Ragini
Fear turned out to be a green neon sign, flickering above the youth hostel. It read “FRIE*DS,” with the ’N’ stubbornly refusing to light up. For a moment, Ragini wondered — was she like that too? Reluctant, resistant to change? She had always imagined fear as black, a shadow lurking in the dark. But standing there, in front of the bustling hostel, with its crowd of young, carefree faces, she realized fear could be just as vivid, as real as green, like the glowing sign ahead.
All the way through the dimly lit alleys, infested with glaring, lustful eyes, where every dark corner threatened hidden horrors, she wasn’t afraid. This world was familiar. The old demon crept in the moment she stepped into the light. Staring up at the tall grey building, with blaring music pouring from some distant party, she felt a flicker of hope — a new life, just within reach. And that thought paralyzed her. Breaking away from her old life seemed impossible, while slipping back into it would be effortless. A week ago, in a moment of madness, she had vowed to change. Now, staring blankly at the hostel sign, she took a step back. It’s too hard, she thought. Maybe her week of insanity was over. She was too tired… there was no strength left to fight. She was on the verge of losing the battle with her inner darkness when Zuber’s voice echoed in her head again: “You are as fucked up as your bastard dad.”
No …
She screamed inside her head, the sound trapped within. She couldn’t let fear win. Her inner rage surged, pushing her forward. For the first time in five years, Ragini Choudhury claimed a small victory.
“Two days?”
The obese receptionist at the counter looked at her with a question mark on his face. His round, freckled cheeks reminded her of a cartoon character, though she couldn’t place the name. Two days. That’s how long she had been sober. Two days without the chemical her body craved every minute. But she knew he wasn’t asking about that — he was just confirming her reservation. She had no idea how long she would stay in this unfamiliar city or what her next step would be. Five thousand rupees. That’s all she had. How many days could she survive on that?
That should be just about right,” she said, attempting a smile. The expression in his droopy eyes and sulky face didn’t change. Maybe she had interrupted his nap, or perhaps he was annoyed by the loud music blaring from upstairs.
Click… click… click. She watched him type hastily into the computer, finding an odd, soothing rhythm in the sound.
"Let your fingers relax… feel the keys, and they’ll find the rhythm. C-minor is the easiest, sweetheart. You can do it.” The three-year-old girl with pigtails looked up at her father, eyes sparkling.
“Okay, Dita!”
She turned back to the piano, trying to follow his instructions. As the notes rang out, her father smiled in quiet satisfaction. Just like him, she had music in her.
“Done. Here are your locker keys. The dorm rooms are always open, so keep your valuables in the locker. But the hostel isn’t responsible if anything goes missing,” he said in a flat, emotionless , routine tone. He was probably tired of repeating the same rule to every new occupant.
“Thank you,” Ragini said as she picked up the keys and headed toward the wooden stairs by the reception desk. This was likely the cheapest youth hostel in one of the most notorious areas of South Mumbai. When she boarded the train in a fit of rage, she had no plan — Mumbai was an entirely unknown city to her. A stranger on the train had mentioned the place. It hadn’t been easy to find. She couldn’t recall his face, but she remembered him making a call to secure her a reservation — without it, getting in would have been impossible. Did she thank him? She wasn’t sure; she had been far too wasted to remember.
The wooden spiral stairs didn’t boast of any luxury, but she hadn’t expected much. After all, it wasn’t as if she’d ever lived a life of comfort. Life with Zuber had been no better than a hellhole. In comparison, this place was almost a relief. As she walked past the noisy common area, she noticed the crowd inside. A party was in full swing. Maybe it’s Friday night, she thought. She had no idea what day of the week it was. For the backpacking students here, every night was Friday night. Most of them looked like students — but what category did she fall into? A student? A struggling musician? A recovering addict? She couldn’t decide.
The large dormitory was packed with neatly arranged beds, most of them already occupied. On the far right, she spotted one that was still unclaimed. It had a pink bedspread with small white flowers — something about it felt familiar and oddly inviting. She liked it. Quietly, she slid her backpack under the bed. That was all she had: 27 years of life crammed into one backpack — 5,000 rupees, two pairs of jeans, three T-shirts, and a fighting spirit.
“I will live to see another day,” she assured herself. “One day at a time, Ragini… one day at a time.”
Mario
He could smell his prey from miles away.Sitting in the shadowy corner of the narrow tapering alley, Mario scanned the crowd, his eyes locking on her. In the crowded streets of Mumbai, she fit right in — tired, dejected, another lost soul.Maybe another rejection, he thought, as a smile curled onto his lips, though his facial muscles contorted in their usual grotesque way. He had heard it all his life from friends, neighbors, even his mother — his smile made people uncomfortable. That only made him smile more.He enjoyed it. In those moments, he felt power.
But it wasn’t just about power, was it? No. He had long since come to terms with his role in the world, learned to survive by controlling others. He could remember a time when things were different, when he was different. Back when life had offered more promise. Before he became Mario the pimp, there was a time when Mario had been an ambitious young man with dreams of his own. Music, he thought bitterly, recalling the failed dreams of his youth, dreams that now seemed absurd. There had been a piano once, just like her. Yes, Ragini reminded him of something lost in himself.
Her dark burgundy hair, unruly and wild, caught the light as she crossed the busy street. My kind of girl, he thought. He had been watching her for nearly a month now. A true hunter, he loved studying his prey, getting into their psyche. He had learned everything about her — how she ran away from Delhi, leaving her abusive boyfriend, how she struggled to fight her addiction, barely holding onto a job.
