Ashmita Khan
Part 1: The Debate
The air-conditioning inside the NDTV studio was just enough to keep nerves hidden under silk and suit fabric. Aarushi Singh adjusted the collar of her rust-red handloom kurta, her fingers lightly grazing the gold brooch that bore her father’s party symbol—two clasped hands in a rising sun. It wasn’t just decoration. It was legacy.
Across from her sat Ishaan Rizvi, crisp in a blue blazer, his notes neatly stacked, untouched. He didn’t need them. He never did. His reputation as the Opposition’s silent strategist had made him a reluctant star of the night’s “Youth for Nation” debate. He avoided cameras when he could, but tonight—well, the topic demanded him.
Should ideologies evolve with youth?
Aarushi’s brown eyes met his for a split second, sharp and unyielding. Ishaan offered a courteous nod. He had read her papers. Heard her interviews. She was smart. Dangerous smart.
The anchor’s voice boomed, “Let’s welcome our two debaters for tonight. Aarushi Singh, contesting candidate from Rampur North, and Ishaan Rizvi, policy advisor to the Janchetna Party.”
Applause. Lights.
Action.
Aarushi spoke first, her voice steady. “Youth are not meant to reject tradition. We are meant to refine it, carry it forward. Ideologies are anchors in a drifting world. Change, yes—but with purpose.”
Then Ishaan, smoother than silk. “Anchors can sink ships too. If tradition ignores truth, progress becomes a prisoner. The youth deserve freedom of thought, not inherited slogans.”
Aarushi didn’t blink. “Truth isn’t your version of secular fantasy, Ishaan. It’s what works for the people. Ground reality—not drawing-room idealism.”
“Ground reality doesn’t mean mob rule,” he countered, leaning forward. “If you mean protecting temples while ignoring schools, then yes—we disagree.”
Gasps in the audience. The anchor grinned.
Aarushi smiled, unfazed. “And if you mean writing tweets while villagers still fetch water from wells, then we definitely disagree.”
The hour passed in electric charges, one volley after another, without a pause in the storm. Yet underneath it all, Ishaan felt something shift. In her intensity, he saw fire—fierce, unrelenting—but not blind. Her arguments were calculated. Her eyes, at times, betrayed curiosity.
When the debate ended, handshakes were exchanged for the cameras. Aarushi walked toward the green room when a voice followed.
“Miss Singh,” Ishaan called out.
She turned. “Mr. Rizvi?”
He offered a bottle of water. “You speak well. Even when wrong.”
Aarushi laughed, unexpected and soft. “I could say the same. Thank you. I’ve read your manifesto drafts. Impressive fiction.”
“I prefer poetry. Less lies.”
“Maybe. But poetry doesn’t win elections.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Maybe not. But maybe it wins hearts.”
For a moment, the political faded. The personal stepped forward. And both of them knew it.
Later that night, Aarushi sat in the back seat of her car, scrolling through social media mentions. Memes. Praise. Trolls. Predictable.
But one DM caught her eye. Anonymous sender. One line:
“You debate with daggers. But what’s your sword when no one is watching?”
Cryptic. Annoying. Intriguing.
She typed: “Is this a riddle or just poor flirting?”
A reply came instantly: “Maybe just a question. Can a Singh and a Rizvi ever fight on the same side?”
She paused. Her thumb hovered over the screen. Then she closed the app.
Meanwhile, Ishaan was watching a replay of the debate on mute, eyes fixed not on words, but expressions. Her expressions. The way she smiled before rebutting, the twitch of her eyebrow when a point stung, the pause when truth threatened her rehearsed rhetoric.
“Bad idea,” Nasreen, his sister, said behind him, sipping coffee.
“What?”
“You’re watching her like a man, not a strategist.”
He said nothing.
“You know who her father is. You know what they stand for.”
“I know what she stands for. I saw glimpses.”
“Glimpses,” Nasreen scoffed. “Ishaan, this isn’t college debate. This is war. Don’t make it personal.”
But it already was.
He reached for his notebook and scribbled: If you can win her mind, maybe you can rewrite the map.
Two days later, a book launch. Neutral ground. Aarushi arrived alone, in a simple black sari, drawing glances. Ishaan stood near the exit, trying to leave unnoticed.
“Leaving already?” she asked behind him.
