Chapter 4: The Smile That Hid Poison

Buta Singh never entered a room quietly.

He arrived like a shift in atmosphere—like the volume of life itself had been turned slightly higher.

In the college corridors, his name moved faster than his footsteps. Not because he was the most talented student, and not because he was the most disciplined, but because he understood something very few people did:

People don’t follow truth easily. They follow energy.

And Buta Singh had mastered the art of controlled energy.

That morning, the campus felt normal—lectures, announcements, tired students dragging themselves between classes—but the moment Buta Singh appeared near the main staircase, something subtle changed.

Laughter became louder.

Postures became straighter.

Phones were lifted a little higher, as if recording life might make them part of it.

Geetanjali saw it from a distance.

She was standing near the notice board with Bhag Kaur, pretending to read an update about an upcoming seminar. But her eyes, as always, were elsewhere.

“There he is again,” Bhag Kaur muttered under her breath.

Geetanjali didn’t respond immediately.

Buta Singh was surrounded by a small group—students from different classes, different years, all orbiting him in a loose, shifting circle. He was speaking animatedly, hands moving, smile wide, voice carrying just enough authority to make others listen.

But Geetanjali wasn’t listening to his words.

She was listening to the rhythm of influence.

Every few seconds, someone laughed slightly too quickly. Someone nodded too eagerly. Someone else stayed silent, watching others before reacting.

It wasn’t natural.

It was guided.

“He talks like he owns the place,” Bhag Kaur said.

Geetanjali finally spoke. “No. He talks like he makes people feel like they want to belong somewhere.”

Bhag Kaur frowned. “Same thing, no?”

Geetanjali shook her head softly. “Not exactly.”

Buta Singh’s world was not built in a day.

It was built slowly, like a web—thread by thread, conversation by conversation.

He started with charm.

A compliment here. A joke there. A shared cigarette behind the sports block. A promise of “just one harmless party.”

Then came curiosity.

Then came involvement.

Then came dependence.

By the time students realized they were inside something, they were already afraid of leaving it.

The first time Geetanjali saw the inside of his circle, it was accidental.

At least, that’s what she told herself.

It was after college hours. Bhag Kaur had left early, and Geetanjali stayed back in the library longer than usual. She was walking toward the gate when she heard her name.

Not loudly.

Just enough.

“Geetanjali, right?”

She turned.

Buta Singh stood a few steps away, alone this time.

Without the crowd, he looked different—less like a performer, more like a person who had learned how to perform so well that it became his nature.

“Yes?” she replied cautiously.

He smiled. That same controlled smile.

“I’ve seen you around,” he said. “You observe a lot.”

Geetanjali didn’t react outwardly, but inside, something tightened slightly.

“I just notice things,” she said.

He nodded slowly, as if approving that answer.

“That’s rare,” he said. “Most people only see what’s in front of them.”

There was a pause.

A deliberate one.

Then he added casually, “We’re having a small get-together this weekend. Nothing big. Just a few people. You should come.”

Geetanjali blinked once.

“I don’t really go to those kinds of places,” she said.

He didn’t seem surprised.

Instead, he tilted his head slightly. “What kind?”

The question was simple.

But the way he asked it made it feel like a test.

Geetanjali held his gaze. “Crowded ones.”

He laughed lightly. “This isn’t crowded. It’s… comfortable.”

Comfortable.

That word stayed in the air a little longer than it should have.

Before she could respond, someone from behind called him.

“Buta! We’re leaving!”

He raised a hand in acknowledgment, then looked back at Geetanjali.

“No pressure,” he said smoothly. “Just thought you might like a change of scene.”

Then he walked away.

And strangely, Geetanjali realized something afterward.

He hadn’t tried to convince her.

He had simply planted the idea.

That evening, Bhag Kaur noticed something different in her.

“You’re quiet today,” she said while they sat on the college steps.

Geetanjali stared at the moving crowd. “I’m always quiet.”

“No,” Bhag Kaur replied. “This is different quiet.”

Geetanjali didn’t deny it.

Because she knew it was true.

Something about Buta Singh’s invitation had stayed with her—not like excitement, but like a question that refused to dissolve.

