Chapter 4:Am I a murderer

Riya did not sleep. She sat in front of the laptop and wrote. Every word Kabir told her. Every detail of that night. Her fingers flew, but her mind was not on the screen.

Her mind was on the terrace.

YOU WERE THERE. ON THE TERRACE. WITH ME. YOU WERE THE LAST PERSON I SAW.

The typewriter's words were burned into her skull. She closed her eyes and it was there. Not a dream. A memory. Yellow and cracked like an old photo.

Poornima night. She was 13. Not 8. Her father had lied about the chickenpox. She was in Shanti Villa. The air smelled of rain and rust. Kabir was shouting at someone. At Chacha.

"Don't touch her! She's just a kid!" Kabir's voice, 15 but broken.

And then... her. Riya. Standing frozen near the terrace wall. Her small hands shaking. Kabir running towards her, away from Chacha. Chacha's hand grabbing Kabir's collar.

"Hold on to me!" Kabir had screamed at her.

She remembered reaching out. Remembered her fingers closing around his wrist. Remembered how cold his skin was. How heavy he was.

And then the boot. Chacha's boot. Size 10. Left foot. It came down on her hand. Hard. She screamed. Her grip slipped.

Kabir fell.

Not pushed. Fell. Because she let go.

Riya opened her eyes. She was breathing like she'd run a marathon. Her left hand was throbbing. She rolled up her sleeve. There, on the back of her hand, was a faint, white scar. Curved like a moon. Like a boot mark.

She had always told Mama it was from a hot tawa. Mama believed her. Or pretended to.

"Am I a murderer?" Riya whispered to the empty room. Her voice was a child's voice. Scared. Small. "Agar maine pakad mazboot rakhi hoti to? Agar main chilla deti to? Agar main Chacha ko kaat leti to? He was 15. I was 13. I could have done something."

The guilt was a stone in her stomach. Heavy. Sharp. It had been there for 5 years, buried under injections and lies. Now it was awake.

"Kabir," she said to the typewriter. "Did I kill you? Tell me the truth. No riddles. Did my hand kill you?"

The typewriter was silent for a full minute. Then:

NO.

Riya's head snapped up. "What?"

CHACHA KILLED ME. HIS BOOT ON YOUR HAND. HIS HAND ON MY COLLAR. HE THREW ME. YOU TRIED TO SAVE ME, RIYA. YOU WERE 13. YOU WERE BRAVE. DON'T YOU DARE CALL YOURSELF A MURDERER.

"But I let go," Riya cried. The tears were finally here. Hot and endless. "If I hadn't let go—"

IF YOU HADN'T LET GO, HE WOULD HAVE KILLED YOU TOO. HE WOULD HAVE THROWN BOTH OF US. YOU WERE A CHILD. I WAS A CHILD. HE WAS THE ADULT. HE WAS THE MURDERER. NOT YOU. NEVER YOU.

Riya touched the scar. For the first time, it didn't feel like shame. It felt like proof. Proof she tried. Proof she was there. Proof she didn't run.

"I remember now," she whispered. "I remember your eyes. You weren't scared when you fell. You were looking at me. Like you were sorry. Sorry for me."

I WAS SORRY I COULDN'T PROTECT YOU FROM SEEING IT. I WAS SORRY YOUR FATHER WOULD MAKE YOU FORGET. I WAS SORRY I WOULDN'T BE THERE AT THE NEXT MELA.

Riya put her head down on the typewriter. The metal was cold against her forehead. "I'm sorry I forgot. I'm sorry it took 5 years."

YOU CAME BACK. THAT IS ENOUGH.

At 7 AM her phone rang. Unknown number.

The sound shattered the moment. Riya wiped her face fast. She wasn't ready for this. She wasn't ready for him.

"Hello?" Riya said, voice hoarse.

"Riya beta," a cold voice said. It was her father. "Caretaker told me you went to Shanti Villa. Come home. Now."

The word "beta" made her flinch. Yesterday it was a word. Today it was a weapon.