As she crossed the street, his hungry eyes scanned her body — her lean figure, her firm breasts, her long, smooth legs. He could make her one of his highest-paid escorts, but he knew she wouldn’t come easily.He was patient. He didn’t rely on brute force, not always. He was strategic. Ragini was different from the other girls.She wasn’t weak, not yet. But he could break her. He could see it. The hunger in her eyes, the desperation, the way she kept fighting, only to keep losing. She was a diamond in the rough, and he could make her shine in the only way he knew how — by molding her into one of his most prized assets.
But there was something else about Ragini. Something that stirred something deep inside him. Fear. He didn’t like to admit it, even to himself, but when he looked into her eyes, that fire made him hesitate. It had been a long time since Mario had felt fear, but Ragini’s eyes ignited that old emotion in him. It was a reminder of the boy he used to be — fearful, weak, dreaming of escape. Before he buried that boy deep beneath layers of cruelty and control.
He shook the feeling off. She’s just another one. Another girl to break.
As she moved closer, he straightened his yellow, flowery shirt — ridiculous, but somehow fitting. His fingers brushed through his neatly combed, gelled hair. He prided himself on appearances. He could look the part of a friend, a benefactor, a businessman. It was part of his charm, and charm was his deadliest weapon. Not every battle had to be fought with fists or threats. He could make people trust him, follow him willingly into the dark.
When she passed him, he fell in step beside her.
“Sajid tells me you’re looking for a job,” he said in a smooth voice, the trace of his Italian accent still lingering after all these years. He’d learned to use it to his advantage, making him sound exotic, different. “I can help you with that.”
She stopped for a moment, her eyes narrowing as she looked at him. No fear, just disdain. He liked that. He liked that a lot. But it also irked him. He wasn’t used to being dismissed.
She said nothing, just started walking again.
He followed, persistent. “I see my reputation precedes me.” He let a smile spread across his face, that smile designed to unsettle.
Again, no reaction. But he saw the tension in her shoulders. He knew she had heard the rumors about him. They all did. But Ragini was different. She wasn’t running, not yet.
They reached the gate of the rundown P.G. accommodation where she lived. He’d been watching her long enough to know the place inside out, including the fact that some of his girls lived there. It wasn’t coincidence; it was control. Everything was control.
“Well, think about it,” he said, leaning against the gate. “We can talk about it over a cup of coffee whenever you have time. It’s an easy job, a lot of money.”
Then came the fire again. She turned to him, eyes blazing, and for a second, Mario felt that old flicker of fear deep in his chest.
“There is no free lunch, Mario. No easy money. I know exactly what work you’re talking about. If my cold response doesn’t give you a hint, why don’t you take that fucked-up face of yours and shove it up someone else’s pussy who’s interested?”
Mario’s face twitched, that old grotesque smile momentarily frozen as she slammed the gate in his face.
Ragini
She slammed the door with all her rage, as if trying to crush his face behind it. She couldn’t shake the image of him from her mind — his sarcastic grin stretching across his face, making him look like the monster straight out of her nightmares. A wave of disgust swept over her, though she couldn’t tell if it was aimed at Mario or at herself. Was she angrier with him for what he was, or with herself for making it easy for someone like him to target her? She knew exactly who Mario was — she’d seen men like him before. She understood his game. Mario had a reputation as the most ruthless pimp in South Mumbai, as dangerous as any underworld don. Once he set his sights on someone, he always found a way to make them bend to his will. She’d heard the horror stories about girls who tried to defy him — none of them were ever seen or heard from again.
She rushed to the shower, knowing it was the only time of day when she could have the bathroom to herself without someone banging on the door, telling her to hurry up. She turned on the cold water, letting it cascade over her skin, hoping it would calm her frayed nerves. She could feel every drop as it trickled down her body, grounding her in the present.
What are my chances? she wondered. Should I run away now? In her heart she knew Running wasn’t an option — there would always be another Mario, another Zuber.
Ragini wasn’t a coward.She had to fight this . Like music, her resilience and fighting spirit came from her father.She had seen him deal with so many battles, inner demons, but always stand tall, never giving up. At least Ragini had known her parents, had felt their presence in her life. Her father, Satyavrat Choudhury, wasn’t as lucky — he had never known his own father, only stories and rumors whispered in the shadows. His identity was a mystery that haunted him, but one he had learned to live with.Rumors swirled that he was the illegitimate son of a famous musician. Satyavrat’s mother had promised the man she loved to keep his identity secret, sparing him a scandal, and in return, she embraced a life of disgrace. Her pride lay in keeping that promise.
“Knowing your father’s name won’t change who you are,” she often told her son. Satyavrat lived by those words, enduring the taunts of being a bastard son with quiet strength. His only solace came from a piano he discovered in the local church. Every time he played, it was as if he regained some of the honor he had lost. Music became his refuge, and he devoted his life to it. He knew life could be unfair, but he also knew the only way to face it was to fight back — and he wanted to pass that resilience to his little girl.
He would always tell Ragini, “I can teach you all the right things to do and all the right things to say. But I know you’ll still make mistakes — that’s just how everyone is. I won’t judge you for that. Maybe I won’t even stop you. You need to make your own mistakes, but the trick, my darling, is to learn from them and make amends. Always remember, it’s never too late. No matter how bad the situation gets, there’s always a way out. You just have to find the right door. Fear is the only demon that will try to stop you. When it does, you need to hit it square in the face. You’ll win every battle if you can conquer fear.”
