They Who Lived

1

The air inside Sinha & Sons Corporate Headquarters didn’t move without permission. Double-height glass walls, spotless marble floors, and the scent of imported leather. This wasn’t just an office — it was a statement, a testimony to vision and power.

Behind a perfectly symmetrical mahogany desk sat Amar Sinha — early forties, sharp suit, sharper instincts. His salt-and-pepper hair was combed back like it carried the burden of legacy. The man didn’t just own wealth — he embodied it.

A framed photograph of his father, Late Nilmohan Sinha, watched from the corner of the desk. Black-and-white. Regal. The man who had built the great empire, the man who had always been highly respected in the society.

Amar’s voice echoed in the room, smooth as silk and just as calculated. “You see,” he said to the two investors seated across him, “my father gave me a business. I turned it into a brand. That’s the difference between nostalgia and legacy.” Amar never fully was ready to accept that it was entirely his father’s credit.

The woman smiled. “And we’re ready to be part of that legacy, Mr. Sinha. Business giants like Nilmohan Sir are rare in this world. The multi-storeyed mall proposal excites us indeed. And we’re ready for this joint venture. But the only concern is—”

“Legal formalities?” Amar asked before the woman could complete her statement.

“Yes. I mean, ours is not that big a firm as yours. And at this point, we don’t wish to invite legal battles.”

“Yes, they’re always concerned. I have my own sources- they’ll handle everything. Let the lawyers chew on it. We’ll cut the ribbon before they finish dessert.”

“Well then, let the mall be an epitome of affluence and stature in the city. Nice to meet you, Mr. Sinha.”

A chuckle followed. Deals were best sealed with laughter and vague reassurances. The investors left, pleased. Amar turned slightly in his revolving chair, his eyes lingering on the city skyline. The Sinha logo gleamed across rooftops — a familiar crown over unfamiliar lives.

Just then, Ravi walked in. Early 30s, efficient, silently exhausted with work. He had been Amar Sinha’s personal assistant for the last seven years. “Congratulations, Sir. That’s a great victory for the Sinhas.”

“Absolutely,” Amar said. “Big win. Sen Sisters have been our rivals for a long time. A joint venture will sort it out entirely. Go, get sweets distributed among my employees. Tell them that we’ve won a great deal.”

Ravi hesitated. “Sir… staff was expecting something else. It’s been five years. No increment. They’re starting to talk ill about the firm.”

Amar leaned forward, smile fading. “Ravi, I’m running a company, not an NGO. I know how to handle business and I won’t learn it from my middle-class slaves. You want me to raise salaries every time someone’s birthday comes up?”

“No, sir, but—”

“Listen, I don’t have money to waste. They’ll have to wait for the increments. And I want no further discussion regarding this.”

The irony didn’t escape Ravi. He didn’t argue. He knew the pattern. Amar stood up, stretching his arms like a king surveying his kingdom.

“Listen, book me a break next week. So much pressure at work- I need a good vacation. An exclusive suite. Quiet hills. Himachal, maybe.”

“Sir… Himachal?” Ravi blinked. “After everything that happened last time? Hilly roads aren’t dependable, Sir. Prone to accidents.”

“Neither is life dependable, Ravi” Amar said softly. “But we take it anyway. And what is life that has got no thrill, no unpredictability, nothing to live for?”

Ravi nodded, tapping into his tab. “Ok, I will have it done. But, before that. Two things, sir. First, riots in our Hemantpur unit. The factory’s partially damaged. Might be sabotage or protests for the increments or maybe, rival groups. And second — business excellence awards tonight. You’re nominated. Both need an immediate response, Sir. Either you do this or that.”

Amar barely blinked. “Tell the driver we’re going to the awards.”

“Sir, but Hemantpur—?”

“If one factory burns, I’ll buy ten more. But if I miss the cameras tonight, I miss the front page. Front page matters, Ravi. Memories don’t.”

