Rishabh Malhotra
Episode 1: The Fading Connaught Place
The night was unusually warm for late October, and Delhi’s streets pulsed with their familiar energy—autos rattling through intersections, street vendors shouting over the hiss of frying oil, and neon lights reflecting against colonial pillars. At Connaught Place, the heart of the city, Arjun Malviya adjusted his satchel and checked the time. His phone screen glowed 10:57 p.m. He had promised to meet his younger sister, Kavya, at the outer circle after she finished her theatre rehearsal. She was never late. Tonight, however, the crowd seemed thinner than usual, and Arjun noticed something unsettling in the air—the way voices seemed to echo longer than they should, as though the very air was hollowing out.
He leaned against a pillar beside a closed café, scrolling through his messages, but no new notification arrived. The white façade of the Georgian-style building stretched endlessly in both directions, familiar yet suddenly alien. As he looked up, he realized that the bright billboards he’d always seen above the shops had vanished. The sky itself appeared darker, starless, though he could have sworn that an hour ago the city sky was the usual amber haze of pollution and light.
A man selling balloons shuffled past him, his bundle swaying. Arjun stopped him and asked, “Bhaiya, do you know what time it is?” The man paused, his eyes strangely vacant, before answering in a flat voice, “Time is leaving us.” Without another word, he drifted into the shadow of the arcade, balloons bobbing like ghostly lanterns.
Arjun laughed nervously at the odd reply, convincing himself it was fatigue. Yet when he checked his phone again, the clock still showed 10:57. He refreshed, switched apps, even restarted it, but the time refused to change. The seconds hand on the analog widget was frozen. His pulse quickened.
He decided to walk toward the Regal Cinema junction where he expected more life. But the street ahead looked abandoned. The traffic circle, which usually buzzed with taxis and bikers, was utterly still. The headlights of a row of cars blinked, but no engines roared, no horns blared. He stepped closer, heart thudding. The drivers were inside, motionless, hands gripped on wheels, faces tilted as though staring into something invisible. Their eyes didn’t blink. It was like stumbling into a tableau vivant staged for his horror.
Arjun’s throat dried. He banged on the window of a Maruti, shouting, “Hello? Can you hear me?” The driver didn’t flinch. Not even the faint rise of his chest betrayed life. Yet when Arjun leaned close, the man’s lips were moving slightly, repeating something too faint to catch. Arjun pressed his ear against the glass. The man’s whisper was like a distant radio static: “The streets are folding… the streets are folding…”
Arjun staggered back, nearly dropping his satchel. A sudden gust of wind tore through the circle, though not a single leaf or scrap of paper moved on the ground. Instead, the buildings themselves seemed to ripple, their white columns bending as though seen through water. A vertigo seized him. He gripped the nearest pillar, eyes wide, and realized that Connaught Place itself was dissolving at the edges. The shops, the signs, the taxis—they blurred like a smudged painting.
A hand grabbed his shoulder. Arjun spun, ready to strike, but it was Kavya—her face pale, hair unbound from rehearsal, eyes burning with fear. “You’re here,” she gasped. “I thought I lost you.”
Relief washed through him, but only for a moment. “What’s happening?” he demanded.
“I don’t know,” she whispered, clutching his wrist. “After rehearsal, I stepped outside and the street was gone. Just gone. I walked into a void and then I saw people standing like statues. And then… then I saw you.”
Arjun wanted to reassure her, but his voice betrayed his own terror. “The city is freezing. Look at them.” He pointed toward the cars and drivers. Kavya’s lips trembled.
“We have to get out of here,” she said. “Let’s go to Rajiv Chowk Metro. There will be people there.”
He nodded. They hurried down the arcade, their footsteps echoing unnaturally. At first, Arjun thought the shops were shuttered as usual. Then he realized the shutters weren’t metal at all. They were blank gray surfaces, smooth as concrete, as though the city had been wiped clean. Even the logos—Nike, Haldiram’s, FabIndia—were erased.
The metro station loomed ahead, but when they descended the steps, the turnstiles were gone. The tiled floor stretched endlessly into a dim corridor. The siblings stopped at the edge, afraid to step farther. The air was thick, pressing against their lungs. Kavya whispered, “This isn’t Delhi anymore.”
Arjun forced himself to stay calm. “No. Something’s wrong, but it’s still our city. It has to be. Maybe a blackout, some kind of mass hallucination—”
But before he could finish, a voice echoed from the corridor. It was metallic, layered, as though a hundred mouths spoke in unison:
“Delhi is being rewritten. You are inside the first fold.”
The words struck them like thunder. Kavya clutched his arm so tightly he winced. “Who said that?” she cried.
The corridor darkened, its walls shuddering like fabric in wind. Figures began to emerge from the dimness—not people, but silhouettes, tall and bending, their edges dissolving like smoke. They had no faces, only hollows where eyes should be, and from those hollows poured the same metallic voice.
“The streets will vanish one by one. You cannot leave. You cannot tell. You are witnesses.”
Arjun’s heart hammered. He pulled Kavya back, but the staircase behind them had vanished. Only a flat wall remained. Panic rose in his chest like bile.
“We have to run,” he hissed.
“Where?” Kavya’s voice cracked.
“Anywhere but here!” He dragged her along the endless corridor. Their shadows stretched unnaturally, racing ahead of them, until suddenly the corridor opened into a vast, empty hall.
The hall was nothing like the metro. Its ceiling soared like a cathedral, but instead of stone, it was woven from glowing threads of red and blue light. The floor was black glass, reflecting their terrified faces. At the center stood a structure that looked like a clock, its hands spinning violently though no numbers marked its face.
Arjun felt his body tremble, as though the clock’s rhythm was shaking his bones. Kavya whispered, “It’s controlling time. That’s why the city stopped.”
The silhouettes gathered around the clock, their voices chanting in unison, “The fold has begun. The city will be consumed. The witnesses will choose.”
Arjun shouted, his voice breaking in the vastness: “Choose what?”
The clock’s spinning slowed, then froze. A silence thicker than stone fell across the hall. Then a single voice—calmer, almost human—answered from the shadows:
“Choose whether Delhi will remain… or disappear forever.”
Episode 2: The First Fold
Arjun could barely breathe. The glowing hall around them pulsed with an unnatural rhythm, as if the walls themselves were alive, listening, waiting for their response. He clutched Kavya’s hand tighter than he ever had in childhood, feeling her nails dig into his palm. The silence after the voice’s last words was unbearable.
Choose whether Delhi will remain… or disappear forever.
“What do you mean ‘choose’?” Arjun shouted into the shimmering vastness. His voice ricocheted back like brittle glass breaking. “Who are you? What are you doing to the city?”