He turned. “Not a fan of literature events filled with people who don’t read.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
“I heard you’d be here.”
“Stalking’s a bad look for strategists.”
“Curiosity’s not stalking.”
They stepped into the corner of the garden, away from flashing cameras. Beneath a large neem tree, something unspoken settled between them.
She asked, “Why did you message me?”
He didn’t lie. “Because I think you’re better than the party you serve.”
“And you’re better than the poetry you hide behind.”
They both smiled.
The air thickened.
He whispered, “Do you ever wonder… what would happen if we weren’t on opposite sides?”
“I do,” she replied. “But not for long.”
They didn’t touch. They didn’t kiss. But something inside both of them burned anyway.
Part 2: Slogans and Secrets
It had been three days since the book launch and the neem-tree conversation, but Aarushi couldn’t get Ishaan’s voice out of her mind. It wasn’t just the words he’d said—it was the way he had looked at her, like he saw past the press releases and television soundbites and caught a glimpse of the person underneath.
And that was dangerous.
She was scheduled to visit her constituency office in Rampur North, a sleepy town recently awakened by election fever. Posters bearing her face smiled down from old buildings. Her father’s aides had already ensured the press knew she would be addressing a rally by evening.
“Be tough today,” Rajendra Singh had warned her over phone. “Local papers say you looked too ‘soft’ in the debate. We’re building a lioness, not a dove.”
She had smiled politely, keeping her retort to herself. Her father didn’t understand that public opinion no longer responded only to strength—it responded to nuance. That was something Ishaan had said once in a podcast she had pretended not to listen to.
As she entered the campaign office, banners were being arranged, slogans rehearsed. “Desh ke liye Aarushi” read the giant backdrop in bold saffron letters. She nodded at volunteers and sank into the worn leather chair in her cabin, pulling up her phone. She typed and deleted a message three times before settling on: “Do you believe in destiny or just tactics?”
He replied instantly: “Tactics. Destiny’s for poets and cowards.”
“Says the man who scribbles Urdu verses in his notebook margins.”
“Touché. Meeting in Delhi soon?”
“Parliament Café. Tuesday. 6:30.”
Tuesday came cloaked in golden Delhi dusk. The Parliament Café was discreet, frequented by political interns, off-duty journalists, and those chasing proximity to power. Aarushi arrived early, ordering adrak chai and opening her leather-bound planner, pretending to review talking points.
When Ishaan entered, he was in a dark green kurta and jeans, his usual minimalist aesthetic. She noticed the absence of a laptop. He always remembered everything.
“No security?” he teased.
“No need. I’m not here for war.”
“Then for what?”
“Maybe,” she paused, “to find out how a man who hates power seems to understand it so well.”
He sipped her chai before ordering his own. “Maybe because I’ve seen what it does to people who chase it. My father lost his soul before he lost his seat.”
Aarushi studied him. “And what about you? You think staying outside the ring keeps you clean?”
“I think I’d rather pull the strings than wear the mask.”
Silence. Then she asked, “What if someone wore the mask, but didn’t forget the face underneath?”
“That would make her very dangerous,” he said quietly.
She didn’t flinch. “And very alone.”
Their fingers brushed unintentionally. Neither pulled away.
Later that night, Aarushi stood on her balcony, gazing over the city’s blinking lights. She wondered when politics had stopped being a dream and started feeling like armor. There had been a time when she’d wanted to change laws, empower women, educate children. But somewhere between constituency meetings and curated tweets, it had become about headlines. About silencing the other side.
Ishaan had reminded her what it felt like to speak without defending. To listen without preparing a rebuttal.
Her phone pinged.
“You said something today I can’t shake.”
She smiled, replying: “Which part?”
“‘Very alone.’”
She hesitated. Then typed: “We don’t have to be.”
The next week moved quickly. Aarushi delivered a fiery speech in Bareilly. Ishaan published a youth manifesto draft that went viral for its clarity and courage. Political circles buzzed. Pundits speculated about them, but never together.
Until a photograph surfaced.
It was grainy but undeniable. Aarushi and Ishaan, seated too close at the Parliament Café, her hand touching his forearm. The caption was harmless: “Old classmates catching up?” But the implications were not.
Her party elders called. “Maintain distance,” they warned. “You’re rising. Don’t let romance ruin strategy.”
