Author's POV

Banaras, India

The first light of dawn kissed the ghats of Banaras, casting a golden glow over the ancient steps leading down to the sacred river Ganga. In the quiet stillness of the morning, a lone figure emerged from the waters, his body glistening with droplets that shimmered like crystals. It was Rishiraj Singh Rathore. He stepped out of the river with the grace of a lion, each movement calculated, deliberate. His dhoti, soaked from the holy dip, clung to his muscular frame, and around his neck hung a rudraksha mala, its beads dark and heavy with sacred energy. His lips moved in silent prayer, invoking Lord Shiva, but his aura radiated something far more primal—a power that commanded both fear and respect from those who dared to gaze upon him.

Rishiraj was not just a man; he was a presence, one that filled the air with an almost palpable tension. His broad shoulders and chiseled physique gave him a godlike appearance, but his eyes—when they opened—betrayed something darker. Those deep, dark eyes held within them a storm, the weight of years of violence, grief, and responsibilities far beyond his age. At thirty-one, Rishiraj had seen more than most men could imagine, and it showed in the way he carried himself—calm, controlled, but always on the edge of something dangerous.

As he reached the riverbank, he paused for a moment, eyes closed, letting the morning air dry his skin. His features were sharp—high cheekbones, a strong jawline, and lips that rarely smiled except for his younger brother. The scars that crisscrossed his bronzed skin told stories of battles fought and won, both in the streets and within himself. Despite the serenity of his ritual, there was an unmistakable edge to Rishiraj—a reminder that beneath the surface of this devout man lurked a devil who could unleash fury when provoked.

He changed into a fresh white dhoti and angvastra, the simple garments highlighting the contrast between the peaceful ceremony he was about to perform and the violent life he led. Today, like every year for the past sixteen years, he would sit at the havan and honor his parents, who had been brutally murdered when he was only fifteen. The pain of their loss had never dulled; it had simply settled into his bones, becoming a part of him. Their deaths had stolen the last remnants of his childhood, leaving him to raise his younger brother, Abhiraj, and run the family business—a world filled with danger, deceit, and bloodshed.

The sacred fire crackled as the priest began chanting mantras for the peace of Rishiraj’s parents’ souls. Rishiraj sat before the havan, his eyes fixed on the flames, but his mind was elsewhere—back to that fateful day when his world had collapsed. He could still hear the gunshots, still feel the cold grip of terror as his parents were gunned down in front of him. Abhiraj, only ten at the time, had been too young to understand what was happening. He had clung to Rishiraj, crying for their mother and father, but no comfort could bring them back.

For sixteen years, Rishiraj had carried the weight of that day on his shoulders. At eighteen, he had taken over the family business all along with his studies in UK, a world rife with enemies eager to exploit any sign of weakness. But Rishiraj had never shown weakness. He had become a leader, feared and respected, a man who could wield both power and violence with terrifying ease. His enemies knew him as a ruthless adversary, a man who settled scores with cold efficiency.

But here, at this moment, sitting before the fire, Rishiraj allowed himself to feel. The priest called for him to offer the ahuti, and Rishiraj’s hand trembled ever so slightly as he placed the offering into the flames. With every crackle of the fire, the memories of his parents' death surged within him, threatening to break free. His jaw clenched, his eyes burned, but he forced it all down, locking the pain away as he had done for years. This day was not about his grief; it was about honoring their memory.

Behind him, Abhiraj sat in silence, his face impassive. Dressed in a simple white kurta pajama, Abhiraj looked every bit the picture of calm, but Rishiraj knew better. Abhiraj had changed over the years. The once sweet, innocent boy who had cried himself to sleep in Rishiraj’s arms had hardened into a man few could recognize. Abhiraj no longer showed emotion, not even on the day they honored their parents. He sat through the ceremony every year but never participated. He didn't looked at the photo of their parents, which sat framed in front of the havan, garlanded with sandalwood and flowers. It was too much for him to bear.