The silhouettes swaying around the enormous clock moved closer, dissolving and reforming with each step, as though they were carved from smoke and light together. Their chorus answered: “We are the Keepers of the Fold. The city has reached its edge. Its time is exhausted. Every city must face the Fold. Some remain. Some vanish.”
Kavya’s voice trembled. “We don’t understand. What choice are you asking of us?”
“You are witnesses. You are alive while the fold begins. The choice rests on you: to anchor the city in memory, or to surrender it to absence.”
Arjun’s rational mind rebelled. He had studied physics at university, worked in a consultancy where logic and data ruled. This talk of ‘keepers’ and ‘folds’ sounded like myth, like theatre. And yet he could not deny the reality of the frozen streets above, the blank-eyed drivers, the vanished staircases. Logic had no ground here.
He forced calm into his voice. “If you want us to anchor the city, tell us how. What do we need to do?”
The silhouettes parted, and for the first time a single figure emerged—a woman’s form, clothed in strands of light. Unlike the faceless shadows, her features were half-visible, shifting like reflections on water. She spoke not in chorus but in a clear, resonant voice.
“To anchor a city is to remember it in its truth. Not its illusions, not its commerce, not its decay. Its soul. The fold comes when a city forgets itself. Delhi has forgotten. Its history is fractured, its people disconnected. You must carry the memory. You must speak it. Otherwise, it will be erased.”
Kavya’s eyes widened. “We can’t speak for an entire city! We’re just two people!”
“Two people who still search, still question,” the woman said. “That is enough. But know this: every truth you speak will cost you. The fold will test your words. If your memories are false, if your love for this place is shallow, the city will vanish all the faster.”
Arjun’s throat tightened. The weight of the task pressed like iron on his chest. He thought of their parents in Karol Bagh, of the crowded lanes where he had grown up, of the smell of hot parathas at dawn and the sound of azaan blending with temple bells. Were those the ‘truths’ the keepers demanded? Could such fragments hold an entire city together?
The clock at the hall’s center shuddered. Its hands jerked forward, freezing again at a different angle. The woman of light raised her arm. “The first fold begins now. The outer circle has already thinned. By dawn, the first quarter of the city will be gone. Save it—or surrender it.”
The hall dimmed, and before Arjun could reply, the black-glass floor fractured like ice. He and Kavya plunged through darkness, their screams swallowed by silence.
They landed hard on pavement. Arjun gasped in relief when he recognized the smell of dust, petrol, and roasted peanuts. They were back on a street—but it was not Connaught Place. They were standing at the edge of Chandni Chowk. The market, usually a carnival of sound, was eerily quiet. Stalls stood open, heaps of fabric and jewelry glittering faintly, but the merchants were gone. Rickshaws lay abandoned, their bells silent.
“God,” Kavya whispered, clinging to his arm. “It’s happening here too.”
Arjun looked up. The Jama Masjid’s minarets loomed against a pale sky, but their outlines flickered, as if painted on smoke. Already, parts of the bazaar seemed transparent, showing glimpses of void beyond. He felt sick.
“Maybe this is what they meant,” he muttered. “We have to remember. We have to speak Delhi’s truth.”
Kavya’s face crumpled. “How? What do we even say?”
Before he could answer, a rustle rose behind them. They turned and saw figures emerging from the empty stalls—not the keepers, but ordinary people, or so they seemed at first. A woman in a sari selling bangles, a boy carrying trays of jalebis, an old man with paan-stained lips. But their eyes glowed faintly, and their lips moved in unison:
“Tell us what this city is. Tell us before we fade.”
Arjun’s mind raced. He swallowed and began speaking, his voice trembling. “This is Chandni Chowk. It is four hundred years old. It was built by Jahanara Begum, Shah Jahan’s daughter. For centuries it has been Delhi’s heart, its marketplace of stories.”
As he spoke, the transparent edges of the bazaar seemed to thicken, the outlines sharpening. The woman with bangles smiled faintly, her figure gaining color. Encouraged, Arjun continued. “It is chaos, it is noise. But it is also connection. People from every corner of India meet here—traders, poets, travelers. Its streets are history itself.”
Kavya found her voice. “And its food,” she said. “Paranthas fried in ghee, jalebis dripping with sugar, kebabs marinated overnight. Every taste is Delhi. Every spice tells a story.”
The crowd of glowing figures nodded, their forms stabilizing. For a brief moment, the market came alive again—lamps flickered, the aroma of fried sweets filled the air, a rickshaw bell chimed. Arjun felt a flicker of hope.
But then the clock’s metallic chime echoed across the sky, though no clock was visible. The bazaar shook, and half the stalls dissolved into gray nothingness. The crowd cried out, their bodies unraveling into smoke.
“You have spoken truth,” the voices thundered. “But truth is not enough. Every fold demands sacrifice.”
Arjun shouted, “What sacrifice? We gave you memory! Isn’t that what you wanted?”
The woman of light appeared again, hovering above the dissolving stalls. Her face was sorrowful. “A city survives not just in memory, but in blood. To anchor it, one of you must surrender a piece of yourselves. Pain for permanence. Only then can the fold slow.”
Kavya gasped, shaking her head. “No. They can’t mean—”
But Arjun knew. The ache in his bones told him she spoke literal truth. A price had to be paid.
The glowing figures turned to them, their unified chant rising: “Choose the sacrifice. Choose, or the fold will claim Chandni Chowk before dawn.”
Arjun and Kavya stared at each other, terror mirrored in their eyes.
Episode 3: The Price of Memory
The chant echoed through the hollowed bazaar like a storm trapped inside stone walls. Arjun and Kavya stood in the middle of Chandni Chowk, surrounded by the spectral vendors, their voices rising and falling with a rhythm that rattled the heart:
“Choose the sacrifice. Choose, or the fold will claim Chandni Chowk before dawn.”
Kavya’s fingers dug into her brother’s arm. “We can’t give them anything. We don’t even know what they mean,” she whispered. Her eyes darted between the dissolving stalls—the fading silks, the vanishing trays of sweets, the flickering rickshaws.
Arjun forced his voice steady. “If we don’t, this place will be gone. Forever.”
“But sacrifice what? What are they asking for?”
The woman of light reappeared above the bazaar, strands of luminescence trailing from her body. Her voice was gentler now, almost mournful. “The fold is hungry. It devours memory unless it is fed. To anchor a place, you must give what you cannot recover. A memory, a bond, a truth from your life. Once offered, it will be erased from you forever.”
Kavya recoiled. “You want us to forget? To erase our own lives?”
“To save the city, something must be lost,” the woman said.
Arjun’s heart pounded. His life flashed in fragments: his mother’s laughter when she cooked parathas, the afternoons he and Kavya spent flying kites from the rooftop, his first bicycle ride along Rajpath. Which of these could he surrender? Each one seemed stitched into who he was.
Kavya’s eyes glistened. “There has to be another way. We can’t just throw away pieces of ourselves!”