Almost 3 month ago, shivering in a cold, dark room in an unknown location in Delhi, buried in her own blood and vomit, Ragini found that door. She was afraid of many things, afraid the future might be even worse, but she confronted her fear head-on and decided to leave Zuber forever.
The cold water trickling over her tired, sunburnt skin was both comforting and consoling. She left the shower running for a while longer, letting the cool sensation spread through her entire body, caressing her senses. As she retraced her steps from the day she arrived in Mumbai, she felt a small sense of achievement. It was slow, but she was making progress. She had left the youth hostel and found a more stable place. The girls’ P.G. she found was cheap and cramped, but at least it was stable. She shared the room with two other girls, but most of the time, they were rarely around. They traveled with high-profile clients — Mario’s clients. If she wanted, maybe she could have been part of that life, bought herself some comfort. Not that she was judging them. Who am I to judge? she thought. She just knew that life wasn’t for her.
She had barely managed to make rent through the waitressing jobs she took. She tried hard to stick to one job, but somehow, she always found herself on the wrong side of an argument with customers. She had been fired again that day, this time for fighting with a customer and throwing a plate of food at him. She was lucky he hadn’t been hurt, and the restaurant let her leave with her dues up to that day. It was only the middle of the month. She knew that if she didn’t make rent this time, she’d end up on the streets. Ragini didn’t want that thought to spoil the moment. She closed her eyes, retreating into her cocoon of precious memories, traveling through the maze of time.
The black piano, made of dark spruce wood, stood proudly, welcoming the light touch of two small hands dancing across the black and white keys. A happy yet melancholy tune filled the air, until a pause — one small mistake. Just then, two steady hands gently came to the rescue, guiding the right chord.
She looked up at her father and smiled.
“Thank you, Dita. But I can do it.”
“I know you can.Majoni ”
Maybe her chances were nil, but she was ready to collide head-on. She kept counting.
95 days sober , 2000 rs at hand.
Survival ratio ..yet unknown…
Mario
He stood there, staring after her, the fire in her eyes burning in his mind. His entire body trembled with rage. He hadn’t expected her to respond like that. He hadn’t expected her to stand up to him. Every muscle twitched with hatred for that little bitch. Long-buried feelings of fear and shame seeped through the crumbling walls of his fragile ego. The fortress he had built inside himself to keep those emotions at bay was cracking, and he felt himself spiraling into a bottomless pit.
In a damp, dark room, Mario was curled up, hiding under the bed. The hustle and bustle of the outside world was slowly fading. He could hear Francesco, shouting and cursing at someone, his voice echoing through the building.
“Figlio di Troia! You son of a bitch! I’ll deal with you later. First, let me take care of this bitch here.”
Mario listened to the sounds of Francesco dragging someone up the stairs. She was sniveling, begging for mercy, but her cries were met with his cruel, demonic laughter. There was a loud bang as the door slammed shut, but the heated argument continued, punctuated by sobs and the unmistakable sound of blows landing. Mario couldn’t tell who the woman was, but he prayed it was his mother. What a twisted pleasure it would bring him to see her suffer. But he knew it was wishful thinking — Francesco would never harm his mother, at least not until she gave him a reason. Luciana was Francesco’s favorite; she pleased him with her unwavering loyalty, even if it meant pimping out her own son. She was a pathetic, spineless creature who lived only for alcohol and her daily fix. She couldn’t see beyond her addiction.
Mario remembered those dreadful nights when strange men would do unspeakable things to him. He’d cry, begging his mother to save him, but his young heart broke every time. Luciana would be off in some corner, counting the money that would fuel her next high. Mario’s soul filled with disgust for her, and over time, he began to accept his fate — the cruelty of his own mother.
The shouting from the other room had died down. Mario knew what that meant — his turn was coming. When there were no customers, Francesco liked to play with Mario just for fun. He closed his eyes and pushed himself further under the bed, as if somehow it would make him invisible. The familiar sound of whistling grew louder, then stopped abruptly. Mario looked up. Even in the dark, he could make out Francesco’s grinning face, mocking him. No one could truly imagine the fear it struck in a seven-year-old boy. Mario wailed, begging his mother to help him, but all he heard was her distant, careless giggle.
After Francesco was finished, Mario cried all night. He cursed God for giving him such a miserable life, wishing he had never been born. Staring at the triangular patterns on the ceiling, he promised himself revenge. All women are weak, just like my mother, he told himself. They need to be taught a lesson. He kept that promise. When Mario turned sixteen, he beat his mother mercilessly and ran away. He didn’t care if she lived or died. He knew Francesco wouldn’t let him stay in Naples, so he fled to Rome. He took on odd jobs before landing work on a cargo ship. Mario traveled to many places, but when he reached Mumbai, something about the city made him feel a strange sense of belonging. So he stayed. In the shadows of Mumbai, he found solace, burying the memories of fear and shame deep inside, until Ragini came along and stirred them up again.
Sitting in his small office in Colaba, Mario realized that all the emotions he had buried for years were resurfacing, crippling him. Ragini had ripped open an old wound. All these years, he had never let a woman make him feel this small. He had tortured them, forced them to submit, made them beg for mercy. But Ragini was different. He couldn’t let her destroy the world he had built for himself. He had to make her beg. He had to win.
He thought of his mother’s face. This was for her. He had to avenge it all.
