Chapter 1
1
The sliding doors of the emergency unit burst open. A cold gust of antiseptic air was sliced by chaos.
A stretcher rolled in—fast, urgent, shaking under uneven wheels. Blood dripped from its edges like silent punctuation marks against the sterile white floor. The man upon it—middle-aged, bare-chested, a gunshot wound bleeding through gauze pressed hastily over his heart—lay senseless. His face was partly obscured, as though the shadows themselves were reluctant to unveil him.
The air quivered. Time staggered for a moment.
Behind the stretcher came rushed footsteps—a knot of people, torn apart by anguish. Their cries were stifled by the hospital walls, but the tremble in their breath was unmistakable. Eyes—red, glassy, desperate—followed the stretcher’s path like tethered ghosts. The man must have been a famous figure.
Doctors shouted instructions. A nurse stumbled. One of them pressed two fingers on the man’s pulse, whispered something grim, and picked up pace. The stretcher disappeared through the double doors marked TRAUMA UNIT.
But not everyone moved.
At the far end of the corridor, in stark contrast to the chaos, a man sat.
Quiet. Still. Unbothered. He didn’t know so much had happened.
A wide-brimmed indigo hat shadowed most of his face. His coat was old but neat, folded precisely at the edges. In his hands, a book—its title catching the flicker of the hallway light:
“The Irony of Life” – by Pritam Rathore.
Next to him, a young man sat, fidgeting with a hospital token in his hand. His nerves betrayed him. But the man with the book didn’t flinch.
He turned a page, stopped, and with a slow nod, said aloud: “Here, Mr. Rathore writes a very beautiful line…
’One day, when chaos shall rise and fill,
The peace of heart and silent thrill,
I shall be lost in crimson seas,
To answer the call of destinies.’”
He closed the book gently, as if the page could shatter.
“The man’s a brilliant author,” he added, voice low, deliberate. “Knows how to turn blood into poetry.”
A scream echoed from inside the trauma unit. The young man beside him looked toward the chaos. But the man in the hat didn’t turn.
He was still watching the book.
Still listening to the silence between the screams.
Still waiting.
2
In the heart of the city, tucked behind a veil of overgrown ivies and rust-bitten iron gates, stood an age-old mansion. It was a structure carved by time—its red bricks wore the weariness of memories, and its windows whispered stories to the breeze that often came uninvited.
This was the home of Pritam Rathore.
To the world, he was a literary giant—author of timeless novels, architect of award-winning screenplays, a man who walked red carpets and shared champagne with filmmakers. His shelves bore the weight of a lifetime: a Booker, a National Award, two Filmfare black ladies, and a line of certificates framed with a reluctant pride. Yet, in the stillness of his private world, Pritam remained simply... himself.
The walls of his mansion were not painted with color, but with nostalgia. Photographs in black and white—some stained with age, others sharp in memory—hung like echoes. A younger Pritam with an unruly beard, shaking hands with old Satyajit Ray. Another, seated beside Gulzar saab, laughing over a cup of tea. There were paintings, mostly unfinished—brilliant strokes, moody shades—still hanging, untouched.
Books were stacked like bricks in corners, under lamps, beside empty whiskey glasses. The study smelled of aged paper, burnt tobacco, and the slow decay of yesteryears.
Pritam sat at the heart of it—curled on an old leather chair, his ashtray full, a cigarette glowing like the tail of an exhausted comet.
Opposite him sat Samar, his childhood friend. Balding, spectacled, dressed in a cotton kurta—he was a man more grounded than poetic, but in Pritam’s presence, even his realism often found a rhythm.
“You know what baffles me?” Samar asked, eyes twinkling. “You’ve had fame that others dream of. Money. A name. Respect. Yet you never thought of settling down? Of… companionship?”
Pritam smiled, exhaling a cloud of smoke toward the chandelier. “Settle down?” He chuckled. “That phrase always sounded like a death sentence to me.”
“But you loved Rekha. Truly. Why never again?”
He grew quiet. His eyes drifted toward a painting—half-done, yet haunting. Brushstrokes of a woman standing in rain, her face half-turned. Rekha had painted it the day she left.
“Some wounds,” he said softly, “don’t bleed. They just hum inside you… like an old tune. And you fear, if you play another song, the tune might forget its rhythm.”
Samar shook his head, grinning. “Still the poet, I see.”
“And besides,” Pritam leaned back, “solitude is the best fuel of an artist, Samar. It’s in the silence that characters visit me. They knock on my door, sip my whisky, lie on my pages. They… talk. When I’m most alone, I’m most surrounded.”
“You’re mad.”
“I’m a writer. Same thing.”
They laughed. The chandelier trembled faintly with their laughter.
Samar leaned forward. “Tell me then—what about that book? Your magnum opus. The life of… what’s his name? Princeton?”
“Princeton Johannes,” Pritam nodded. “Yes… it’s a story unlike anything I’ve written. The skeleton’s laid, but the flesh? The soul? Still forming. These characters are peculiar. They don’t obey. They’re unpredictable, breathing things. It’s slow.”
“You’ve not been sleeping well, have you?” Samar asked, suddenly concerned.
Pritam sighed, rubbing his temples. “Insomnia. Relentless. Like I’m trapped in a wakeful dream. Night bleeds into morning, and I just… exist. It has become painful for weeks.”
“You need help, Pritam.”
“I hired a compounder. Comes every alternate evening. Pushes a light tranquilizer. Just enough to dull the noise.”
Samar frowned. “What’s his name? Joel, right? You mentioned him over the phone?”
“Yes,” Pritam said, a smile crossing his face. “A strange boy. Gentle. Listens like a priest, talks like a philosopher. Knows how to untangle minds, I think. He helped me more than I expected. Said I suffer from a certain form of creative depression. Gave me reading lists, audiobooks, even cooked for me once.”
Samar raised an eyebrow. “And you trust him?”
“I do. Joel feels… safe. In a way most people don’t.”
Just then, the doorbell rang. Pritam stubbed his cigarette. The echo of the bell resonated across the high ceilings like a note in an empty theatre.
“Must be him,” he said, rising slowly. “On time, like always.”
Samar watched him walk towards the door, his silhouette outlined by the flickering fireplace. Something about the moment felt still. Ominous. As if someone memorable had just entered the story.