The bazaar cracked again. An entire lane dissolved into smoke, leaving only void where shops once stood. The ghostly vendors shrieked in unison: “Choose now!”
Arjun grabbed Kavya’s shoulders. “Listen to me. If we do nothing, the whole city goes. Think of Ma and Baba. Think of everyone. We can’t let Delhi disappear.”
Tears streaked her face. “So what, we erase who we are? You don’t understand, Arjun—memories are all we have. Once they’re gone, what’s left of us?”
But Arjun already knew what he would give. He swallowed hard, his throat burning. “If one of us has to choose, let it be me.”
“No!” Kavya cried.
“Yes,” Arjun said firmly. “You’re stronger with memory. You’re the artist, the one who keeps things alive through words and plays. You need your past. I can bear the loss.”
The woman of light descended, her feet brushing the fractured stone. “What will you offer?”
Arjun closed his eyes. He thought of the love he once had, a girl named Meera he met in college. She had been his closest friend, his first love, the reason he learned how to dream beyond himself. Their story had ended painfully, but the memory of her laughter, the warmth of her hand in his, still carried him. It had shaped who he was.
And yet—it was also the one memory that still haunted him, that still dragged him into regrets.
He opened his eyes and whispered, “Take Meera. Take every memory of her. Erase her from me.”
Kavya gasped. “Arjun—no. Don’t!”
But already the woman raised her hand. A current of light surged from her palm and struck Arjun’s chest. He cried out, collapsing to his knees. Images flashed before him—Meera smiling in the campus library, their first kiss on the metro platform, her tear-streaked face the night they parted. Then, like pages torn from a book and burned, each memory disintegrated.
When the light faded, Arjun sagged forward, panting. His mind felt hollow, a cavity where warmth had once lived. Kavya knelt beside him, clutching his shoulders. “Are you okay? What did you do?”
Arjun blinked. “I… I don’t know. I feel like I’ve lost something, but I can’t even remember what.” He frowned, shaking his head as though chasing a shadow.
The bazaar erupted with sudden brightness. The stalls solidified, the air filled again with scents of spices, the rickshaws gleamed with fresh paint. The spectral vendors bowed, their glowing eyes softening. “The first sacrifice has been made. Chandni Chowk remains.”
The woman of light looked at them gravely. “The fold is slowed, but not stopped. Each quarter of the city will demand the same. You must continue, until all folds are faced.”
Arjun staggered to his feet, still dizzy. Kavya helped him up, her face pale with fear. “You can’t keep doing this,” she whispered. “Piece by piece, you’ll lose yourself. And then who will be left to fight for Delhi?”
He forced a grim smile. “Then we’ll take turns. Or maybe… maybe we’ll find another way.”
But he didn’t believe his own words.
The next fold came without warning. The ground beneath them shivered, and suddenly Chandni Chowk dissolved again into a blur of light. They tumbled through darkness, spinning until they landed hard on asphalt. Arjun groaned, clutching his ribs, and looked around.
They were standing on a flyover—ring roads and endless traffic lanes beneath them. Or rather, what should have been traffic. Instead, hundreds of vehicles stood frozen mid-motion, drivers locked in place, horns pressed down in a soundless scream.
“This is AIIMS flyover,” Kavya whispered. “But… but it’s wrong.”
The sky above was torn open, showing glimpses of stars arranged in strange constellations he had never seen. Along the horizon, the outline of Safdarjung’s Tomb flickered, split in two like a cracked mirror.
The woman of light appeared again, her radiance dimmer now. “This is the second fold. The city’s lifeblood—its roads, its arteries of motion—are vanishing. If they are lost, Delhi will suffocate.”
Arjun steadied himself. His chest ached from the loss he could not name, but his resolve hardened. “Then we’ll do it again. We’ll remember. We’ll anchor it.”
Kavya turned to him, her jaw set. “No. Not you this time. It’s my turn.”
Arjun shook his head. “I won’t let you—”
“You can’t protect me forever,” Kavya cut him off. “We’re in this together. If you keep sacrificing, you’ll vanish inside yourself. I have memories too. Maybe it’s time I give one up.”
The Keepers’ chorus rose again from the frozen drivers: “Choose. Choose the sacrifice, or the arteries of Delhi shall break.”
Kavya looked at her brother, tears shining in her eyes. “Arjun, let me.”
Episode 4: Kavya’s Sacrifice
The chorus grew louder, vibrating through the stillness of the AIIMS flyover. Hundreds of frozen drivers sat rigid inside their vehicles, their mouths moving in eerie unison though no breath escaped:
“Choose. Choose the sacrifice, or the arteries of Delhi shall break.”
The sky above was cracked, stars shifting in alien constellations. Beneath the flyover, the endless lanes of Delhi’s traffic arteries were dissolving into gray nothingness. Kavya tightened her grip on Arjun’s hand.
“It has to be me,” she said, her voice trembling yet firm. “I won’t watch you lose more of yourself. This time I’ll give something.”
Arjun shook his head violently. “No. You don’t understand what it feels like. It’s like something has been cut out of you, and you’re left with a shadow you can’t explain. I can’t let you go through that.”
Kavya stared at him, her jaw set. “You think I’m weak? I’ve lived in this city too. I’ve loved and lost things you don’t even know about. If Delhi is going to survive, I have to carry the weight too.”
The woman of light materialized in the fractured air, her glow flickering faintly, as though even she was exhausted by the fold. “The city’s memory is heavy. It cannot rest on one soul alone. Each witness must give.”
The ground trembled, and a row of buses tilted dangerously, frozen mid-turn. The Keepers’ chant deepened into a growl.
Arjun’s fists clenched. “Kavya, no—”
She silenced him with a sudden embrace. Her cheek pressed against his chest, and she whispered, “All our lives you’ve protected me. But if you protect me now, we’ll both lose. Let me do this.”
When she pulled away, her eyes glistened but burned with determination. She faced the woman of light. “What do I give?”
The woman’s gaze was endless. “What you hold dearest. A bond, a truth, a thread of yourself. Only then can the fold release this road.”
Kavya closed her eyes. Memories cascaded like film reels: childhood afternoons on the terrace, her first standing ovation at the theatre, her late-night walks around India Gate with her best friend Ayesha. She lingered on Ayesha—her laughter, their secrets whispered in hostel dorms, the letters they wrote each other during exams. A bond so strong it had survived years, heartbreaks, and betrayals.
Kavya’s chest heaved. “Take Ayesha,” she whispered. “Take every memory of her from me.”
Arjun staggered. “Kavya, no! She’s your closest friend—you’ll forget she even existed!”
But already the woman raised her hand. A beam of white light struck Kavya in the heart. She convulsed, gasping, as scenes of her and Ayesha blazed before her eyes: the first day of school when Ayesha lent her crayons, the night they swore never to drift apart, the morning they cried together after Kavya’s first heartbreak. And then—gone.