But somewhere, in the deepest part of himself, he knew that breaking Ragini wouldn’t be like the others. She had something — something that reminded him of the person he used to be, and maybe that’s why it felt like more of a challenge.
Rising from the chair, Mario checked his back pocket for his knife. He preferred it over revolvers — knives were personal, precise. They inflicted just the right amount of pain. He glanced in the mirror. The dark circles around his eyes were deepening, and the cut near his eye had further disfigured his already scarred face. I look great, he thought, smiling at his reflection. After staring at himself for a few moments, Mario stepped out of his office and into the dark alley, ready to descend into the abyss.
The Breaking Point
It had been raining all day. Ragini usually loved the rainy season in Shillong, the small hill town she called home. The rain made everything feel more alive, more vibrant. The air was fresher, and the trees turned a richer shade of green. She cherished watching the sparrows dance in puddles and the colorful butterflies take shelter in the leafy branches. She even savored the gentle sound of water dripping from the pine trees. But that day, she had no mood for the rain. No mood to go outside and enjoy the weather. Ragini didn’t even want to get out of bed.
She was waiting for her father to come home, angry with him for so many reasons. He’d left without telling her, gone to Guwahati for the peace rally he had promised to take her to. Breaking that promise felt unforgivable. She waited all evening, but evening turned into night, and the night began to give way to dawn when the news arrived. There had been a bomb blast in Ganeshguri, Guwahati. Many people had died — her father among them.
Ragini froze. She stared blankly at her father’s friend who had come to deliver the news. Without a word, she dashed out of the house.
She ran, as if racing the rising sun, through the woods and the neatly carved streets of Shillong. She didn’t know where she was going; she just ran. The heavy downpour couldn’t slow her down, though she couldn’t cry. The sky was already weeping for her. He’ll never come back, she thought. To her, the sun was now only spreading darkness.
A group of dogs fighting in the street jolted her back to the present. Lying on the bed in the small room she shared with three other girls, Ragini had been lost in her memories once again. Sometimes she got angry with her father for leaving her without even saying goodbye. As for her mother, she had no such anger — she never knew her. Her mother had died giving birth to her. Ragini often wondered how different her life might have been if her mother had been around. But she stopped herself from indulging in self-pity. She knew, deep down, that she was solely responsible for her life and the choices she had made.
She had been too weak to face her father’s death. As the days passed, her grief had hardened into rage. She wanted to burn the world down, to take revenge on the people who had taken her father from her. Her restlessness grew, the pain became unbearable, until one chilly evening, in a small shack behind Police Bazaar, she found comfort in a white powder. It made her numb, it dulled the agony, and soon enough, she became a slave to it.
It was through her circle of friends that she met Zuber. He was visiting Shillong with a few of his companions. Charming and persuasive, Zuber mesmerized her with his words. For the first time in a long while, she found someone she could trust, maybe even love.
“Come with me,” he had said, looking into her dark, slightly oblique eyes. “I’ll help you kick the addiction. You don’t have to be afraid anymore.”
Those were the words she had been waiting to hear for years. Without hesitation, she packed her bags and left with him for Delhi. She needed someone to cling to, and Zuber seemed perfect.
But the dream of a better life soon faded. Zuber turned out to be an even bigger addict than she was, and there was no question of kicking any habit. Instead, he introduced her to new forms of addiction. It wasn’t just drugs or alcohol anymore. Zuber was a satyromaniac, a sex addict, and he tortured her, forcing himself on her almost every day. Sometimes, he even shared her with his friends.
Ragini fell further into the abyss. Zuber crushed her spirit in every way — mentally, physically, and emotionally. She thought of leaving many times, but fear always paralyzed her. She had failed her father. He had wanted her to be fearless, but she had let her inner demons win.
Maybe her father was right — he couldn’t teach her everything. She had to make her own mistakes and figure out her life. But the fighting spirit that ran in her blood finally kicked in one day. In a moment of insanity, she packed up her entire life and fled to an unknown city.
Ragini’s dive into her memories was interrupted by a loud banging on the door. It was 3:15 a.m., and even the noisiest streets were asleep. Apart from the occasional barking of stray dogs outside the hostel gate, there was silence. Her roommates weren’t home, and there was no one who would come looking for her at this hour. She felt a surge of fear. The banging grew louder. If she didn’t open the door, it might break.
“Who is it?” she asked, but there was no answer.
The blows became intolerable, and she had no choice but to open the door. Before she could even register what was happening, she was on the floor with Mario on top of her. He twisted her arm, pinning her down so forcefully that she couldn’t move. In the dim light from the street filtering through the window, he looked like a demon.
“You bitch,” he spat at her, then punched her repeatedly. Excruciating pain tore through her as her head throbbed, on the verge of exploding. The taste of her own blood filled her mouth.
For a moment, she was immobilized, but then adrenaline kicked in. She gathered every ounce of her strength and kicked him in the groin. His eyes bulged as the pain contorted his face even more grotesquely.
As he released his grip, rolling to the ground in agony, Ragini seized the moment. With newfound energy, she grabbed her roommate’s guitar and struck him repeatedly.
“You coward! How dare you treat me like this? You spit on me once, I’ll spit on you ten times more!” she screamed.
For a brief, ecstatic moment, the rush was more powerful than any narcotic she’d ever experienced. But reality snapped back when someone grabbed her and restrained her. It was the security guard. Where the hell was this guy sleeping? she thought angrily. A crowd had gathered, and Mario managed to slip away.