Ishaan’s inbox was flooded with passive-aggressive messages from colleagues. “The enemy’s daughter? Be careful.”
But that night, they met anyway.
In his apartment. Behind drawn curtains. No campaign managers. No legacy. No microphones.
Just two people stripped of their titles.
She stood by the bookshelf, trailing a finger along the spines of Faiz and Gibran.
“You’re a walking contradiction,” she murmured.
“So are you.”
She turned, eyes steady. “If I fall in love with you… does that make me disloyal to my party?”
He walked up to her slowly. “No. But it may mean you’ll have to choose.”
“And if I don’t want to?”
“Then we stay like this. Half shadows. Half truths.”
The silence between them thickened.
He leaned in. She didn’t stop him.
When their lips met, it wasn’t tender. It was urgent, years of restraint dissolving in one stolen moment. It was a kiss forged not just by desire, but by defiance.
When they parted, breathless, she whispered, “This doesn’t change anything.”
He replied, “It changes everything.”
Part 3: The Leak
Ishaan didn’t sleep that night. He sat by his window, the city lights flickering like anxious thoughts, the silence between texts louder than anything else. Aarushi had left with a smile, but he knew the storm was coming.
By morning, it had arrived.
A forwarded link flashed on his phone: “Secret Alliance? Singh Scion Spotted With Opposition Strategist” — accompanied by the same grainy photograph, now sharpened, zoomed, and annotated with red circles like a crime scene.
Below it, the speculation ran wild:
“Are love and politics ever separate?”
“Is this why Rizvi’s youth manifesto favors ‘cross-ideological unity’?”
“Sources say Rajendra Singh is furious. Internal party review underway.”
Ishaan’s jaw tightened.
He scrolled further, past memes, past trolls. Past betrayal.
Because one of those “sources” had to be someone close.
And he had a hunch.
He dialed quickly. “Nasreen?”
His sister picked up after two rings. “Yes.”
“You leaked it.”
“I protected you,” she snapped. “They were already whispering. Better it come from a friend than a snake.”
“You turned our truth into ammunition.”
“You turned our strategy room into a romance novel,” she replied coldly. “Don’t act shocked.”
He hung up.
Aarushi, meanwhile, was at her father’s bungalow. A thick curtain of silence separated her from the world. Her father stood by the French window, arms crossed, phone switched off, tension rolling off him like heat.
“So it’s true,” he finally said.
She didn’t respond.
“You’re in love with the enemy.”
“I’m in love with a man,” she corrected. “Not his party.”
“That’s not how the world sees it. That’s not how politics works, Aarushi.”
She stepped forward. “And what if I don’t care how politics works?”
Rajendra turned, eyes sharp. “Then step out of it. Because the seat, the votes, the volunteers—they don’t follow heartbeats. They follow headlines.”
Silence stretched between them.
“I never asked for your approval,” she said quietly.
“But you’ll need it to survive,” he replied.
She left the room without slamming the door. But it was a louder rebellion than any scream.
Later that evening, Ishaan waited at their usual spot—an abandoned terrace two blocks from Connaught Place. A safe house of sorts, where Delhi’s noise faded and shadows gave them privacy.
Aarushi arrived without a word.
He stood. “You saw it?”
She nodded. “I should’ve known. We were never invisible.”
He reached out. “I’m sorry.”
She looked at him—really looked at him—and asked, “Do you regret it?”
“No.”
“Even if it costs us everything?”
“I’d rather lose power than lose this.”
She touched his chest lightly. “And I’d rather fight for both.”
The next day, their respective parties issued internal notices.
Aarushi’s campaign was suspended “pending review.”
Ishaan was “advised to step away from public-facing roles.”
The punishment wasn’t total—but it was precise. Muzzling. Warning.
Behind the scenes, old alliances shifted. Aarushi’s father began grooming another candidate from within the party—her cousin. Ishaan’s manifesto was scrubbed from the Janchetna website. The message was clear.
Silence or exile.
But love had already planted itself too deep.
They began meeting late at night, exchanging notes, dreams, fragments of policy drafts and poetry. They discussed campaign finance loopholes between kisses. Debated education reforms wrapped in sheets. Their intimacy was rebellion. And relief.
But one evening, she showed up different.
Withdrawn. Quiet.
“What happened?” Ishaan asked.
She handed him a file.