When the light dimmed, Kavya collapsed to her knees. Arjun caught her, shaking. “Kavya! Say something!”
She blinked at him, her face pale and dazed. “I… what happened? Why am I crying?” She wiped her cheeks with trembling hands. “There’s something missing. Like a hole inside me. But I can’t remember what it was.”
Arjun’s heart broke. “It was Ayesha. Your best friend.”
Kavya frowned, confusion clouding her. “Who? I don’t know that name.” Her voice cracked. “Arjun, I don’t know what I’ve lost, but I feel like part of me has died.”
The frozen vehicles jolted back to life. Horns blared, engines roared, traffic surged forward. The sky above healed, constellations fading back into their polluted haze. The flyover solidified beneath their feet. Delhi’s lifeblood—its roads—were restored.
The Keepers’ chorus whispered in approval: “The second sacrifice has been made. The arteries of Delhi remain.”
The woman of light studied them both with sorrow. “Two folds remain before dawn. Each will demand its own price.”
Arjun helped Kavya stand. She swayed, clutching her chest, tears streaming down her face though she could not name why. “How many more times will we have to do this?” she asked, voice hoarse.
“Until either the city is saved,” the woman replied, “or you are emptied of all that makes you who you are.”
The ground shuddered again, and suddenly they were standing in front of Humayun’s Tomb. Moonlight glazed the Mughal architecture, but the monument flickered like a failing hologram. Its red sandstone walls bled into the air, its dome shivering between presence and absence.
Arjun steadied Kavya. “The third fold,” he muttered.
The woman of light appeared once more. “Yes. The city’s heritage, its memory of stone and empire, is unraveling. Without sacrifice, Delhi’s history will collapse into dust.”
The Keepers’ voices rose from the ground itself, vibrating through the marble: “Choose. Choose.”
Kavya gripped Arjun’s hand. “We can’t keep giving pieces of ourselves forever. If we lose too much, will we even know who we are by the end?”
Arjun’s face hardened. “I don’t care what it takes. I won’t let this city die.”
Yet as he spoke, he felt the hollow in himself widen—the strange emptiness where Meera’s laughter had once lived, though he no longer remembered her name.
Kavya shivered beside him, unaware that her memories of Ayesha had been stripped away forever.
The dome above them cracked, splitting the night sky with a sound like thunder. The Keepers’ chant deepened: “The third fold hungers.”
The woman of light raised her hand. “One of you must give again. Or Delhi’s monuments will crumble, its past erased from time itself.”
Arjun and Kavya exchanged a terrified glance. Both knew there was no turning back.
Episode 5: The Tomb of Forgotten Kings
The air around Humayun’s Tomb shuddered with a sound like grinding stone. What had once been solid Mughal architecture—the dome, the archways, the geometric gardens—now trembled between reality and absence, flickering as though projected from a failing machine. The red sandstone walls faded into gray vapor, then reappeared only to split again.
The Keepers’ chant rose from the marble floor itself, vibrating through Arjun’s bones:
“The third fold hungers. Choose. Choose the sacrifice, or Delhi’s past shall be dust.”
Arjun and Kavya stood in the shadow of the dissolving tomb, clutching each other’s hands. Arjun felt hollow, though he could not name why—only that something important had been taken from him. Beside him, Kavya’s eyes shimmered with silent tears she could not explain.
The woman of light appeared again, her glow faint as if strained by the folds. She raised her hand toward the monument. “This tomb is not just stone. It is Delhi’s memory of empire, of centuries rising and falling. If the fold consumes it, the city will lose its past forever.”
Kavya’s voice cracked. “We’ve already given too much. I don’t even know what’s missing from me, only that it hurts.”
Arjun’s jaw tightened. “I’ll do it. I’ll give something again.”
Kavya turned on him, furious. “No! You can’t keep bleeding yourself out piece by piece. You already—” She stopped, frowning, unable to recall what he had given. “You already… lost something. I just know you did.”
Arjun forced a grim smile. “Then let me take this one. If I can’t remember what I’ve lost, maybe I can lose more.”
The woman of light shook her head. “The fold is not tricked. Sacrifice is not repetition—it is descent. Each time you give, you fall closer to hollow. If one of you alone surrenders all, there will be nothing left to anchor.”
The monument groaned, cracks crawling up its dome like veins of lightning. The chorus boomed again: “Choose. Choose.”
Kavya’s shoulders trembled. “If it has to be me, then I’ll do it. But I won’t give away another person. I can’t.”
Arjun’s throat tightened. “Then what?”
She closed her eyes. “A dream. Something I’ve held onto all my life. If Delhi needs it, I’ll let it go.”
The woman of light studied her carefully. “A dream is heavy, for it holds the future. What will you surrender?”
Kavya took a breath that shook her chest. “My dream of becoming a playwright. Take it. Take every hope I’ve carried for the stage, every vision of applause, every story unwritten.”
Arjun froze. “Kavya, no—don’t do this! That dream is your life.”
Her lips trembled into a sad smile. “And Delhi is bigger than me. Maybe if I lose it, the city will live.”
Before he could stop her, the woman of light extended her palm. A column of radiance struck Kavya, lifting her from the ground. She screamed, but not in pain—in protest, as though something inside her was being torn away. Arjun watched helplessly as images flared around her: nights scribbling scripts under a desk lamp, rehearsals with trembling voices, the taste of nervousness before a performance, the raw joy of a standing ovation. Then, one by one, they shattered into dust.
The light released her. Kavya fell into Arjun’s arms, limp, gasping. He cradled her, his own eyes stinging. “Kavya! Talk to me!”
She blinked, dazed. “Why am I holding a pen?” Her hand trembled, clutching at the fountain pen she always carried. “Why do I even have this?” She looked at it with no recognition, as though it were a foreign object. “What was I supposed to write?”
Arjun’s voice broke. “It was your dream. Your plays. You gave them up.”
She frowned, bewildered. “I don’t remember.” Then her face twisted with grief she couldn’t explain. “But something’s gone. I feel empty.”
At that moment, the tomb solidified. The dome glowed under the moonlight, cracks sealing themselves as though time reversed. The gardens shimmered back into bloom, fountains flowing with clear water. The past of Delhi—its emperors, its dynasties—breathed again.
The chorus softened: “The third sacrifice has been made. Delhi’s past remains.”
The woman of light gazed at them both with sorrow. “You are dwindling, piece by piece. Two folds remain before dawn. By then, you may have nothing left of yourselves.”
Arjun stood, pulling Kavya with him. His heart felt heavier than stone. She leaned against him, hollow-eyed, clutching the pen as though it might still hold some meaning.
“I can’t let her lose more,” he thought. “Next time, it has to be me.”