“What happened?” Mr. Joshi asked his daughter-in-law, who was peeking from the balcony of the neighboring house.
“The same nonsense — prostitute and pimp fighting. Probably over money. Chi..chi , what people do for money. These girls should be thrown out. This is a respectable neighborhood.”
The Hope
In the roller coaster ride of life she had been on for the last couple of years, Ragini had never woken up with such a strong rush of certainty — a feeling that had been lost amidst dark streets and white powder. In that gleeful moment, she opened the window to a city still in the grips of early morning slumber. She tried to recall the dream that had left her feeling so empowered. She had dreamt of a green meadow surrounded by tall pine trees, wandering through it as if searching for the source of the music that filled the air. In an instant, all the pine trees transformed into children. She found herself standing in the middle of the meadow with her father’s piano. She played a note, and the children echoed it back, the energy of their shared symphony growing, lifting her spirit. The answer had been right in front of her all along — she was born with music, raised with it, so why couldn’t it save her now? Music was the only thing that could help her survive. Her father had always told her to listen to her heart, but her heart had been buried under too much debris. It had taken time to clear it.
The day that began with a stale vada pav, a cup of masala chai, and a surge of fresh enthusiasm was, by midday, turning into disappointment. Her nose was broken, her face bruised, and her body sore, yet she knocked on the doors of countless music schools in the city. None of them were willing to hire a teacher with her kind of history — and she couldn’t lie about it. By 5 p.m., her enthusiasm had worn out. She was hungry, thirsty, and exhausted. Her daily budget, already spent on commuting. Maybe today would be another day without food, she thought as she walked past a small restaurant, the smell of buttered paratha making her stomach growl. No, she told herself and kept moving.
Anusuya Music School — the sign read. We teach vocal, tabla, guitar, keyboard, and piano.
It was an old bungalow, desperately in need of repair. As she walked through the overgrown, poorly maintained lawn, she imagined how beautiful the place must have been in its heyday. The front facade led to an open hall, empty. She expected to see students but saw none. An older woman, perhaps in her late sixties, approached from the other side of the hall. There was something chic about her, an aura that demanded respect.
“I’m looking for Mrs. Pinto,” Ragini said.
“I am Mrs. Pinto.”
“I heard from Mrs. Sen — I mean, Mrs. Malati Sen — that you need a piano teacher,” Ragini’s heart raced as she spoke, trying to explain her purpose.
Mrs. Pinto looked perplexed.
“Come inside.”
Ragini followed her into a mirrored corridor that reflected signs of former glory. The place had clearly seen better days, but time and poverty had corroded its pride. Then, Ragini saw it. At the end of the long corridor, in a large hall, stood the piano — pure spruce wood, just like her father’s.
“This was my grandfather’s,” Mrs. Pinto said. But Ragini was already lost in admiration, like a smitten teenager. How long had it been since she last touched a piano?
“May I?” Ragini asked.
Mrs. Pinto smiled.
“Go ahead.”
Ragini brushed her fingers over the smooth wood, feeling the ocean of music within it. She sat down and lifted the lid. Her fingers trembled as they touched the keys, and in an instant, she was transported back to her childhood, playing in a small church with her father. She didn’t know how long she played, but when the trance broke, she saw Mrs. Pinto standing in front of her, almost in tears.
“I haven’t seen anyone play with such passion since my grandfather. For a moment, I felt like he was here,” Mrs. Pinto said softly.
Ragini smiled. Everyone has their own cocoon of memories.
“This one needs tuning. I’ll take care of that. But — did I get the job?” Ragini asked, smiling.
“Well, maybe Mrs. Sen didn’t know, but I’ve closed down the school. I’m selling the piano as well.”
“No,” Ragini almost shouted, the disbelief clear in her voice. She felt as if she had reached the top of a mountain only to tumble back down.
“I know how disappointed you must be. You would have been a great piano teacher. But I’m closing the school, and I need to sell the piano. I’m offering it for a very low price. Do you want to buy it?”
Ragini laughed, unsure if Mrs. Pinto was serious or not.
“Do I look like someone who can afford to buy a piano?”
“I’m selling it for just 35,000 rupees. It’s not just about the money. This piano has been in my family for generations. Most people wouldn’t appreciate its value the way I do. But when I saw your eyes light up when you touched the keys, I knew you had a history too. In different circumstances, I’d give it to you for free. But I urgently need the money.”
Ragini looked at the frail old woman. The desperation in Mrs. Pinto’s voice cut through her thoughts.
“I’m sorry,” Ragini said. “I don’t have that kind of money. I can’t afford it.”
With a heavy heart and yet another failed attempt, Ragini left Anusuya Music School. As she walked away, Mrs. Pinto called out,
“I have another offer on it, but I’ll wait for three days in case you change your mind.”
All the way from Bandra to Borivli, the piano haunted Ragini’s mind. The moment she saw it, she knew she had found the missing piece of her life. Everything would be fine if I could just have that piano, she thought. Was the old woman right? Was this piano meant for her? The seed of desire had already been planted, and it was slowly turning into an obsession. Ragini tried to reason with herself, arguing that it wasn’t a rational decision. But then it happened — the piano transformed in her mind, taking the shape of her father.
“It’s time we were together again, majoni. Let me back into your life.”
Somewhere near Kandivli, Ragini’s rational mind lost the battle. A glowing obsession took hold of her soul.