Aarushi had found a dossier hidden in her father’s study. It detailed illegal land acquisitions tied to their party’s redevelopment schemes. Signatures, sealed letters, and photos of displaced villagers.
“It’s real,” she whispered. “And he’s neck-deep in it.”
Ishaan held the file like it was burning.
“You’re giving this to me?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “If I do… you’ll publish it.”
“I would have to.”
“And if you do… you’ll destroy my family.”
She looked away. “And me.”
He stared at the file.
The weight of love. Of truth. Of consequences.
She asked, “What do you choose, Ishaan?”
He didn’t answer.
Part 4: The Edge of the Line
Ishaan didn’t sleep. The file sat untouched on his desk, as if daring him to move. Outside his window, Delhi blinked its neon indifference. Inside, the room buzzed with the sound of betrayal waiting to hatch.
At 3:12 a.m., he finally opened it.
He read every page.
Eviction notices stamped without hearings. Land registry manipulation. Dummy companies laundering money through cultural development grants. And in the middle of it all—Rajendra Singh’s signature.
It wasn’t just corruption. It was calculated, brutal, and cloaked in patriotism.
He slammed the file shut.
This wasn’t a manifesto disagreement.
This was criminal.
Aarushi woke up to silence.
No calls. No alerts. No knocks on her door.
She didn’t need to ask if Ishaan had read the file. She knew he had. The question was: what now?
Part of her hoped he would burn it.
Another part hoped he would save it.
But what scared her most… was the part of her that wanted him to expose it—because she couldn’t. Not without tearing down the only roof she’d ever known.
By afternoon, the political storm began.
A leaked exposé titled “Red Lines and Land Lies” surfaced on an independent digital portal.
Anonymous source.
Photographic evidence.
Financial records.
A ten-point breakdown of how one of the country’s biggest infrastructure projects had displaced over two thousand families in Uttar Pradesh—with ties pointing back to Rajendra Singh and his closest aides.
Social media exploded. Journalists chased leads. Parties scrambled for statements.
Aarushi stared at her phone as the headline stared back at her.
Ishaan had done it.
Without naming her.
Without implicating her.
But she knew. And so did he.
That evening, Rajendra Singh’s convoy rolled into their Delhi residence like a funeral procession. He didn’t speak to her as he entered, but his eyes were twin knives.
At dinner, he finally said, “Did you know?”
She didn’t lie. “Yes.”
“You gave it to him?”
“No.”
“But you didn’t stop him.”
Aarushi met his gaze. “You never stopped yourself either.”
He slammed his glass against the table. “You ungrateful child. Everything you have—your seat, your image, your voice—it came from me.”
“No,” she said, standing up. “It came from the people you stepped on to build your empire. I just borrowed your surname.”
The room fell into a choking silence.
“Leave,” he said coldly.
“Gladly.”
Ishaan opened the door to find her standing in the rain, soaked, breathless, but unwavering.
“You didn’t wait,” she said.
“I couldn’t.”
He stepped aside. She entered.
“I kept you out of it,” he said gently. “No names. No mention. They can’t trace it back.”
She shook her head. “It’s not about being traced. It’s about being torn.”
He stepped forward. “Do you hate me?”
“No,” she whispered. “But I’m terrified of how much I still love you.”
They stood in silence, letting the sound of the rain fill what words couldn’t.
Finally, she asked, “Where does this leave us?”
He didn’t answer right away.
Then he said, “At the truth.”
She nodded. “And truth doesn’t need power to stand. But love…?”
His voice cracked. “Maybe love is the only power left that still matters.”
Outside, the rain turned heavier. Inside, they stood at the edge of everything—careers crumbling, family ties severed, ideologies blurred.
And yet, somehow, they were still standing.
Together.
But for how long?
Part 5: Firestorm
By morning, Aarushi was no longer the rising star of her party.
She was its embarrassment.
A statement was issued from the central committee—carefully worded, emotionless:
“The party distances itself from any individual, regardless of bloodline, who fails to protect its values and integrity during critical times.”
Her name wasn’t mentioned.
But it didn’t need to be.
Her face was missing from the next rally’s posters. Volunteers were told to report to her cousin, Dheeraj Singh. Her security detail was downgraded. Her phone stopped ringing.
Silence had become exile.
Ishaan, on the other hand, found himself in a different kind of storm.