The ground rippled beneath their feet. Suddenly, the gardens dissolved, and they were standing at the edge of the Yamuna river. The water stretched out, dark and sluggish, but where it met the horizon, vast sections were missing, the river torn into fragments. Islands of water floated in empty void, disconnected.
“This is the fourth fold,” the woman of light said, her voice low. “The river is the city’s soul. Without it, Delhi cannot breathe. To anchor it, you must choose again.”
The Keepers’ chant rose with the lapping water: “Choose. Choose.”
Arjun tightened his grip on Kavya. He could feel her trembling, could see the lost look in her eyes. He knew she had already given too much. He turned to the woman of light, resolve burning in his chest.
“This time it’s me. I’ll give whatever it takes.”
Kavya tried to protest, but no words came. She only gripped his hand tighter, tears sliding silently down her cheeks.
Arjun faced the flickering river. His voice shook but held firm. “Tell me what to give.”
The woman’s face was unreadable. “The river feeds on bloodlines. To anchor it, you must surrender your family ties—the memory of those who bore you, who raised you, who shaped you.”
Arjun’s heart slammed in his chest. “My parents,” he whispered.
The Keepers’ chant thundered like waves breaking: “Choose. Choose.”
Episode 6: The River Without Names
The Yamuna stretched out before them, but not as Arjun remembered it. The water was fragmented, suspended in broken channels that hung in midair like torn ribbons of liquid. Vast gaps opened between these floating veins, revealing endless nothingness beneath. Where once a river had pulsed through the city’s veins, now only scattered fragments of flow remained.
The chorus of the Keepers thundered, carried on the damp air:
“Choose. Choose. The soul of Delhi withers. A bond of blood must be severed.”
Arjun’s breath caught. The woman of light, her glow unsteady as if the folds drained her as well, spoke softly: “The river feeds on ancestry, on the ties that bind you to this city through blood and care. To anchor it, you must surrender your memory of family—those who bore you, who raised you, who loved you.”
The words felt like knives against Arjun’s chest. “You’re asking me to forget my parents? My family?”
The woman’s gaze did not falter. “Every river demands blood. Memory is the water it drinks.”
Kavya’s hand clamped onto his. Her face was drawn and hollow from her own sacrifice, her eyes still glazed with the loss she couldn’t name. “Arjun, don’t. Please. If you give them up, you’ll lose the foundation of who you are. You won’t know where you came from. You won’t even know me.”
Arjun cupped her face with trembling hands. “I’ve already lost something—I can feel the hole. But you’ve given enough. Your dream, your friend, they’re gone. I can’t let you suffer more.”
She shook her head violently, tears streaming. “We can find another way. There has to be another way!”
But even as she spoke, the river fractured further. One of the suspended channels collapsed into vapor, leaving behind a yawning void. The Keepers’ chant deepened until it felt like the earth itself was collapsing:
“Choose now, or the Yamuna is erased.”
Arjun knew there was no time. He pressed a kiss to Kavya’s forehead, whispering, “I’m sorry.” Then he turned to the woman of light. “Take them. Take every memory I have of my parents, of our family. Leave me empty, but keep the river alive.”
Kavya’s cry tore through the air: “No!”
The woman lifted her hand. A torrent of silver light burst forth, wrapping Arjun in a cocoon of radiance. He convulsed, gasping as his life rewound. He saw flashes: his father teaching him to ride a bicycle down a Karol Bagh lane, his mother’s laughter echoing in the kitchen, festivals celebrated with family crowding their home, bedtime stories whispered by his grandmother. Each one blazed, then burned away like photographs in fire.
Arjun screamed as the warmth of belonging, of roots, of origin, drained out of him. The silver light seared through his veins. And then—silence.
He collapsed to the riverbank, chest heaving, eyes glassy. Kavya knelt beside him, sobbing, clutching his shoulders. “Arjun! Look at me, please!”
He blinked, confusion clouding his face. “Who… who are you?”
Her heart shattered. “I’m your sister. Kavya. Don’t you remember me?”
He frowned, tilting his head, searching for recognition that never came. “Sister?” He rubbed his temples. “I don’t… I don’t know. I just know my name is Arjun. That’s all.”
Kavya buried her face in his chest, choking on sobs. “You gave them up. Our parents, our family. Even me.”
Arjun stared blankly at the broken river. Inside him was a cavernous emptiness where love and memory had once been. And yet—
The Yamuna stirred. The shattered channels of water knit together, streams fusing until a single mighty river flowed again, black and glistening beneath the moonlight. The stench of decay lifted, replaced by the raw scent of living water. The city’s soul surged back into being.
The chorus softened: “The fourth sacrifice has been made. The river remains.”
The woman of light looked at them both with infinite sadness. “Two sacrifices each. You are unraveling. The city survives, but you are becoming shadows.”
Kavya clung to Arjun’s arm, her sobs quivering. “He doesn’t even remember me. You’ve taken too much from us!”
The woman’s voice was quiet, almost regretful. “Without sacrifice, Delhi would already be ash. What you lose feeds what millions keep. It is cruel, but it is the law of the fold.”
The ground trembled. Darkness surged, and the river dissolved into mist. Suddenly they were standing inside a vast hall again—this time, not glowing, but collapsing. It was the Parliament House of Delhi.
But it was wrong. The circular chamber flickered with broken walls, desks dissolving, microphones melting into silence. The tricolor flag above the Speaker’s chair shimmered between colors, sometimes fading into nothing.
Kavya gasped. “The Parliament… the heart of the nation.”
The woman of light appeared once more. Her glow was faint, flickering like a dying candle. “This is the fifth fold, and the heaviest. The city’s voice is unraveling. Its law, its governance, its ability to decide. Without it, Delhi becomes chaos, and chaos feeds the void.”
The Keepers’ chorus rose louder than ever, rumbling through every crack in the walls:
“Choose. Choose. The voice of Delhi must be anchored, or the fold will silence it forever.”
Arjun swayed, staring blankly at the chamber. His mind no longer carried the weight of parents, of family, of sisterhood. Only fragments remained—his name, the hollow determination that something needed saving, and the city itself.
Kavya gripped his arm, trembling. “I can’t let you give anything more. You’ve already lost yourself. This time, it has to be me.”
He turned to her, eyes lost but gentle. “What do you even have left to give?”
Her voice cracked. “Me. Myself. If that’s what it takes.”
The woman of light shook her head. “You cannot surrender the whole of yourself. The fold demands not death, but fragments. There is still something you hold: love. The bond that remains even when memory is gone. Surrender that, and the Parliament will endure.”
Kavya froze. Her breath shuddered. Love. It was all she had left. Love for Arjun, love for the city, love for the life she dreamed of even if her dreams had been stolen.
She turned to her brother, eyes brimming. “If I give that up, I’ll still be alive—but I’ll be empty. I won’t feel anything anymore. Not even for you.”