Shadows of Control
The silence deepened the pseudo-darkness of the room. Lying askew on the brown leather sofa in his small office in Colaba, Mario let himself sink into the shadows, soaking in every bit of it. The air smelled of sandalwood incense. He inhaled deeply, making a rasping sound, as if trying to absorb all the fragrance at once. His office was located on the second floor of an old building, which had nothing to boast of except perhaps its fading colonial history. At first glance, the front office looked like a typical real estate agent’s workspace, with posters of property listings plastered across the walls. Mario had done a few real estate deals — it paid well — but that wasn’t where the real money came from. The real money came from the elite escort service he ran on the side. Most of the action took place in the back room, his sanctuary, his cave. Very few people were allowed in there. Most of the time, he kept it for himself.
In his 20-year career, Mario had encountered all sorts of men, each with different fetishes. Sometimes, their tastes disgusted him, but his twisted sense of revenge was so deeply rooted that he never let his conscience interfere. He had dealt with many women too, though he never felt any desire to touch them — they were filth to him, and he had no interest in getting his hands dirty. But Ragini…she was different. She was made of something else, he thought.
His phone kept vibrating. Mario ignored it. He needed solitude. Through the open window, he could hear the rain. He loved the soothing sound of water dripping from the ceiling to the ground below. He chuckled every time a drop hit the moist earth. He had chosen this old-style office purely for that window. He loved listening to the world outside, whether it was quiet or noisy, fast or slow. He had friends with offices in high-rise, glass-covered buildings with sweeping views of the city, but when it rained, all they could do was see the rain. Where was the sound? One of his friends even had a phone app to replicate the sound of rain. What’s the point? he had thought, laughing at the absurdity. But his amusement was fleeting. His phone vibrated again, reigniting the anger he had been trying to suppress for hours.
“How did it happen, Mario?” his subconscious sneered. “You’re a coward. You let that bitch get away. Now she thinks you’re weak — spineless!” The voice in his head was relentless, taunting him with every word. Thankfully, no one knew the full extent of what had happened that night, and Ragini wasn’t the type to kiss and tell. Otherwise, he would have been the laughingstock of his entire community. Beaten by a girl… chi…
Mario stirred, making a hissing sound between his teeth. No matter how hard he tried to keep up appearances, he knew he was losing the battle with fear. His mind flashed back to the footsteps — Francesco’s footsteps — echoing down the hallway. No… please, help me, ma, he had wailed back then, but his pleas were met with nothing but her distant, mocking giggle. Mario curled up further on the sofa, his eyes falling on the white powder on the table. It was his pathway to heaven. At least for a couple of hours, it would let him escape — if only temporarily — from his demons.
He reached out toward the table, but then he heard it: a sound blending with the rain, something unnerving and out of place. Someone was shouting outside, the sound breaking the rhythm of the rainfall. Mario’s annoyance flared. He had told Rajen he didn’t want to be disturbed all evening, yet here he was, just a door away from a rising argument between Rajen and some woman. He would have ignored it entirely if not for the fact that he recognized the voice. How could he forget that sharp, icy tone? The voice that had called him a “chut,” the voice that had told him to shove his face where it didn’t belong. Ragini. He remembered every word. She was turning into his worst nightmare.
Mario brushed his fingers across the bruises she had given him. What does she want now? he thought. He checked his pocket — the knife was still there. Maybe this time he could finish the job.
Ragini & Mario
Ragini shoved Rajen hard, sending him stumbling down the stairs. He wouldn’t bother her for at least a few seconds. With newfound strength coursing through her, she raised her hand to knock, but before she could, the door swung open. Mario stood right in front of her. The moment stretched, tense and awkward, neither of them knowing how to react. The hatred between them in that mere foot of distance was so intense, it almost canceled itself out. Without a word, Ragini pushed past him and walked into the room as if she owned it.
“You have a job for me?” Her voice was icy cold.
A vicious smile crept across Mario’s lips. The turmoil that had been eating away at him moments ago seemed like a distant memory. I’m back in the game. I’m winning again. He pulled out the wooden chair next to the large table and sat down like a king on his throne, ignoring the creak of the worn-out wood. He was too busy savoring the sweet scent of victory. He glanced at the white powder on the table — it was no longer necessary.
He studied Ragini, expecting to see a face worn down by shame and fear. Instead, he was met with something completely unexpected — a glow that lit up her bruised face, a defiance he hadn’t anticipated.
“What changed your mind?” The mockery in his voice was unmistakable.
“That’s none of your business.” Her tone remained cold, steady.
“Interesting…” He chuckled. “Have you looked at yourself lately? With that bruised face, who’s going to hire you? I hope you realize — you need to look pretty for this kind of job.”
Ragini leaned over the table, bringing her face close to his, making him uncomfortable in his own skin.
“I know how to look good whenever I need to. So, tell me — do you have a job for me, or not? Because I know plenty of others who would.”
Her words cut with precision, leaving Mario momentarily speechless. She reminded him of a story an Indian sailor had once told him aboard a cargo ship. It was about a captured king who, when asked by Alexander the Great how he wanted to be treated, had replied, “Just as one king treats another.” Mario had forgotten the king’s name, but the story had stayed with him.
“For a woman your size, you’ve got quite the sharp tongue,” Mario remarked.
For the first time, he saw her smile, and despite the bruises, her face seemed to brighten. She’s something else, he thought. In any other situation, he might have been drawn to a woman like her. But this wasn’t any other situation — right now, she was his enemy.