The Janchetna party praised the exposé in public—but privately chastised him for the timing.
“You could’ve held it until after the alliance vote,” the general secretary snapped. “Now we’ve lost key support in UP.”
“They’re criminals,” Ishaan retorted.
“They were allies,” the man said. “You exposed corruption and cost us seats. You’re not a crusader, Ishaan. You’re a strategist. Start acting like one.”
But he didn’t regret it.
Not for a second.
Until he saw Aarushi’s face on the news—walking out of a press conference, alone, lips tight, eyes haunted.
That evening, they didn’t meet.
He messaged. She didn’t reply.
He waited. She didn’t come.
He understood.
Love can survive scrutiny.
But guilt? Guilt sinks it.
The next day, she returned to Rampur North. Not as a candidate. Not as a star. Just as a woman with a name.
The villagers still greeted her—some with warmth, some with suspicion. Rumors had reached even here. That she’d leaked documents. That she’d slept with the enemy. That she’d turned on her blood.
She didn’t defend herself.
She walked the muddy lanes, visited homes she once promised clean water to, sat beside women whose husbands were jailed for protesting land loss. She listened.
For once, she didn’t ask for votes.
Only forgiveness.
Back in Delhi, Ishaan was approached by a journalist friend.
“You know they’ll come for you next, right?” the friend said.
“They already have.”
“I mean legally. Rajendra Singh is filing defamation. You’ll be dragged through months of courtrooms.”
Ishaan smiled grimly. “He’s trying to scare me.”
“He’s trying to crush you.”
That night, they met again. Not at the terrace. Not in the café. But on the banks of the Yamuna, under the rusting arc of an old railway bridge.
Aarushi looked thinner. Paler. But her voice was steady.
“I went back. To the village.”
“I know,” Ishaan said. “I followed the photos.”
“They didn’t curse me. But they didn’t trust me either.”
“They will.”
She shook her head. “Not if I keep running.”
He looked at her, unsure.
“I want to testify,” she said.
“What?”
“I want to give my name to the exposé. Go public. Tell the truth. On record. On camera.”
He stepped back. “Aarushi—”
“No more hiding. No more being the daughter of someone. No more ‘strategic silence.’ I’m done being useful to men with agendas. Even you.”
He was stunned. “I didn’t use you.”
“Didn’t you?”
Silence again.
Then softer, she added, “Or maybe I used you too. To feel something real in a world of glass.”
“I never wanted to break you,” he said.
“You didn’t,” she whispered. “You made me see the cracks. And I finally want to be the one to shatter them.”
He reached for her hand.
She let him.
And in the hush of a polluted river and forgotten train tracks, they promised each other nothing—except to stand by the truth, wherever it led.
Even if it led away from each other.
Part 6: The Mic and the Minefield
The television lights were blinding, but Aarushi didn’t flinch.
She sat upright in the middle of the studio, flanked by two empty chairs—one for the anchor, the other symbolically left open. A production assistant clipped the mic to her silk kurta. Her palms were sweating, but her voice was already rehearsing the first sentence in her head.
The anchor, a grey-haired veteran known for never pulling punches, sat down with a thin smile.
“You’re not here representing any party,” he began, “so why should anyone believe you?”
“Because I have nothing left to gain,” Aarushi said. “Only the truth to lose.”
Ishaan watched from a quiet co-working space downtown. The café’s crowd was muted, but the screen above the counter had everyone’s attention. The barista paused mid-pour. Someone dropped a spoon.
He hadn’t seen her look so calm since before the debate.
She spoke of the land.
The evictions.
The signatures.
Her father’s involvement.
And her own silence.
“I am not proud of my delay,” she said, eyes fixed on the camera. “But I am here now. I am ready now.”
Then came the part she hadn’t warned Ishaan about:
“I did not leak the dossier. But the man who did… I loved him. And maybe I still do.”
Gasps rippled through the audience.
Ishaan’s heart stopped.
Phones lit up like a riot.
Journalists hunted for him outside his apartment.
Party leaders called him everything from ‘reckless’ to ‘romantic fool.’
His mentor sent a two-word text: “Fix this.”
The next morning, the headlines didn’t scream.
They roared.
“Aarushi Breaks Silence, Names Love and Lies in One Blow”
“Singh vs. Singh: Daughter Turns Whistleblower”
“The Romeo and Juliet of Indian Politics?”