Rishiraj understood. He had been there for Abhiraj when no one else had. He had wiped away his tears, held him through the nightmares, and shielded him from the harsh realities of their world. Even now, Rishiraj’s heart softened when he looked at his younger brother. For all his strength and ruthlessness, Abhiraj was still his "little baby." No matter how much time passed, Rishiraj would always protect him, always be there for him.

The priest concluded the ritual, offering Prasad to Rishiraj, who took it with reverence. He turned to Abhiraj, a small smile breaking through his otherwise stoic expression, and offered him the first bite. Abhiraj accepted it silently, his eyes never meeting Rishiraj’s. It had become their ritual—this quiet exchange, a brief moment of tenderness in a life otherwise dominated by shadows.

As the Prasad was distributed, Rishiraj’s PA approached, bowing slightly before informing him that the food distribution had begun. As part of their annual ritual, the Rishiraj arranged for food to be distributed throughout Banaras in their parents’ name, feeding the poor and hungry. It was a gesture of goodwill in a city where their power and influence were well-known, but it was also deeply personal—a way to turn their grief into something meaningful. To gather some blessings of peace for their parents.

Rishiraj stood, his tall frame casting a long shadow over the fire as he removed the garland from the photo of his parents. He handed it to Abhiraj, who took the framed picture in his hands, pressing it tightly against his chest. Rishiraj watched him for a moment, his heart heavy with the knowledge that no matter how many years passed, no matter how many rituals they performed, the loss of their parents would always hang over them.

Abhiraj walked toward the waiting car. Rishiraj followed, now dressed in a simple white kurta. This was the only day of the year when the Rathore brothers allowed the world to see their vulnerability, their grief. But even this brief window of emotion had its limits. As the car doors closed behind Abhiraj, Rishiraj’s face hardened once more. The softness of the morning was over. There was work to be done.

He dropped Abhiraj off at their estate, watching as his brother disappeared behind the gates. It was a day off for them to grieve their loss. Rishiraj had always known that Abhiraj would spend the rest of the day in solitude, nursing the wounds that never truly healed. But for Rishiraj, the day’s tasks were far from over.

He drove to the warehouse on the outskirts of Banaras, his expression cold, his mind sharp. He stepped into the dimly lit warehouse, the smell of sweat and fear thick in the air. The three men tied to the pole looked up at him with wide, bloodshot eyes, their faces bruised and swollen from the beatings they had already endured. Their hands were bound behind their backs, the ropes cutting into their flesh, leaving angry red marks. They trembled as Rishiraj’s shadow loomed over them, the tension in the room so palpable it felt like the air itself was closing in on them.

There was no mercy in Rishiraj’s eyes. His face was stone, devoid of any hint of compassion or hesitation. These men had crossed a line—a line no one should dare cross. They had allied with his enemies, betrayed him, and tried to disrupt the empire he had spent years building and protecting. But more than that, they tried to kill his brother, Abhiraj by hitting his bike with a truck but luckily he got saved. And for that, they would pay dearly.

Rishiraj moved with a calm, predatory grace as he approached the first man. His shoes echoed ominously on the cold concrete floor, each step sending waves of dread through the men. The first man, barely able to meet his gaze, whimpered and tried to speak, but Rishiraj silenced him with a glance. There was no need for words. Nothing they could say would save them now.

He bent down, his face inches away from the man’s bloodied, swollen one. “Do you know why you’re here?” His voice was low, cold, almost devoid of emotion, but it carried the weight of death. The man shook his head frantically, his lips trembling.

“Please…please…I didn’t mean—” the man stammered, his voice cracking under the pressure of the fear that gripped him.

Rishiraj stood up without a word and picked up a long, metal rod that lay against the wall. He tested its weight in his hand, feeling the cold metal warm slightly against his skin. The man began to hyperventilate, his breaths coming in short, desperate gasps as he realized what was coming.

Without warning, Rishiraj swung the rod with all his might, the sickening sound of metal meeting bone echoing through the warehouse as it collided with the man’s leg. A bloodcurdling scream erupted from the man’s mouth as his leg shattered under the force of the blow. His body convulsed in pain, his cries filling the room as the other two men watched in horror.