“Bhag,” she said slowly, “have you ever felt like someone isn’t showing their real intention, even when they’re smiling?”

Bhag Kaur immediately frowned. “Are you talking about that group again?”

Geetanjali didn’t answer directly.

That was enough answer.

Bhag Kaur sighed deeply. “Geetu, listen to me. People like that… they look interesting from far away. That’s all. Stay away.”

“I didn’t say I want to go,” Geetanjali replied.

But even as she said it, she knew something was shifting inside her.

Not attraction.

Not fear.

Curiosity.

And curiosity, she had learned, was always the first step toward involvement.

The weekend came faster than she expected.

And with it, the invitation became real.

A message.

Simple.

Direct.

You’re still welcome if you change your mind.

No pressure.

No insistence.

Just space left open for her decision.

That was Buta Singh’s real strategy.

He never pulled people.

He made them walk toward him.

Geetanjali stared at the message for a long time.

Then she turned off her phone.

But even silence has its own way of speaking.

She didn’t tell Bhag Kaur.

That was her first mistake.

Or maybe her second.

The first mistake might have been reading the message twice.

The location was outside the main city area—a private farmhouse arranged for gatherings. When she reached there, music was already faintly audible, mixing with the night air.

Lights glowed warm against the dark surroundings.

Cars were parked unevenly.

Laughter spilled out from inside like something contained but leaking.

Geetanjali stood for a moment near the entrance.

She could leave.

Even now.

No one had seen her yet.

But then she saw familiar faces from college walking inside.

And something inside her shifted again.

Belonging is a dangerous emotion.

It doesn’t ask if something is safe.

It only asks if something includes you.

She stepped in.

Inside, the world felt different.

Not louder.

Not quieter.

Just… altered.

Music filled the space in waves. People sat in clusters, some laughing too loudly, some speaking too closely, some staring into their drinks like they contained answers.

Buta Singh noticed her almost immediately.

Of course he did.

He always noticed what he wanted.

He walked toward her.

“You came,” he said simply.

Geetanjali nodded slightly. “Just for a bit.”

He smiled. “That’s how everything starts.”

She didn’t respond to that.

Instead, she looked around.

Some students were dancing near the center. Others were leaning against walls, laughing at jokes that didn’t seem particularly funny.

And then she saw it.

A boy she recognized from her class.

He was sitting alone on a sofa, staring at the floor. His hands were trembling slightly.

Next to him, someone placed a drink in his hand.

“Relax,” someone said, laughing.

He hesitated.

Then drank.

At first, nothing seemed to happen.

Then slowly, his posture changed.

Too fast.

Too unstable.

His laughter came suddenly—sharp, unnatural, almost breaking.

Geetanjali’s eyes narrowed.

Something was wrong.

The boy stood up abruptly, knocking the glass off the table.

“Hey!” someone shouted, laughing.

But he didn’t stop.

His breathing became uneven.

His eyes unfocused.

And then—

He stumbled.

Hard.

Against a table.

Chairs fell.

A loud crash cut through the music.

The room didn’t go silent.

But something inside it shifted.

People still laughed.

Some even filmed.

But Geetanjali didn’t move.

Because she wasn’t looking at the accident.

She was looking at Buta Singh.

He was watching too.

But his expression wasn’t surprise.

It wasn’t concern.

It was calculation.

As if he had already seen this outcome before it happened.

A girl nearby whispered, “He always overdoes it…”

Another laughed nervously.

But Geetanjali felt something cold settle inside her chest.

This wasn’t carelessness.

This was pattern.

And patterns meant repetition.

Buta Singh turned slightly and met her eyes again.

Just for a second.

Then he smiled.

Not warmly.

Not openly.

But like someone confirming that something was finally understood.

And in that moment, Geetanjali realized something she didn’t want to accept.

She hadn’t entered a gathering.

She had entered a system.

A system where people didn’t just come to enjoy themselves.

They came to be slowly reshaped.

Behind her, the boy was being helped up by others, still laughing, still unstable, still unaware of how quickly he had slipped from control.

And Geetanjali stood still.

While the room continued pretending it was just another night.

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