For a brief moment, the nation remembered what moral courage looked like. But just as quickly, it remembered its appetite for blood.
Outside her old bungalow, protestors gathered. Some burned posters. Others screamed.
“Traitor!”
“Sleeper agent!”
“Bikau beti!”
Inside, Aarushi sat in a cold, windowless room—alone.
Ishaan came at night, disguised in a helmet and oversized jacket.
She opened the door without a word.
He looked at her face—tired, raw, and stunningly brave.
“You didn’t tell me you’d name me.”
“I had to,” she said softly. “Not because I wanted to expose you—but because I didn’t want to erase you.”
He stepped forward. “You just made me the face of the rebellion.”
“You already were,” she said. “I just took the mask off.”
They stood in the hallway, still and silent.
Then she added, “They’ll arrest you soon.”
“I know.”
“They’ll humiliate you.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
“Do you hate me?”
He took her face in his hands.
“I love you.”
Tears filled her eyes. “Then run.”
But he shook his head.
“No. I’m not running anymore. If we fall, we fall together.”
Later that week, a summons arrived.
Ishaan was to appear before a judicial inquiry panel.
Aarushi, too.
And they did.
Side by side.
In simple clothes.
No party badges.
No security.
Just two names, two truths, two hearts that refused to be silenced.
Part 7: Bargains and Broken Glass
The inquiry hall was built to intimidate.
Marble floors, dark oak panels, and rows of judgmental silence. Cameras weren’t allowed inside, but that didn’t stop the dozens of reporters camped outside, their flashes waiting to record history—or humiliation.
Ishaan adjusted his watch.
Aarushi sat beside him, wearing an off-white kurta, her hair tied back. No makeup. No smile. Just resolve.
Their names were called.
They stood together.
But when the proceedings began, they were separated—one on each end of the long rectangular table. Strategically distanced.
So they couldn’t whisper. Couldn’t comfort. Couldn’t feel like they were still on the same side.
Aarushi’s interrogation began first.
“Miss Singh, you allege your father forged land documents?”
“I presented evidence. The allegations are not only mine—they are factual.”
“Do you know what the political cost of your statement is?”
“I know the human cost of ignoring it.”
“And the man who made this public—what was your role in his decision?”
“I didn’t make it for him. I loved him. That doesn’t make me complicit. That makes me honest.”
The murmurs around the hall were loud enough to echo.
Ishaan’s turn.
“Mr. Rizvi, how did you come into possession of these documents?”
“They were delivered anonymously. But I verified them independently.”
“Did Aarushi Singh assist you?”
“She did not stop me. That is all I will say.”
“Why didn’t you bring it to the police directly?”
“Because the police are answerable to the same people who benefit from the crimes.”
Louder murmurs.
The lead panelist, an old man with sharp glasses and a sharper pen, scribbled something on his notepad.
“This is not a revolution, Mr. Rizvi. This is a courtroom.”
Ishaan replied, “That’s exactly what revolutions begin as—rooms like this, and people like us.”
When the session broke for the day, Aarushi and Ishaan met outside.
They didn’t speak.
Just sat together on the old stone steps like college kids after a difficult class.
She leaned her head on his shoulder. “They’re going to destroy you.”
“They’ll try.”
“They’ll say I planted it all. That it was a lovers’ ploy.”
“Let them,” he said. “Truth doesn’t care who delivers it.”
That night, Aarushi received a visitor.
Her father.
Rajendra Singh didn’t come in anger.
He came with an offer.
“If you withdraw your statement,” he said quietly, “I will protect him. I can make the case vanish.”
“And what about the truth?”
“Truth is negotiable. Headlines are not.”
“I thought I was already disowned.”
“You were. But disowned doesn’t mean forgotten. I will always choose family over facts.”
Aarushi stood. “Then you never really chose me.”
The next day, Ishaan was approached by a government official in a grey Nehru jacket.
“You can walk away,” the man whispered in a corridor corner. “Say the documents were unverified. Say you were used. We’ll let you go. Quietly. With a job in a policy think tank. No arrest. No inquiry.”
“And Aarushi?”
“She’ll be handled.”
Ishaan’s lips curled into a bitter smile.
“You want to save the body by amputating the heart.”
“She’s already damaged goods,” the man said coldly. “You still have a career.”
He returned to Aarushi that evening with heavy steps.