“You mess with me again, and you’ll learn just how sharp I am. Oh wait, you already know.” Her mocking tone sent a fresh wave of humiliation through Mario as it conjured memories of that night.
“Touche,” he muttered, feeling his anger coil around him like a serpent.
“Enough small talk,” Ragini cut in, her impatience rising. “Do you have something for me or not?”
Mario’s eyes gleamed with malice. “I’ve got a Sheikh who wants someone tonight. But he’s into rough play… really rough. Last year, one girl didn’t make it out of his bed alive. The money’s good, though. You’ll get two lakh after my cut. If you can handle it, the job’s yours. And he might just like that bruised face of yours.”
He thought he had struck a blow, but Ragini didn’t flinch.
“I’ll take it,” she said, without hesitation, her voice unnervingly calm.
Sweet revenge. Mario savored the moment. But then she added, “But I’ll only take 35,000. You can keep the rest.”
Mario paused, his fingers hovering over his phone, ready to call the Sheikh’s agent. He looked at her, suspicion creeping into his mind.
“That’s… unusual. Even for a crazy half-wit like you.”
She shot him a cold glare. “No need to strain your two-paisa brain trying to figure it out. Just count the money, text me the details, and let’s get this over with.”
Like a hurricane, she swept in and out, leaving his world in turmoil. Mario sat there, frozen, as if struck by lightning. Through the window, he watched her walk into the rain, jumping through small puddles like a carefree child. Her smile lingered in his mind, haunting him.
The Turmoil
Hotel Royal Palace. One of Mumbai’s prime seven-star hotels, a destination for the rich and elite. Mario waited outside, glancing at his watch every few minutes. 7:29 p.m. A lot was riding on this. If Ragini didn’t show, he stood to lose far more than just a client. The Sheikh was unforgiving, having already canceled another girl at Mario’s assurance of a fresh face. If Ragini didn’t turn up, he’d have to face the consequences.
Suddenly, a chilling thought crossed his mind — Was this her plan all along? Had she set him up? Ragini knew how much his reputation hinged on his ability to deliver. Sweat began to trickle down his back despite the evening chill.
I swear to God, if she’s playing games… His thoughts were interrupted by the sight of a white taxi slowly crawling through traffic. The door opened, and there she was.
Ragini stepped out, draped in a stunning red saree with blue zari work. Her hair was tied neatly into a bun, with a few rebellious strands framing her face, complementing the long earrings that swayed as she moved. Her eyes, highlighted with blue eyeshadow, seemed like they had borrowed their color from the deepest part of the ocean. She looked more beautiful than Mario had ever imagined.
She smiled at him as she approached, as if they were old friends meeting after a long time.
“Shall we?” she asked casually, wrapping her arm around his.
Something inside Mario stirred. He knew he was winning — he was sending her to what was almost a death sentence. If not dead, the Sheikh would cripple her. His revenge would be complete. It should feel good, he thought. But it didn’t.
Confusion clouded his mind. Was it guilt? He couldn’t place the emotion. Was this really what I wanted? It was too late to turn back now, but something inside him wasn’t right.
“Look at the bigger picture, Mario,” he whispered to himself. “Don’t let fleeting feelings cloud your judgment.”
He remembered his mother’s bruised face, begging for mercy, pleading for him to stop. He had shown no mercy then. And now, here was a stranger challenging the hatred and coldness he’d spent years cultivating. He couldn’t allow that.
“No, you go ahead,” Mario said, stepping back. “I just needed to make sure you showed up. I won’t go in. This is where I stop.”
The softness in his voice didn’t go unnoticed by Ragini. Was there a human being buried somewhere in this monster? she wondered. Her father had always said that circumstances create monsters — no one is born that way. Was it true for Mario, too? She brushed the thought aside. She didn’t want to dwell on it. One night, she thought. Then I’ll be free. I’ll get my life back. I’ll start my music school. She whispered softly, “Deuta, I’ve found it. I’ve found the music again… I’ve found you.”
Without fear, Ragini walked toward the hotel entrance.
“Why do you need the money?” Mario called out, watching her retreating figure.
She stopped, turned, and smiled. “I want to buy a piano. I want to bring music back into my life.”
She disappeared into the crowd at the hotel entrance, leaving Mario in a daze. A girl who fought so hard to escape the trap… selling herself for a piano?
Is this what passion feels like? The thought took him back to a life he’d long since tried to forget. The music, the ambitions, the boy who once dreamed of making something of himself. But that boy was gone — crushed beneath the weight of disappointment, failure, and the relentless grind of surviving in a world that didn’t care. He had learned, painfully, that dreams were for the naive, for the weak. Control — that was power.
Yet now, something stirred in him. An unfamiliar sensation rose, one he couldn’t quite name. It wasn’t anger, it wasn’t hatred. Was it… admiration? Respect? Maybe even love? He didn’t know. He hadn’t felt anything like this in so long, he couldn’t even be sure. All he knew was that it unsettled him, threatening to shake the carefully constructed walls he had built around his heart.
He watched Ragini walk toward the hotel entrance. His hands, usually steady, were trembling, and a bead of sweat trickled down his temple despite the cool evening air. Why now? Why her? Mario clenched his fists, trying to regain control, but the gnawing discomfort in his chest refused to let go.
The Beginning
The night was heavy and discordant. Mario stared out the car window; not a single star was visible. But even on a clear night, the city lights drowned them out. His mind wandered back to the funeral. It had finally happened, with barely anyone in attendance. He watched as they carried the body to the furnace, leaving behind nothing but ashes. Ashes. That’s all everyone becomes one day.
