By Deepti Menon
Three days. Three days of being stalked by shadows, the stench of betrayal
clinging to them like a shroud. My father's empire, now mine by cruel twist
of fate, was under siege by my own flesh and blood – my conniving
step-sister. The ambush had been brutal, leaving me battered and bruised,
dumped in a desolate warehouse. Escape had been a desperate scramble,
fueled by pure adrenaline.
Hunger gnawed at my insides, my body a symphony of aches with every
ragged breath. Disoriented, I stumbled onto a deserted road.
Leaning against a deserted road sign, a flicker of movement caught my eye.
A car.
A rickety blue sedan appeared, driven by three women. Relief warred with
caution. Help, or another trap?
I flagged it down, my voice hoarse. It screeched to a halt, three pairs of wide
eyes staring back. Their initial apprehension morphed into cautious concern
as I stammered a plea for help.
"Who are you? What happened? Why should we trust you?” The question
came from the passenger seat, a wary edge to it.
My head spun, vision blurring at the edges. "Far from home," I rasped,
leaning heavily against the car. "Lost... need help."
The fear in their eyes mirrored my own. I was a ragged mess, desperation
etched on my face. Taking a deep breath, I explained my predicament,
painting myself as a victim on a deserted road, far from home.
They huddled together, their whispers reaching me like a teasing breeze.
One glanced at me, a flicker of empathy battling suspicion.
"Please," I croaked, desperation lacing my voice. "Trust me. I wouldn't ask
if..." Before I could finish, darkness claimed me.
Consciousness returned in jolts. The rhythmic thrum of an engine vibrated
beneath me. A cool hand rested on my forehead. "Let's get him to a
hospital.There is one about 25 kms away from here" a voice said.
Hospital? That was the last place I could afford to be. Panic clawed at my
throat.
“No! Not a hospital!" It burst from me, a ragged cry.
The car lurched to a stop. Confusion clouded their faces.
My outburst had startled them, leaving them wide-eyed.
"Why not?" the driver-girl asked, concern battling annoyance. "You're
hurt. You need a doctor."
Sweat beaded on my brow. How could I explain the danger a hospital posed?
Explaining my predicament, the looming threat my sister posed, felt
impossible. I choked back a cough,
“Please," I pleaded, the word raw in my throat. "Not the hospital. Anywhere
else."
Silence stretched, thick and heavy. Finally, one of the girls spoke, a note of
determination in her voice. "We'll take you somewhere safe. But you need
medical attention."
"We're headed to a farmhouse near Bangalore,
" the one girl announced.
Bangalore. Far enough. Relief washed over me, as welcome as a cool breeze.
The rest of the journey was a blur of exhausted sleep, and stolen glances.
My body ached with every movement, but at least I was safe, for now. The
farmhouse was a haven of peace and quiet. Sleep, a precious commodity,
stole me away for days. When I finally stirred, weak but conscious, I was
greeted by their worried faces. The days blurred, filled with hushed
conversations and stolen glances. They explained the caretaker and his
family who'd looked after me, his son, a medical student,
Kind faces hovered over me, offering food and medicine. I learned their
names – Payal, Khushi, and Kanchi - three cousins embarking on a
post-graduation getaway after finishing their studies in Bangalore.
Their kindness was overwhelming. They shared stories of their upcoming
return to Lucknow, their hometown. I felt a pang of longing for a life I
couldn't reclaim.
He was actually surprised that none of them asked for his personal details
yet, just took care of him.
One afternoon, lunch was interrupted by a breaking news report. The image
on the screen made the world tilt on its axis. My treacherous step-sister,
bathed in the glow of fabricated sympathy. My name, splashed across the
screen as a missing heir.
My carefully constructed world threatened to crumble. Returning wasn't an
option. Not yet..
My stomach clenched. I needed a plan, a way to disappear, to regroup. But
how could I explain my charade to these women who had taken me in?
As the news ended, their eyes turned to me, filled with a mix of curiosity and
concern. "You were going to say something before..." Payal prompted.
I took a gamble. "I don't remember anything," I said, my voice hollow.
Silence descended, thick and heavy. The girls exchanged panicked glances.
As they probed for details, memories I couldn't possibly possess, I played
the part of the amnesiac. A throbbing headache, meticulously orchestrated,
ended the interrogation.
Just as I braced myself for their reaction, the farmhouse owner's son, a
medical student, entered.
"Amnesia," he declared after a brief examination. "Trauma-induced
memory loss. He might recover with time and rest."
Relief washed over me. Amnesia – the perfect excuse.
Days turned into weeks. As the girls prepared to leave, the topic remained a
heated debate. Finally, a decision was made. I would accompany them to
Lucknow, their hometown.
Guilt gnawed at me. I owed these women my life, yet I was lying to them.
But I held onto the hope that someday, when the situation allowed, I could
explain everything
As we pulled away from the tranquil farmhouse, a knot of unease tightened
in my stomach. Lucknow. A new city, a new identity, all built on a
foundation of lies. But somewhere between the fear and uncertainty, a spark
of hope flickered. Maybe, just maybe, Lucknow held the key to reclaiming
my life.
By Deepti Menon
Soulful story