She knew the look.
“They want me to bury it,” he said.
“And me,” she added.
He didn’t speak.
“Will you take the deal?”
He hesitated.
“Ishaan?”
He looked at her and whispered, “I want to save us.”
“And I want us to mean something.”
Silence again.
Then she kissed him—quiet, fierce, final.
“No deal,” she said. “Not if it costs our names.”
In the next hearing, Aarushi submitted a new statement.
She named more names.
Not just her father—but contractors, bureaucrats, and a senior minister.
Ishaan backed it with financial trails and real-time satellite imagery of the evicted villages.
The panel grew colder.
The system began to crack.
And somewhere, a storm started gathering—not of scandal, but of change.
Part 8: The Cost of Truth
The Molotov hit her car windshield before the driver could even react.
Glass shattered.
Flames erupted.
Aarushi screamed.
Her security team, reinstated just days ago as a formality, pulled her out through the backseat even as fire licked at her sari. She coughed, stumbled, landed on her knees. But she was alive.
The driver wasn’t so lucky.
The news broke within minutes.
“Aarushi Singh Survives Assassination Attempt — Political Vendetta Suspected”
“Silencing the Daughter Who Spoke”
Delhi burned that evening—not with riots, but with rage. Twitter trended #TruthUnderAttack. Protestors marched at India Gate, holding up photos of her bruised face. Artists painted murals. Students lit candles.
But behind the scenes, old men in power suits sat in silent rooms and made colder decisions.
“She’s a liability now.”
“So is he.”
“Do we cut both?”
Ishaan reached the hospital within an hour.
Security tried to stop him. They failed.
He burst into the emergency waiting room, and there she was—on a stretcher, half-conscious, bandaged, lips cracked but still whispering to the nurse, “Tell them I’ll testify tomorrow. No delay.”
When she saw him, her voice cracked. “Ishaan…”
He took her hand. “I’m here.”
“You were right,” she murmured. “The closer we get to the truth, the louder they try to kill it.”
“You’re still breathing. So is the truth.”
She squeezed his fingers.
That night, Ishaan met his old mentor in a dark café in Lodhi Colony. A man who had once taught him that information wins wars.
“You should leave now,” the mentor said. “They’ll come for you next.”
“They already have.”
“This isn’t about jail anymore. It’s about erasure. Accidents. Anonymous bullets.”
“I’m not running.”
The man sighed. “Neither did she. And now her body smells like smoke.”
Ishaan stood. “Then let me burn too.”
The next day, Aarushi, bruised and stitched, walked into the inquiry commission flanked by reporters and riot police.
The room stood still.
She sat, lips cracked, voice dry—but unshaken.
“Someone tried to kill me yesterday,” she began. “But that only confirms what we’ve said here is real.”
She named more names. Cleared more fog.
Ishaan joined her mid-session, laying down physical blueprints—offshore transfers, shadow companies, land deeds.
They were no longer lovers.
They were a movement.
By night, a mob surrounded Ishaan’s flat.
Stones rained on his windows.
Aarushi was moved to an undisclosed location under “protective custody”—which she knew meant house arrest dressed in concern.
They couldn’t touch them legally.
So they tried psychologically.
They separated them.
No contact.
No phones.
No letters.
Only silence.
Days passed.
Then a week.
Then two.
One day, Aarushi woke to find a note slipped under her door.
No name.
No message.
Just one word, written in hurried ink:
“Court.”
She knew what it meant.
The inquiry had led to prosecution.
And the trial was about to begin.
Part 9: The Trial Begins
The Central District Court was surrounded by chaos.
Police barricades groaned under the weight of media vans and protestors. Placards waved in the wind—some hailing Aarushi and Ishaan as heroes, others branding them traitors. The city hadn’t seen such frenzy since the last general election.
Inside, the courtroom was colder than usual, despite the summer heat.
Ishaan entered first, wearing a plain black kurta. No press, no statement. Just steady eyes and clenched fists.
Aarushi followed ten minutes later, escorted by a female constable who whispered, “You don’t have to do this, ma’am.”
“I do,” Aarushi replied.
They met eyes across the room. Neither smiled. They didn’t need to. It was war now—and they were in uniform.
The prosecution opened with venom.
They painted Ishaan as a political saboteur, an ambitious strategist who seduced a woman for secrets.