“Very well, Sir. Your car will be here within an hour. Should I order your lunch?”

2

The film ‘Killbill Society’ had barely reached the part where the hero was about to reveal his secret when reality decided to steal the show.

Quite literally!

A loud scream cut through the air. A second later, a thief in a fake Marvel hoodie bolted out from the movie hall, pushing past kids, dropping a large tub of caramel popcorn in slow-mo horror, and clutching a stolen gold chain like it was a trophy.

From behind came Vaibhav Mishra, early 30s, sharply dressed with a lean build, and a scar across his forehead that suggested either a heroic past or a very clumsy childhood or none of them.

“Wait! You son of a second-hand sandal! Stop right there!” Vaibhav yelled, running after the thief like he’d trained for this moment his whole life.“Bastard, I swear on my EMI bills, if I catch you, I’ll smash your head like an overripe mango in Holi! I’ll cut apart your head and let little boys play football with it.”

People looked up. Some applauded. Some recorded.

And then, the ultimate drama. The thief stopped, turned around, and pulled out a knife — a big, shiny one that screamed: I’m not in the mood for fair fights.

Vaibhav skidded to a stop like a cartoon dog and blinked. “Fine, keep it, Sir. Take the chain with you. My life’s more important,” he said quickly, retreating in reverse.

He ran straight back to the woman still standing outside the theatre door — arms folded, face set in rage, and wearing the unmistakable expression of a newly married woman questioning all her life choices.

Jheelum, his wife of two months, stared at him like she could summon thunder just by blinking.

“You ran back?” she asked.

“He had a knife, Jheelum. A real one. Like from Crime Patrol. This wasn’t part of the wedding vows,” Vaibhav gasped.

“That was my mother’s chain,” she said, stone-faced. “He snatched it. And you just—ran?”

“I confronted him,” Vaibhav said, panting. “Then I assessed the situation. Then I ran. That’s strategy.”

Jheelum folded her arms tighter. “You’re a fearless idiot. With zero execution. Are all the IT firm guys like you?”

“I’ll go to the police,” he offered, straightening his shirt.

Jheelum scoffed. “Please. Everyone gets their cut. The guy at the desk will ask which model the chain was. If it’s not at least 22 carats, he won’t even finish the complaint.”

“Wow. Your trust in the system is truly the stuff of bedtime stories.”

“I’ve grown up around realities, Vaibhav. You’ve grown up thinking sarcasm can fix everything.”

Vaibhav held up his hands. “To be fair, sarcasm got me you. So… kinda works.”

She tried to stay angry. But the dimple gave her away.

They walked out and landed at the mall’s food court. Neon menus. Children screaming for fries. Teenagers fighting over who paid last time. Life’s chaos, in full Dolby surround.

They found a corner seat. Jheelum slumped into it.

“Life has been so different after we came back from honeymoon, isn’t it?” Vaibhav said, sitting opposite. “Ever since we got back, we’ve had: one flooded apartment, one burnt toaster, a cockroach invasion, and now, a chain-snatching. Problems and problems. Life feels different.”

“And a man who thought threatening a thief with a ‘mango’ metaphor was enough.”

He smiled. “But you’re here. So I think I’m still winning.”

She looked at him — the fool, the lovable fool. “I swear, Vaibhav, you’re the kind of man who’d gift me a cactus and say ‘It’s low maintenance like our love life.’”

“That’s brilliant. Remind me to actually do that for our next anniversary.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”

They sipped on two very overpriced milkshakes, watching people pass by. Vaibhav leaned forward.

“You know what I love? That even in your anger, you look like someone who’d win courtroom battles just by the stare.”

Jheelum smirked. “And you? You look like someone who’d cry if the judge raised his voice.”

“Only if the judge is taller than six feet. I have my limits.”

She shook her head. “I didn’t marry you for your courage.”

“Clearly.”

“I married you because no matter what chaos happens… I never feel alone when you’re around. We were good friends, in fact, the best friends for life.”