"Why?" Riya said. "So you can give me another injection? So I forget again? So I can forget I have a scar? So I can forget a boy died because of you?"

Silence. Then: "What nonsense. You are sick, beta. That boy Kabir died by suicide. You were not even there. You were in hospital that week. Chickenpox. Remember? Doctor Gupta. White room. You loved the orange lollipops he gave you."

He knew. He knew about the white room. He was confirming it.

"Liar," Riya whispered. "I remember the boot mark on my hand. Chacha's boot. I remember the terrace. I remember Kabir's eyes. There were no lollipops, Papa. Only blood."

Her father's voice turned to ice. All pretense gone. "If you write one word about this, I will make sure you never write again. Do you understand? I made you. I can break you. I can get Doctor Gupta to sign papers. Mental illness. Hysteria. You will spend your life in a white room. For real this time."

The call cut.

Riya's phone slipped from her hand. It hit the floor with a crack. She didn't pick it up. For 5 minutes she just stared at her scar. Her father. The man who taught her to ride a cycle. Who brought her ice cream after exams. Who paid for a doctor to erase his sin from her brain.

She looked at the typewriter. "He threatened me, Kabir. My own father. He said he'll have me locked up. Like I'm crazy. Like I'm the problem."

The typewriter stayed silent for a long time. Riya thought Kabir had left. Then, slowly:

I KNOW.

The words looked... tired. Not angry. Tired.

I TOLD YOU. HE WILL KILL YOU TOO IF YOU TELL THE TRUTH. HE KILLED MY FATHER. HE KILLED ME. YOU SAW IT.

"So what do I do? Stay quiet? Let Chacha live free? Let my father walk around like he's a good man? Call him Papa again?" Riya's voice rose. She was angry now. At her father. At Kabir. At her 13 year old self for being weak.

NO. WE FIGHT. BUT SMART. NOT EMOTIONAL.

Riya laughed bitterly. "A ghost is telling me to be smart. You died because you were emotional, Kabir. You went to the terrace to confront him. And now you're teaching me?"

The typewriter paused. The keys trembled. Then it typed, each letter hitting like a stone:

YES. I WAS STUPID. I WAS 15. I THOUGHT IF I SHOUTED LOUD ENOUGH, SOMEONE WOULD LISTEN. NO ONE DID. CHACHA PUSHED ME. I FELL. END OF STORY. DON'T BE STUPID LIKE ME, RIYA.

Riya flinched. This was the first time Kabir sounded... broken. Not a vengeful ghost. Not a hero. Just a boy who died scared and alone.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I didn't mean..."

I KNOW. YOU ARE SCARED. I WAS TOO. BUT FEAR MAKES YOU MAKE MISTAKES. FEAR MAKES YOU LET GO.

Riya walked to the window. The morning sun was harsh. Mumbai was waking up. Cars honking. Normal life. And here she was, talking to a dead boy about murder. About her scar. About being 13 and helpless.

"What's the plan then?" she asked quietly. "If not emotional, then what?"

WE WRITE THE BOOK. BUT WE DON'T NAME NAMES. WE CHANGE IT. INSTEAD OF RAJ SHARMA WE WRITE RAJ VERMA. INSTEAD OF CHACHA WE WRITE MAMA. PEOPLE WILL READ. POLICE WILL GET CURIOUS. TRUTH WILL COME OUT.

Riya frowned. "That's it? That's your big revenge? A book? He destroyed your whole life, Kabir. Your father's life. And you want to write a novel?"

WHAT ELSE CAN I DO? I AM DEAD, RIYA. I CAN'T GO TO COURT. I CAN'T HOLD A GUN. MY ONLY WEAPON IS THE TRUTH. AND MY ONLY BULLET IS YOU.

The words hit Riya harder than her father's threat. My only bullet is you.

She sat down slowly. "You don't even trust me fully, do you? You think I'll back out. That I'll choose my father."