He pulled up in front of his house, taking a long look at the building. It hadn’t seen a touch of repair in almost a decade. With each monsoon, it grew grayer and gloomier — just like him. He had never felt the need for change, but now, something was shifting inside him. Whether it was good or bad, he couldn’t tell. It was just… different. As though the key to the prison he had locked himself in had always been in his pocket; he just hadn’t reached for it.
Once this monsoon ends, maybe I’ll get the house painted, he thought, surprising even himself.
As he stepped inside, he heard the soft sound of piano music filling the air. Music was the last thing he’d expected to find its way into his life, but now, he couldn’t imagine life without it. In the living room, Ragini sat at the piano, her eyes closed, fingers moving flawlessly over the keys. She was lost in her own world, a trance of notes and melodies. Mario wondered what would have happened that night if he hadn’t come to his senses.
It only takes a moment to change a person. For Mario, there were two such moments. The first was when he was sixteen. His mother had beaten him mercilessly after he refused to visit a big client she needed to please. In that moment, he realized she wasn’t the powerful figure he had feared — she was a broken addict, willing to sell her own son for another fix. Rage, a fury that had been building for years, exploded in him. Without a second thought, he grabbed a wooden log and beat her. There was no question of mercy. That moment defined the rest of his life. From that day on, he became a sadistic woman-hater.
Until the second moment — a girl telling him she was selling herself just to buy a piano. It had taken Mario time to process what Ragini had said, but once it sunk in, he knew he had to act. He made several frantic phone calls.
It all happened so fast that Ragini barely had time to comprehend the situation. Everything had been arranged perfectly. The Sheikh had spared no expense, offering her expensive wine — which she had to refuse, as she was detoxifying. She couldn’t afford to relapse. Her only focus was on the piano. Then, the Sheikh got a call, and everything unraveled. He slapped her, called her a conniving bitch, and threw her out of the room. Ragini had no idea what had gone wrong. Was it Mario who had betrayed her? But why? He had already won.
Later, sitting on the parapet at Marine Drive, Ragini stared blankly at the sea, trying to pick up the pieces of her shattered dream.
“What did you tell them, Mario?” she asked when he finally arrived. She had known he would come. He owed her an explanation.
Mario sat beside her. “I told them you had syphilis.” He smiled, but this time, his smile had a strange softness.
“Why? So you could crush my dreams again?”
“No,” Mario replied, his voice almost tender. “I couldn’t go through with the plan, knowing what that bastard would’ve done to you.”
“So you sent another girl to face him?”
“I can’t save everyone.”
Ragini couldn’t miss the helplessness in his voice.
“One at a time, Ragini. One at a time. Besides, Jhilmil knows how to handle it.”
“So, what’s the plan now? Another client? You know I need the money soon.”
Mario hesitated. “I was thinking… if it’s just for the piano, I could give you the money.”
Ragini laughed, her smooth giggle carried by the breeze. “There’s no amount of money in the world that would make me sleep with you.”
Mario laughed louder than he had in years. “You don’t have to sleep with me.”
“Then why the favor? What’s the catch, Mario? You didn’t suddenly grow a heart, did you?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I’ve always wanted a musical side to my personality. I’ll help you buy the piano, and you can give me free lessons.”
Ragini chuckled, imagining Mario learning to play the piano. She had always assumed he had it all figured out — who he was, what he wanted. Greed for money was his only motivation, or so she had thought. But maybe she was wrong. Maybe he was fighting his own battles, too.
“Where would you even keep the piano?” he asked.
That was when it struck Ragini — she hadn’t thought of the logistics. There was no room for a piano in her tiny hostel.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I’ll figure something out.”
“I have a plan if you’re willing to listen,” Mario offered. “No hidden agenda, I swear.”
Mario’s words sounded like a tobacco disclaimer, but Ragini was curious. “I’m all ears.”
“You can keep the piano at my place. Play anytime you want, even at 4 a.m. It’ll help me practice, too.”
Ragini narrowed her eyes. “Who are you kidding, Mario? If you have a hidden agenda, tell me now. I’d rather walk into the trap knowing what it is.”
“There’s no trap. Take it or leave it. The deal’s clear.”
Against all logic, Ragini wanted to believe him. There was an odd sincerity in his voice.
“You’re late for your lesson,” she said as he stood at the door.
“That was a beautiful piece you played,” he remarked. “What do you call it?”
“Melody of a Discordant Night,” she smiled.
He sat beside her. “Can you play the notes I taught you yesterday?” She was a demanding teacher, and Mario wasn’t her best student.
“There were only three people at Billu Baba’s funeral. How many do you think will come to mine?” he asked.
“Does it matter?” Ragini replied, walking to the window to give him space at the piano.
“Maybe not. But would you come?”
“If I’m alive, I’ll think about it.”
Mario smiled. He knew she would come. He pulled out the music sheet he could never read, always trying to memorize the keys. He messed up again.
“There’s no difference between teaching you and teaching a donkey,” she teased. “Play with me and pay attention this time.”
Together, they played — her melody blending with his flawed keystrokes, creating an unusual harmony that floated through the air, disturbing the quiet world outside.
Mr. Bhure opened his window and yelled, “Oh, Mozart ki aulad! If you love playing so much, soundproof your house!”
Mario smiled. “Not a bad idea.”