They painted Aarushi as an emotionally unstable daughter, angry at being sidelined, desperate for relevance.
“She sought revenge for being replaced in the Rampur North ticket,” the prosecutor thundered. “And Mr. Rizvi gave her the perfect outlet.”
Photos were shown.
The café meeting.
The Parliament steps.
Their hands touching.
Their eyes lingering.
“The romance was not incidental. It was instrumental.”
The defense rose.
Ishaan’s lawyer, an aging man who once fought Emergency-era sedition cases, tore into the accusation.
“You call them lovers, but you fear them because they refused to be lovers first. They were citizens. They were conscience.”
Then Aarushi took the stand.
The courtroom stilled.
She spoke, unshaking: “Yes, I loved him. And yes, I defied my party. But what I exposed wasn’t a matter of heart. It was a matter of fact.”
“You leaked confidential files.”
“I revealed public crimes.”
“You betrayed your father.”
“I fulfilled my duty.”
Gasps.
Her voice faltered only once—when asked, “Do you still love Mr. Rizvi?”
She looked at Ishaan. “I do. But not because he saved me. Because he stood beside me when I chose to save myself.”
The court adjourned for the day.
Outside, more threats came.
Anonymous messages.
A bullet-shaped envelope slipped under Ishaan’s door.
A dead dog found near Aarushi’s safehouse.
They weren’t subtle anymore.
But they still didn’t break.
One evening, two days before final arguments, Ishaan sneaked into Aarushi’s guarded building with the help of a sympathetic constable.
He found her on the rooftop.
She didn’t turn when he arrived.
“Tomorrow they’ll try to call us liars again,” she said.
“They always will.”
“I’m not scared of them.”
“I know.”
“I’m scared I’ll never get to love you without a war around us.”
He stepped beside her.
“You won’t have to fight forever.”
She turned. “How do you know?”
“Because someday, truth doesn’t need shields. It just becomes the air.”
She rested her head on his shoulder.
For a while, the world didn’t exist.
Just a rooftop.
And a promise.
Part 10: The Verdict and the Vow
The courtroom was suffocating.
No air-conditioning. No talking. Just tension so thick it felt like breathing through gauze.
Aarushi sat in the front row, her palms damp, her nails chewed raw. Ishaan was beside her, expression unreadable. The judge, a woman in her late fifties with grey hair and a reputation for incorruptibility, flipped the final page of her notes and looked up.
“In the matter of People vs. Rajendra Singh and others, this court finds sufficient admissible evidence to direct a criminal inquiry under sections 420, 120B, and 409 of the Indian Penal Code.”
A beat.
“But this court also observes that both Ms. Aarushi Singh and Mr. Ishaan Rizvi acted within the framework of their constitutional rights—of speech, dissent, and duty.”
Gasps.
Then silence.
Then the judge’s final words: “The court commends their courage, even if it cannot protect them from politics.”
Gavel.
Done.
The reaction was instant.
The ruling party issued a cold statement: “The law will take its course.”
The opposition tried to claim Ishaan and Aarushi as symbols of their movement.
News anchors debated everything—justice, betrayal, love, and legacy.
But Ishaan and Aarushi stayed silent.
For once, they owed no one an explanation.
That night, they met where it all began—the Parliament Café.
The manager didn’t recognize them. Or pretended not to. Fame had become fog.
They sat at the corner table, no press, no security, just two people with deep shadows under their eyes and light in their hearts.
She stirred her chai. “We’re free.”
He nodded. “And unemployed.”
They laughed, tired and real.
She reached across the table. “What now?”
“Now we disappear for a while,” he said. “Let the dust settle. Let the labels fade.”
“Will you still love me when no one is watching?”
“I only ever loved you then.”
She smiled. For the first time in weeks, it reached her eyes.
Three months later, they were spotted in a small village school in Uttarakhand, helping set up a reading program.
They refused all interviews.
No memoirs. No brand deals.
Just quiet mornings, rebuilding from ashes.
One year later, a news report mentioned them—briefly.
“Former political whistleblowers Aarushi Singh and Ishaan Rizvi now run a rural civic fellowship for youth. They live together. No wedding. No hashtags. Just a borrowed home and borrowed time.”
And perhaps that was their greatest rebellion.
To love without spectacle.
To live without slogan.
To win without power.
The End