Arjun’s lips parted. For the first time, pain flickered in his hollowed eyes. “Don’t do it.”
The chorus thundered: “Choose now. Choose.”
Episode 7: The Chamber of Silence
The Parliament chamber convulsed, its grand circular walls cracking like dry earth. Desks melted into the floor, microphones drooped like wax, and the Tricolor flag above the Speaker’s chair flickered, sometimes dissolving entirely into the void. The air itself felt charged, as though the city’s heartbeat had slowed to the edge of death.
The Keepers’ chant grew thunderous:
“Choose. Choose. The voice of Delhi must be anchored.”
Kavya’s hands shook as she clutched the back of a dissolving chair. The wood crumbled beneath her grip, disintegrating into dust. Arjun stood beside her, hollow-eyed, confusion flickering across his face. He no longer remembered her name, nor that they had grown up together, but he remained tethered to her presence, sensing she was all that kept him from complete collapse.
The woman of light stepped forward, her glow faint and strained. “The city’s Parliament is not stone or mortar. It is voice, decision, and debate. If the fold consumes it, Delhi loses its power to speak. To anchor it, one of you must surrender the last bond you hold: love.”
Kavya’s heart twisted. “Love?”
The woman nodded. “Not for a person, not for a dream—but the very capacity to love. The tenderness that ties you to others, the warmth that resists emptiness. Without it, you will survive. But you will be a shell.”
Arjun flinched as though struck. Even in his fractured state, the word pierced him. He looked at Kavya, eyes wide, desperate. “Don’t. Please. I… I don’t remember much, but I know love matters. If you give it up, you’ll… you’ll lose yourself completely.”
Kavya’s voice shook. “And what about you? You don’t remember our parents. You don’t remember me. You’ve already given away your roots. How much of you is even left?”
Arjun’s gaze fell, shame hollowing his face.
The chamber cracked again, an entire row of benches collapsing into nothingness. The chorus roared:
“Choose now. Choose now.”
Kavya’s chest heaved. She closed her eyes, memories flooding—Arjun’s laughter when they were children, the thrill of her first stage play, the warm clasp of her best friend’s hand, the countless small acts of kindness that had stitched her life together. All of them were bound by love. Without it, those memories would turn cold, stripped of meaning.
She opened her eyes. “If Delhi’s voice depends on it, I’ll give it. Take it from me. Take love.”
The woman of light raised her palm.
“No!” Arjun staggered forward, grabbing her wrist. His voice cracked, raw and pleading. “Don’t do this. If you give up love, you won’t care about saving the city anymore. You won’t care about me. You’ll just… exist. Please, Kavya, don’t.”
Her eyes filled with tears. “But isn’t that what you’ve already done? You’ve lost our parents, and yet you still keep going. If I don’t do this, Delhi ends tonight. Maybe love doesn’t matter if everything else is gone.”
The woman’s voice was quiet, almost sorrowful. “The choice must be yours. No one can force love to stay or go.”
Kavya looked into Arjun’s eyes. For a fleeting moment, she saw the brother she once knew—the boy who had carried her on his shoulders during melas, who had defended her when classmates teased her, who had whispered encouragements before every performance. His face was hollow now, but his eyes still held the faint glimmer of love that survived even after memory was gone.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
The woman’s hand descended, and a blaze of golden light engulfed Kavya. She gasped, arching her back as waves of warmth poured out of her chest. Images of tenderness rose—her mother’s embrace, Arjun’s protective arm, the thrill of falling in love for the first time. But instead of fading like her earlier sacrifices, they drained of color, flattening into cold shadows. The feelings dulled, the warmth evaporated, until she saw only empty outlines of the same moments.
When the light vanished, Kavya collapsed to her knees. Her face was dry, her heartbeat steady, her breath calm—but her eyes were empty.
Arjun caught her, shaking her shoulders. “Kavya! Say something! Do you still know me?”
She looked at him without expression. “I know your face. I know your name is Arjun. But I don’t feel anything about it. Not joy, not grief. Just fact.”
Arjun’s stomach twisted. “You… you don’t love me anymore?”
Her lips barely moved. “I don’t love anyone. I don’t hate anyone either. It’s gone.”
The Parliament chamber surged with sudden life. The walls solidified, desks reformed, and the flag above the Speaker’s chair steadied, glowing in its full tricolor. The echo of debate, of voices raised in passion, filled the hall for a fleeting moment. The heart of Delhi’s governance pulsed again.
The chorus softened: “The fifth sacrifice has been made. Delhi’s voice remains.”
The woman of light bowed her head, her radiance dim. “You are both nearly emptied. Yet one fold remains—the deepest and most final. When it comes, you must choose not fragments, but all. Delhi cannot be anchored without the ultimate price.”
Arjun’s eyes burned. “What do you mean, all?”
But before she could answer, the floor cracked. The chamber dissolved, pulling them into darkness once more.
They landed in a place that was not a monument, nor a market, nor a road. It was a street—but a strange one. It looked like every street in Delhi layered on top of each other: rickshaw lanes crisscrossing with highways, colonial arcades rising into metro tracks, temple courtyards overlapping with malls. The air shimmered with millions of overlapping voices—vendors, students, politicians, lovers, beggars—all speaking at once.
Kavya stared blankly. “What is this?”
The woman of light appeared, her glow barely visible now. “This is the heart of the city itself. Not a monument, not a river, not a Parliament. Delhi as one living soul. And this is the final fold.”
The Keepers’ voices shook the ground:
“Final fold. Final choice. One must remain. One must vanish. The city will be anchored by life itself.”
Arjun’s breath caught. He understood, even before the woman explained.
“One of us has to give our entire existence,” he whispered. “Not just a memory, not a bond. Everything. Our life, our being. So Delhi can live.”
The woman of light nodded. “Yes. The final fold demands the anchor itself. If neither of you give, Delhi will vanish before dawn.”
Kavya’s face was expressionless, drained of love. Yet her voice was steady. “Then one of us must stay behind. And the other must be erased.”
Arjun turned to her, despair tearing through him. “No. There has to be another way.”
The overlapping city around them flickered, its voices screaming as buildings fractured into dust. The Keepers roared louder than ever:
“Choose! Choose now! The final fold has begun!”
Episode 8: The Anchor
The fractured street stretched around them—Delhi layered upon itself, as though centuries and neighborhoods had been folded into one impossible landscape. The voices of millions overlapped in a deafening chorus: vendors crying, politicians arguing, lovers whispering, rickshaw bells ringing, muezzins calling, temple bells tolling. The cacophony was unbearable.
Arjun staggered, pressing his palms to his ears. “It’s… everything. All of Delhi, all at once.”
Kavya stood still, her eyes empty but steady. “This is the final fold. This is what they meant.”