I DON'T KNOW. WOULD YOU? IF IT WAS YOUR FATHER OR ME?

The question hung in the air. Ugly and honest.

Riya thought of her father. She thought of the injection. The lies. The 100 rupee note thrown at Kabir's feet at the mela. She thought of a 15 year old boy falling from a terrace because a 13 year old girl couldn't hold on.

"My father stopped being my father the day he erased my memory," she said finally. "The day he chose his reputation over my soul. You... you saved me at the mela when I was nobody. You tried to save me on the terrace when I was somebody's daughter. You are more my family than he is."

The typewriter was silent for 30 seconds. Then:

THANK YOU.

Just two words. But Riya felt the whole room get warmer.

"And if papa finds out it’s me?" she asked. The fear was still there, but now it had company. Anger. And purpose.

The typewriter hesitated again. This was the moment, Riya realized. Kabir could say anything. He could promise to kill her father. He could ask her to run.

Instead he typed:

I DON'T KNOW IF I CAN PROTECT YOU, RIYA. I AM A GHOST. I FAILED TO SAVE MYSELF. I FAILED TO SAVE MY FATHER. I MIGHT FAIL YOU TOO. BUT I PROMISE I WILL TRY. I WILL STAND BETWEEN YOU AND HIM. EVEN IF I TURN TO DUST.

That was not the answer of a hero. That was the answer of a scared 15 year old boy who refused to be a coward twice.

For the first time since she entered Shanti Villa, Riya felt safe. Not because Kabir was powerful. But because he was honest. Because he didn't lie like her father.

She looked at the typewriter and smiled sadly. "You were always protecting me, weren't you? Even at the mela. Even on the terrace. You didn't have to come back for me that day. But you did. You didn't have to hold my hand. But you did."

The typewriter was silent. Then it typed, slowly: SOMEONE HAD TO. NO ONE ELSE DID. NOT YOUR FATHER. NOT CHACHA. NOT THE WORLD. JUST ME.

Riya started crying again. But this time, it was not from fear. It was from guilt. And from gratitude. "I'm sorry I forgot you, Kabir. For 5 years. I'm sorry you died thinking the last thing you saw was me letting go."

YOU DIDN'T FORGET. YOU WERE MADE TO FORGET. THERE IS A DIFFERENCE. AND I DIDN'T SEE YOU LET GO. I SAW YOU TRY TO HOLD ON. THAT IS WHAT I REMEMBER. NOW WRITE. MAKE THE WORLD REMEMBER ME. MAKE MY FATHER KNOW HE DIDN'T DIE FOR NOTHING. MAKE YOUR FATHER KNOW HE CAN'T ERASE EVERYTHING.

Riya opened a new document. Title: The Ghost of Poornima

She started typing. This time, it was not dark and stormy. It was not "Once upon a time." It was true.

Chapter 1: I was 13. I had a scar on my hand. And I watched a boy fall from the sky.

At 10 AM Publisher Mehta called. "Riya! Where is my chapter? You promised 1000 words daily!"

"Coming," Riya said. "Sending Ch 1 now. Title: Dear Ghost, Please Don't Kill Me."

"Wow! What a title! Readers will love. Send fast!"

Riya clicked send. She looked at the typewriter. Her heart was racing but her hands were steady. "Now we wait."

NO, Kabir typed. NOW WE PREPARE. CHACHA WILL COME. ONCE THE BOOK GOES VIRAL, HE WILL KNOW IT'S ABOUT HIM.

Riya's blood ran cold. "He will come here? To kill me?"

YES. BUT THIS TIME, I AM HERE TOO. AND I AM ALREADY DEAD. HE CAN'T KILL ME TWICE. HE CAN'T MAKE YOU FORGET TWICE. THIS TIME, WE WIN.

Riya nodded. She closed the laptop. For the first time in 5 years, she wasn't lost. She wasn't 8 at the mela. She wasn't 13 on the terrace.

She was 21. She had a scar. She had the truth.

She had Kabir. And Kabir had her.

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