Rishiraj showed no reaction. He stood over the man, watching him writhe in agony, his face devoid of any emotion. To Rishiraj, this was not about revenge—it was about justice. These men had made their choices, and now they had to face the consequences.

The second man, seeing what had happened to his companion, began pleading frantically. “Please, don’t do this! We were forced—”

Rishiraj turned his cold gaze toward him, silencing him with a look. “Forced?” he asked mockingly.

He stepped toward the second man, who tried to back away despite being tied to the pole. Rishiraj swung the rod again, this time aiming for the man’s ribs. The impact was brutal, the sound of bones breaking filling the air as the man howled in agony. His body slumped forward, his head hanging low, blood dripping from his mouth. But Rishiraj was not finished.

“You think I don’t know what you planned? You thought you could take what’s mine?” Rishiraj’s voice was calm, but there was a fury simmering beneath the surface, a cold, controlled rage that made the temperature in the room drop. He struck the man again, this time hitting his back, the force of the blow sending the man sprawling to the ground, still tied to the pole.

The third man, now shaking uncontrollably, couldn’t take his eyes off the blood pooling around his companions. He was younger than the other two, probably no more than twenty-five. His lip quivered as he watched Rishiraj approach, every step bringing him closer to what he knew would be a brutal, inevitable end.

“Please… I have a family,” the young man cried, tears streaming down his face. “Please, spare me. I’ll do anything…”

Rishiraj paused, his grip tightening on the rod. For a moment, the young man thought he had reached him. But then Rishiraj knelt in front of him, his face calm, almost serene. He tilted his head slightly, as if considering the man’s words.

“You have a family?” Rishiraj’s voice was soft, but there was no warmth in it. “So did I.”

Without another word, Rishiraj grabbed the man by his hair, forcing his head back. He raised the rod high and brought it down with brutal force onto the man’s skull. The sound of the impact was sickening, and the young man’s body went limp instantly, blood pouring from the gaping wound. His eyes stared lifelessly into the distance, the terror frozen on his face.

Rishiraj stood, his chest heaving slightly, but his expression unchanged. Blood spattered his clothes, but he didn’t care. The other two men were still alive, barely. The first man, whose leg had been shattered, was whimpering quietly, too weak to scream anymore. The second man lay motionless, gasping for breath, his ribs crushed under the weight of Rishiraj's relentless blows. His breaths were shallow, blood trickling from his mouth as his body trembled with pain. Rishiraj looked down at him, the cold fury still simmering in his eyes. There was no pity, no hesitation.“You made your choice” Rishiraj muttered under his breath.

He knelt beside the man and placed a hand on his throat, squeezing just hard enough to feel the man’s pulse race beneath his fingers. The man's eyes fluttered open, wide with terror. For a moment, there was silence, save for the man’s strained breathing.

Then, with one swift motion, Rishiraj tightened his grip and snapped the man’s neck. The man’s body went limp instantly, his head lolling to the side as the life drained from his eyes. The warehouse was silent again, the only sound now the faint rustle of the ropes that still bound the bodies to the poles. "In kutto ko dafna do" He ordered his men who were standing in a corner ever since he started his act of lesson. They quickly got to work.

Rishiraj stood, his hands bloodied, his breath steady. He looked over the carnage he had wrought—three bodies, broken and lifeless, strewn across the cold floor of the warehouse. This was not just vengeance; it was a message, a reminder to anyone who dared to cross him or his family.

He wiped his hands with a towel that one of his men bought, his mind already moving beyond the bloodshed. Justice had been served, and now, there was only one thing left to do—return to his brother. As cold and ruthless as he could be, Abhiraj was his only anchor in this world, the one person who tethered him to something beyond violence and power.

With one last glance at the scene, Rishiraj left the warehouse, the echo of his footsteps fading as he stepped into the darkened streets of Banaras, leaving behind the broken remnants of those who had dared to defy him. But he didn't know one thing that the destiny is planning to play cupid in his life that has no place for love.