leave it all behind.”
She shook her head. “He never talked about history. He was a bank officer, not some… custodian of ancient secrets.”
Athavale leaned back. “Maybe he wanted it to end with him. But someone else didn’t.”
The next morning, Riya received an anonymous text:
“If you want answers, come alone to Sinhagad. 6 p.m. Bring the journal.”
She showed it to Athavale.
“Trap,” he said.
“I know,” she replied. “But I have to go.”
Athavale hesitated, then nodded. “We’ll go together. But separate. I’ll watch your back.”
By late afternoon, the fog had returned, thicker than before. Sinhagad stood like a ghost against the grey sky, silent and waiting.
Riya climbed alone, the journal wrapped in a plastic sleeve. At the top, she found herself drawn again to the broken arch where it all began.
And there he was.
Raghu Nath Deshpande.
Standing at the edge of the cliff, back turned, hands folded behind him.
“You came,” he said without turning.
“I brought the journal,” she replied.
He finally faced her. There was no smile this time.
“Your grandfather was the last true guardian. He chose silence. You chose chaos.”
She stepped closer, voice steady. “I chose the truth.”
“Truth?” Deshpande laughed bitterly. “Do you think the world is ready to believe their greatest warrior was betrayed by his own men? That the birth of Swarajya was soaked in treachery?”
“They deserve to know. Just as I deserved to know who I am.”
He pointed toward the hills. “Do you know how many men would kill to keep history clean? To keep children singing the ballads of Tanaji’s bravery instead of the stain of internal politics? Our legends inspire. Your truth divides.”
“It’s not your decision to make.”
“No. It’s yours now.”
Suddenly, he pulled something from his pocket—not a gun, but a yellowed document.
“The last letter. Never shown. Never copied. From Tanaji’s brother. It confirms everything. I kept it safe all these years.”
He held it over the cliff edge.
“Give me the journal. Or this falls into the valley forever.”
Riya’s fingers twitched.
From behind the bushes, Athavale whispered into her earpiece: “He’s bluffing. Don’t give him anything.”
But Riya stepped forward. Slowly. Carefully.
“You want the journal?” she asked. “Take it.”
She tossed it. Not to Deshpande, but behind him. Instinctively, he turned.
And Athavale struck.
In seconds, the older man was disarmed and on the ground, wrists tied with rope. Athavale stepped out of the shadows, breathing heavily.
Deshpande only smiled.
“It doesn’t matter now,” he said. “You’ve dug up a skeleton. But you’re still standing in a cemetery.”
Back in Pune, the journal and letters were handed over to an independent historical committee. The press tried to suppress it, but leaked pages started surfacing online.
Academics debated. Politicians deflected. The country buzzed with the possibility that history wasn’t just written—it was curated.
And Riya?
She vanished for a while.
No interviews. No statements.
Just silence.
Weeks later, a museum in Sinhagad was vandalized. The stone with the broken sword symbol was smashed. And a note was left behind.
“Some legends are better left untouched.”
But the damage was done.
And so was the legacy.
Riya had unearthed not just a secret, but a scar.
And scars, once shown, never quite fade.
Chapter 6: The Final Descent
It was nearly midnight when Riya returned to the fort.
No camera crews. No notebook. No earpiece. Just her.
The sky was clear now—no fog, no rain—just a canopy of stars stretched over the sleeping hills. She walked past the shattered gate, its hinges still scarred from centuries of conflict, and followed the path she now knew by heart.
Everything had changed.
The letters were public. The journal was authenticated. National debate had erupted like a wildfire, fueled by scholars, politicians, and citizens who had never cared for footnotes until now. Some called her a hero. Others, a traitor.
She didn’t care.
She came tonight not to chase headlines.
She came to say goodbye.
The fort was alive in the dark. Crickets sang their midnight symphony. The wind played with dry leaves. But Riya walked without fear. Her steps were steady, sure.
She arrived at the northern bastion, where the hidden chamber had been sealed again by the archaeological authorities. It no longer mattered.
The truth was out.
Yet, something inside her still felt incomplete.
She climbed higher, toward the Kalyan Darwaza, and finally stood at the same spot where Deshpande had held the last letter over the valley.
She looked down into the void. The city’s lights twinkled in the distance, oblivious to the centuries of blood beneath them. Somewhere down that slope were the ashes of rebellion and betrayal.
Riya pulled from her bag a single sheet of paper—the last translation she hadn’t published.
It wasn’t a letter.
It was a confession.
Not from Tanaji. Not from his brother. But from a man named Vishwasrao, a commander in Shivaji’s court.
“I did what was asked. I gave the signal. Tanaji trusted us. But the orders came from above. The fort had to fall. Not to the Mughals, but to doubt. That was the price. His sacrifice became a myth. But we knew. And we remembered.”
She folded it again and set it under a loose stone by the ledge. A private memorial. Not for the world. For herself.
Suddenly, a whisper cut through the night.
“You should have left it buried.”
She turned.
From the shadows stepped a man she hadn’t seen in years—Vivek Joshi, her estranged uncle. Her father’s younger brother. Balding, lean, with a scar across his chin she vaguely remembered from childhood.
“You…” Riya stepped back. “You were at my father’s funeral.”
“I was there,” he said. “But I stayed away. Just like I stayed away from this damn bloodline. Until you stirred it again.”
Riya’s mind raced. “You knew?”
“I knew everything. Your father chose peace. I chose distance. And you—” he pointed at her, “you chose fire.”
“You’re part of it,” she whispered.
“Not anymore,” he said. “But some of the old guard still believe in silence. You exposed them. And they think I should’ve stopped you.”
“Then why are you here?”
“To warn you. This isn’t over. You think history bends to a headline? To your podcast listeners? No. These people have centuries of practice hiding in plain sight.”
“I’m not afraid,” she said.
“Then you’re either brave or foolish,” he replied. “I came to offer a choice. Walk away now. Let the debates fade. Don’t write the book.”
She looked him in the eye. “I already did.”
A moment passed.
Then he smiled—sadly, wearily.
“Then may the fort protect you.”
And he was gone.
Vanished into the same shadows he came from.
A month later, Riya sat on the stage of the Pune Literature Festival. Her book, The Secrets of Sinhagad, had become a bestseller overnight. The hall was packed. Every seat filled. The moderator, a journalist from Delhi, leaned into his mic.
“One question, Ms. Joshi. Do you believe the story is over?”
Riya thought of the journal. The letters. The stone chamber. The broken sword.
She thought of Deshpande.
Of Athavale, who now lived under assumed identity in Konkan.
Of her uncle, whose number no longer worked.
And of the loose stone under which that last confession still lay.
“No,” she said softly. “The story is never over.”
Outside the auditorium, a man in a brown cap watched her from behind dark sunglasses. He made no move, spoke to no one. When the crowd clapped, he did not.
He reached into his coat, pulled out a folded paper, and burned it with a match.
It was a page from her book.
He watched the ashes scatter on the wind.
Then turned.
And disappeared.
THE END