The woman of light appeared, her glow dim and flickering like a dying flame. Her voice trembled with sorrow. “Yes. This is the city’s soul, unraveling. To anchor it, one of you must give everything. Not a memory, not a bond—your whole self. One remains to witness. One vanishes to become the anchor.”
The Keepers’ roar shook the street, collapsing entire sections of the layered city into void:
“Choose! Choose! The final fold has begun!”
Arjun looked at Kavya. She stared back with eyes that no longer carried love, but only recognition. Her voice was calm, almost clinical. “It should be me. I’ve already lost the ability to feel. If I vanish, what’s left behind isn’t much. You can still live.”
“No!” Arjun shouted, the word tearing from his chest. “You’ve given too much already. Your friend, your dream, your love. If you go, then I’ll be left alone, hollow. I’ve already forgotten our parents, our childhood. I don’t even know who you are anymore—just that you matter. You’re the last piece of me that feels real.”
Kavya tilted her head, as if studying him. “You don’t even remember why I matter. That’s why you should stay. You can rebuild, even if you don’t know your past. I can’t. Without love, without my dream, there’s nothing left to rebuild.”
The ground split open beside them, revealing a chasm of gray void. The voices of the overlapping city screamed, then went silent one by one as whole neighborhoods flickered out. Connaught Place, Chandni Chowk, AIIMS flyover, Humayun’s Tomb—their images hung for an instant before shattering like glass.
Arjun dropped to his knees. “Please! There has to be another way!”
The woman of light lowered her head. “There is no other way. The final fold demands an anchor. One of you must become Delhi itself—absorbed, erased. The other must carry the memory.”
Arjun’s mind whirled. He remembered little now—shadows of festivals, the outline of a family he no longer knew, the vague ache of something he once loved. But he knew this: he could not let Kavya vanish.
He rose shakily to his feet. “Take me. Let me be the anchor.”
Kavya’s expression didn’t change, but her words cut like ice. “No. I don’t feel anything for you, Arjun. Not even enough to stop you. But if you go, Delhi will live. That’s enough.”
Arjun grabbed her shoulders, shaking her. “Even if you don’t feel it, I do! I don’t know who you are, but I know you’re my reason to keep going. If you’re gone, there’s no point in saving anything.”
For the first time, a flicker crossed her empty eyes. Not love, not grief—but something like recognition of his desperation. Her lips trembled. “Then how do we decide?”
The Keepers’ chant rose:
“Choose now! One remains! One vanishes! The city demands the anchor!”
The street buckled, and the world around them bent inward. The Parliament dissolved, the Yamuna unraveled again, the monuments and bazaars collapsed into dust. Only the two of them remained, clinging to each other as the void closed in.
Arjun pressed his forehead against hers. “Then we don’t decide. We choose together. If one of us has to vanish, let it be me. But know that even if you feel nothing now, once I’m gone, the city will live because we loved it enough to bleed for it.”
Kavya whispered, her voice almost lost in the roar: “I don’t feel love anymore. But I understand sacrifice. And maybe that’s enough.”
The woman of light raised her hand. “The choice is sealed. The anchor is chosen.”
Arjun felt the air pull him upward, a current of light wrapping around his body. He screamed, reaching for Kavya’s hand. She gripped it with mechanical steadiness, her eyes locked on his.
“Don’t forget me,” he begged.
Her voice was flat, but steady: “I can’t forget. I can’t feel. But I will remember.”
The light seared through him, tearing him apart thread by thread. His body dissolved into streams of radiance, his memories scattering like sparks into the collapsing city. He cried out once more—but his voice fractured, fading into the roar of the Keepers.
And then he was gone.
Silence.
Kavya stood alone in the layered street. Around her, the overlapping city steadied. Connaught Place reappeared, bright and bustling. Chandni Chowk roared with vendors and traffic. The Yamuna flowed whole. Humayun’s Tomb gleamed under the moon. Parliament hummed with voices again. The folds sealed shut, the cracks in the sky stitched themselves, and the void retreated.
Delhi was whole.
The woman of light stood before her, faint and sorrowful. “The anchor is set. Delhi remains. But the price is paid.”
Kavya nodded once. Her face was blank, her eyes hollow. “He’s gone.”
The woman inclined her head. “Yes. And because you gave love away, you cannot mourn him. You will walk this city knowing only fact, not feeling.”
Kavya looked around at the resurrected city—the neon signs, the traffic, the people laughing and shouting. “Then it is done. Delhi lives.”
The woman’s glow flickered out. The Keepers’ chant faded into silence. And Kavya was left standing alone in the city her brother had died to save, alive but emptied, tethered to a place she could no longer love.
Episode 9: The Hollow City
Delhi breathed again. Connaught Place buzzed with neon and footsteps, Chandni Chowk roared with bargaining voices, the Yamuna flowed in silver arcs, and the Parliament echoed with debates and applause. On the surface, nothing had changed. The city was alive.
But for Kavya, everything was wrong.
She walked through the bustling streets, her movements calm, her face expressionless. The people around her jostled, laughed, argued, lived. Yet to her, they were shadows. Her brother’s hand no longer clasped hers, his voice no longer guided her. The memory of him existed—she remembered his name, his face, even his final act—but it meant nothing. There was no ache, no grief. Only fact.
“Arjun sacrificed himself,” she murmured to herself as she walked past India Gate, lit with golden floodlights. “And I remain.” Her voice carried no tremor, no break.
Vendors called out, urging her to taste their chaat, their kebabs, their sweets. She looked at the food, recognizing its significance, but tasted only texture, not delight. She visited the theatre where her friends rehearsed, remembering her scripts, her laughter—but she felt no desire, no pride, no longing. Her dream had been surrendered, her love stripped away.
Yet the city thrived.
Sometimes she thought she glimpsed Arjun in the crowd—a figure leaning against a pillar, a boy buying tea at a stall, a man’s silhouette beneath a metro sign. But when she blinked, the face vanished, replaced by strangers. People smiled at her, brushed past her, spoke with urgency. She nodded, replied, but inside she was stone.
Weeks passed. The folds had sealed, the Keepers gone, the woman of light vanished. But Kavya’s life was a hollow repetition of actions without feeling. She paid rent. She ate. She moved through her days.
Until one evening, she found herself back at the Parliament circle. The air was heavy with protestors chanting slogans, their voices raised in passion. Placards waved, fists punched the air. She stood at the edge, watching them roar with conviction, with love for their cause.
And something shifted.
Not love—she had lost that forever. But recognition. They fought because they felt something larger than themselves, something worth sacrifice. And though she could not feel it, she could remember what it meant. Arjun’s last words echoed faintly in her hollow chest: “Even if you don’t feel it, once I’m gone, the city will live because we loved it enough to bleed for it.”
She whispered his words aloud, though her voice was flat: “Because we loved it enough.”
