Varun, his heart pounding with a terror he had never known, raced towards the village.
The image of Kajal, of her warmth and vulnerability, fueled his desperate sprint.
He moved with a speed that blurred his form, the wind whipping past him like a mournful cry.
Two hours of relentless, frantic running brought him to Gosaba, but the scene that greeted him was a nightmare made real.
The village was a scene of devastation.
Blood stained the earth, and the air was thick with the stench of death. Bodies lay scattered, their forms twisted and broken.
The cries of the wounded and the wails of the bereaved echoed through the ravaged homes.
He ran to their hut, the one he shared with Kajal, but it was empty, a hollow shell of what it once was except for the machines hidden away from the naked eyes.
He found the villagers huddled together, their faces etched with grief and fear.
Women mourned their dead husbands, their voices raw with sorrow.
Others tended to the wounded, their eyes filled with a hollow despair.
Suddenly, a voice, filled with venom, cut through the mourning.
He turned to see a woman, her face streaked with tears, her eyes burning with hatred.
She spat at his feet. 'This is all your fault!' she screamed, her voice cracking with emotion.
'If you hadn't come here, my husband wouldn't be dead! My daughter wouldn't have been… violated!'
The words struck Varun like a physical blow, the weight of his guilt crushing him.
He asked, his voice trembling, 'Where is the chaukidaar?'
A bitter laugh, laced with tears, answered him. 'Why don't you look among that hill of bodies? Maybe you'll find him there.'
Looking at the hill of bodies, he found the chaukidaar's body, his form broken and lifeless.
His right hand was severed, and a bullet hole marred his chest, a grim testament to his sacrifice.
'He died protecting Kajal,' a villager said, their voice heavy with accusation. 'While you were enjoying yourself in the city, he defended this village with his life.'
Varun, his throat tight with grief, asked, 'Where is Kajal?'
'They took her,' came the reply. 'They said they were avenging the Tehsildar and the miya. Claiming them to be royalty '.
'They chanted "Allah-hu-Akhbar" while ravagin our people.'
'We don't know where they took her. It's up to you to find her.' Hearing this Varun got silent.
Then 'Leave this village... ' another villager said, their voice filled with cold finality. 'Don't ever show your face here again.'
Varun, his face a mask of grief and a cold, simmering rage, lifted the chaukidaar's body and carried it to the cremation grounds near his hut.
As the flames consumed the body, he spoke, his voice a low, guttural growl. 'I am sorry. I will never return. But I will avenge this. I will find them, and they will pay for what they have done.'
Only the crackling flames answered him.
Then, with a single, powerful leap, he vanished into the night sky, a shadow consumed by the darkness, driven by grief and a thirst for vengeance.