There it was. The real stuff — not flowery, not dressed in violins. But real.

He touched her hand across the table. “You make life weirdly beautiful. Like badly translated Japanese instructions. Confusing, but kind of poetic.”

She laughed, full and loud. They stood up. “So?” he asked. “Shall we try and have a peaceful dinner or are we aiming for another heist?”

“I want dumplings.”

He grinned. “We’re getting dumplings. But let’s be quick. It might begin to rain anytime soon.”

And hand-in-hand, they walked off — scar and sarcasm, fire and steel — two messy humans trying to love right in a world that keeps tripping over itself.

3

Evening wrapped its golden fingers around the towers of Livingstone University, Kolkata. The aged structure stood like an old king with a bitter sense of humor, its red bricks seasoned with politics, research papers, and a touch of mediocrity that clung like moss.

Inside the central library, a silence hung like a court’s judgment.

Near the ‘Philosophy and Thought’ section stood a man who had made many students cry without raising his voice. Professor Devnarayan Mukherjee — starched formal shirt, tie knotted with moral precision, eyes that had read more books than emotions, and a moustache that could qualify as a discipline policy.

Beside him, Prem, mid-twenties, carrying three different notebooks and the burden of his father’s untimely demise, stood like a schoolboy caught cheating with only guilt and Google as backup.

Dev took out a book titled ‘Visions Beyond Minds’ with the same grace with which a magician pulls out a dove.

“Enough time I’ve given you, Prem,” said Devnarayan, voice sharp like chalk screeching a deadline. “I told you: find me your person of interest, about eight months ago. Someone with great visions. Greater mind. And what do I get instead? Delays and dead ends. This is not how things work here.”

Prem cleared his throat like a failed engine. “Sir… after my father passed, things have been… a bit chaotic. I had to take care of problems and missed a few lectures—”

“Few?” Dev raised an eyebrow so high it probably saw the third-floor archives. Then came the smile — the kind that made students feel like they’d just failed at life’s test paper.

“When my daughter died… it was a Sunday. You know what I did on Monday?” he said, flipping through the book like flipping through a painful memory. “It was the last day before Durga Puja vacations. I still walked into this campus. Delivered all three lectures. On time. Without missing a single comma.”

Prem looked at his shoes. They looked disappointed in him too.

Just then, footsteps echoed from behind the shelves. A younger professor — Dr. Arindam Banerjee, charming in the way politicians shouldn’t be — approached with a nervous smile.

“DM Sir…” he said.

“What shall I DM you now, Dr. Banerjee?”

“Sorry, Dr. Devnarayan Mukherjee. I forgot that you hate abbreviations. The principal assigned a student under your mentorship. His name’s Rehan Aftaz.”

Devnarayan froze mid-page-turn. “What?”

“Rehan Aftaz. First-year MPhil. Bit of a troubled background, but the kid’s got something. He seeks your guidance badly, Sir.”

Dev’s eyes narrowed, and thunderclouds gathered in his tone. “The principal knows everything, yet he keeps throwing these trash at me. I worship Vishnu, Sir. I can never allow them under my mentorship, I’m sorry.”

Arindam blinked awkwardly and nodded, and disappeared quicker than a bonus in government jobs.

Dev turned to Prem again, the emotional detour already archived. “Now, as I was saying. I want the primary presentation this week. No more missed buses. No more personal excuses. And for subject selection—”

He checked his watch — a vintage one, ticking with both time and contempt.

“We’ll go to the National Library after class. The real library. Not this government-funded graveyard of torn indexes and underlined regrets. I heard a storm’s going to come tonight. Lets get there quickly.”

Prem opened his mouth to tell something. Then closed it. He knew better than to argue with a man who could quote Nietzsche and Newton in the same breath and make both sound sarcastic.

They walked off together, the professor with purpose, the student with pens and panic.

Outside, the library lights flickered. Inside, among the books that smelled of ambition and failed UGC forms, the dust settled.