The crowd surged, chanting louder. For a moment, Kavya imagined herself dissolving into them—not to feel, but to witness. She could not anchor the city with love anymore. But she could anchor it with memory.
She began to write again. Not plays, not dreams. She wrote records—cold, factual, unadorned. She chronicled the folds, the Keepers, the sacrifices she and Arjun had made. She filled notebooks with meticulous detail, not passion. Line by line, she carved a testimony of what had happened, even if she could not mourn it.
People read her words. Some dismissed them as strange allegory. Others whispered them like prophecy. A few believed every syllable. They asked her: How do you know this? How do you write with such clarity?
And she always replied: “Because I was there. My brother was the anchor. I remain the witness.”
One night, months later, she dreamed. Or perhaps it wasn’t a dream. She found herself back in the glowing hall where it had all begun—the vast space of black glass and the clock that spun without numbers. But now it was silent. The clock’s hands were still.
Arjun stood at the far end of the hall. His figure was translucent, woven from light, but his eyes were the same—warm, alive, filled with something she could no longer recognize. Love.
She walked toward him, her steps soundless. “You’re here,” she said simply.
“I’m always here,” he replied. His voice was a whisper, a tremor in her hollow chest. “I am the anchor. I am Delhi now.”
She tilted her head. “I remember you. But I don’t feel you.”
He smiled sadly. “That’s enough. You carry the memory. I carry the weight.”
She stared at him, trying to summon even a flicker of the love she once knew, but nothing came. Only the clarity of his words. Only the fact of his sacrifice.
He raised his hand, touching her cheek though she felt no warmth. “Even without love, you still have truth. Guard it. The city will need it again.”
Then he dissolved into light, scattering into the frozen clock.
Kavya woke with her pen in hand, another page of testimony written in her notebook though she had no memory of writing it.
By spring, whispers spread through Delhi again. People spoke of strange echoes in Connaught Place at midnight, of cars freezing on the flyover, of shadows bending in Parliament corridors. They called it superstition, mass hysteria, nonsense.
But Kavya knew better. She remembered the folds. She remembered the sacrifices. And though she could not feel fear, she knew what the signs meant:
The city would fold again.
And this time, she was the only witness left.
Episode 10: The Last Witness
The air in Delhi thickened again. Kavya noticed it first in the silence between traffic horns, the unnatural stillness of pigeons frozen mid-flight above Jama Masjid, the way neon signs in Connaught Place flickered in rhythm instead of randomness. The folds were returning.
She sat on her balcony in Karol Bagh, her notebook open, pen resting lightly between her fingers. Pages upon pages were filled with her words—cold, exact records of what she and Arjun had endured. She had not written them with passion, only precision. But she wrote nonetheless.
Now the pen scratched again, without hesitation: The city trembles. The Keepers return. The folds will not end.
Down below, neighbors bustled with their evening chores, unaware that the streets beneath them were already hollowing. A boy flew a kite from a rooftop, his laughter ringing out—yet in Kavya’s ears it was thin, fragile, as if the sound itself were being stretched too far.
She closed the notebook and rose. She did not feel dread—she could not feel anything—but she knew what must be done.
By midnight she was standing at Rajpath, the grand avenue stretching from Rashtrapati Bhavan to India Gate. The night sky was fractured, stars rearranged into spirals that turned too slowly. The avenue was deserted, though lampposts glowed as if burning for no one.
And then the chorus began.
“Witness. Witness. The folds hunger again.”
Shadows stretched across the avenue, coiling into forms both human and not. The Keepers returned, their voices rising in metallic unison. Kavya stood still, her hair stirred by wind that came from nowhere.
“I know you,” she said flatly. “You took everything from me. And still the city trembles. Wasn’t my brother enough?”
The chorus answered: “Anchors hold. But memory fades. A city must be renewed, fold after fold. It cannot survive once. It must survive always.”
She gripped her notebook. “Then I am the witness. He is the anchor. Why call me again?”
The woman of light appeared, dimmer than ever, her face weary, her form almost transparent. “Because truth alone is not enough. Cities rot when memory becomes record only. They need memory felt, not just written. Without love, Delhi will fold again and again, until no witness remains.”
Kavya’s voice did not waver. “Then I cannot save it. You took love from me. All I can do is write.”
The woman of light stepped closer. Her glow brushed Kavya’s hollow eyes. “There is one choice left. One final act. You can join him. You can become anchor beside him. If you do, the city will not just remain—it will endure.”
For a moment, Kavya blinked. The words carried weight, though not warmth. “If I vanish, there will be no witness. Who will remember us?”
“Delhi itself will remember,” the woman whispered. “The city will carry your story, not on paper, not in facts—but in stone, in rivers, in voices. Every street will bear your truth. But it will cost you everything.”
The chorus thundered: “Choose. Choose now. The final witness must decide.”
Kavya looked down at her notebook. Its pages fluttered in the wind, covered in neat handwriting—her one tether to a past she no longer felt. The words described Arjun’s laughter, their childhood, his sacrifice. She could not feel love in them, but she knew they were true.
Slowly, she closed the book.
She spoke into the fractured night: “If Delhi needs more than memory, then take me. Let me vanish. Let my brother not be alone.”
The woman of light lifted her hand. For the first time, Kavya did not resist.
Light burst around her, brighter than the folds had ever been. She felt her body unravel, thread by thread. She did not feel fear or grief. She felt nothing. But she knew—knew in the deepest hollow of her chest—that she was joining Arjun.
The chorus roared, shaking the avenue, rising higher and higher until it fractured into silence.
And then there was only Delhi.
The folds sealed forever. The cracks in the sky stitched closed, the constellations steady once more. The Parliament stood firm, the Yamuna flowed endlessly, Chandni Chowk thrived, Connaught Place blazed with neon. The city breathed not with fragility but with permanence.
People lived their lives unaware of what had been given. But sometimes, when walking alone at night, they heard faint echoes—two voices overlapping, one tender, one steady: We remain. We are the city.
At India Gate, a rumor spread that at midnight two shadows appeared side by side beneath the arch. At Humayun’s Tomb, visitors sometimes felt a presence lingering in the gardens, as if someone watched with quiet care. On the Yamuna’s banks, fishermen swore the water shimmered with a light that was not the moon.
Delhi had survived. Because a brother and sister had bled themselves into its stone.
And though no one remembered their names, the city itself remembered.
Years later, a child in Connaught Place tugged at her mother’s sleeve. “Ma, who are those people in the statue?” she asked, pointing at a new monument near the fountain.
Two figures carved in white stone stood there—one holding a notebook, the other raising a hand toward the sky. Beneath them, an inscription:
The Anchor and the Witness. They gave everything so Delhi could remain.
The mother smiled faintly. “No one knows their names. But Delhi does.”
And the child, for reasons she could not explain, felt tears sting her eyes.
