Chapter 3 The Crash
Vikram didn't take Arjun to the meeting. He left him at the ancestral house with the caretaker, telling him they had some boring legal paperwork to sort out and would be back for dinner. He didn't want his fourteen-year-old son to see the ugly side of the world. He didn't want him to see his father lose his temper.
Vikram drove the car himself to the MLA's residence, with the hired driver sitting quietly in the passenger seat. Anjali sat in the back, her face pale but her eyes hard. They weren't tourists anymore. They were investors who had been robbed.
Virendar Rao's residence was a fortress disguised as a home. High walls, barbed wire, and a dozen men loitering at the gate. When they saw the black SUV, they let it pass, likely assuming it was another businessman coming to pay tribute.
They found Rao in his courtyard, sitting on a wooden swing, reading a newspaper. He looked up, smiling that same oily smile he had worn a month ago.
Vikram Sir! Back so soon? How was the tour? Did you see the Taj Mahal?
Vikram didn't return the smile. He walked straight up to Rao, ignoring the chair offered to him.
Where is the money, Rao?
Rao blinked, feigning innocence. The smile didn't waver.
Money? Ah, the construction funds. Sir, as I told your architect—who is very hard to reach, by the way—there were some zoning issues. The government required a new environmental clearance. The funds are... held up in the bureaucratic process.
Cut the crap, Vikram snapped. His voice echoed in the courtyard. The bodyguards around the perimeter stiffened, hands moving to their waists.
I went to the site. It's a mud pit. I called the architect. His number is dead. I called the bank. The Trust account is empty. You drained it three days after we left for Kerala.
Vikram leaned in, placing his hands on the armrests of Rao's swing, trapping him.
That was five million dollars. My money. You think you can steal from me like I'm some illiterate villager?
Rao's smile finally faded. He sighed, folding his newspaper.
Mr. Vikram. You have lived in America too long. You forget how things work here. The money isn't gone. It's... circulating. It helps the party. And when the party wins the election next month, we will build your hospital. With interest. Just be patient.
Patient? Anjali stepped forward, her voice shaking with rage. You stole from sick people. You stole from a child's future.
Vikram stood up straight, buttoning his jacket. He looked at Rao with cold, absolute contempt.
I'm not going to be patient. I'm going to destroy you.
He pulled out his phone.
I have dual citizenship. I have already drafted an email to the US Consulate General in Hyderabad. I have friends at the Times of India and NDTV who are dying for a corruption story involving an NRI. By tomorrow morning, your face will be on every news channel in the country. You won't just lose the election, Rao. You'll go to prison.
Rao went still. His eyes darted from Vikram to Anjali. He realized this wasn't a bluff. This man had the connections to burn his entire political career to the ground.
Vikram didn't wait for a response.
You have twenty-four hours to put the money back. Or I end you.
Vikram turned around, grabbed Anjali's hand, and marched back to the car.
Rao watched them go. He didn't shout. He didn't call his guards to beat them up. That would be too messy. He just looked at the driver who was standing by the SUV, holding the door open for Vikram.
Rao gave a nearly imperceptible nod.
The driver, a man who had been ferrying Vikram's family for the last month, looked down at his feet, then gave a small, stiff nod back.
The deal was done.
The drive back to the ancestral house was quiet. The sun had set, and the highway was pitch black, illuminated only by the headlights of passing trucks.
Vikram was still running on adrenaline.
I'll call the lawyers in New York tonight, he told Anjali, gripping the steering wheel. We'll freeze his assets. We'll make him wish he never met us.
Anjali looked out the window at the passing darkness.
Vikram, maybe we should just leave. He's dangerous. The way he looked at us...
He's a thug in a white shirt, Anjali. He's scared of us. That's why he didn't say a word. We hold the cards.
Vikram checked the rearview mirror.
Driver, why are you so quiet? You haven't said a word since we left.
The driver, who was sitting in the back seat now because Vikram had insisted on driving to the meeting, cleared his throat.
Sorry, Sir. Just... stomach ache.
Vikram didn't think anything of it. He pressed on the accelerator. They were on the bridge over the canal now. The road was narrow, with a steep drop into the water on the left and heavy traffic on the right.
Can you check if there's water in the bottle back there? Vikram asked the driver.
Yes, Sir.
The driver didn't reach for the water. He reached for the steering wheel.
It happened in a split second.
Vikram shouted, Hey!
The driver lunged forward from the back seat, grabbing the wheel and jerking it violently to the left.
The SUV swerved. At sixty miles per hour, there was no time to correct.
Vikram slammed on the brakes, but it was too late. The car smashed through the flimsy metal guardrail.
Anjali screamed.
The world spun. Metal crunched against concrete. The SUV flipped over the edge, plummeting into the darkness below.
It crashed onto the rocky embankment of the dry canal with a sound like a bomb going off. The roof collapsed. Glass shattered into a million diamonds.
Then, silence.
The driver, who had braced himself and was wearing his seatbelt in the back, groaned. He kicked open the warped door and crawled out, bleeding from a cut on his head but alive.
He looked into the front seats.
Vikram was slumped over the steering wheel, his neck at an unnatural angle. Anjali was motionless.
The driver pulled out his phone. His hands were shaking. He dialed a number.
It's done, he whispered.
At the ancestral house, Arjun was waiting.
He had finished his game. He had set the table for dinner. He had checked the clock three times. It was 9:30 PM. They should have been back an hour ago.
He tried calling his dad's phone. Switched off.
He tried his mom. Switched off.
A cold feeling started in his stomach. Not fear, exactly, but a heavy, dark intuition.
Then he saw the lights.
Blue and red flashing lights reflecting off the courtyard walls.
Arjun walked to the front door. He opened it.
A police jeep was parked outside. An ambulance followed it.
A police inspector, a man with a heavy mustache and a tired face, stepped out of the jeep. He took off his cap when he saw Arjun.
Are you... Arjun? the Inspector asked.
Arjun nodded. He couldn't speak. He looked at the ambulance. The back doors were opening.
Where are they? Arjun whispered.
The Inspector looked down at his boots.
There was an accident, son. On the bridge. The car went off the road.
Arjun felt the ground tilt beneath him.
Are they hurt? Can I see them?
The Inspector didn't answer. He just gestured to the constables.
They brought out two stretchers covered in white sheets. They placed them in the center of the courtyard, under the open sky.
Arjun walked forward. His legs felt like lead. He felt like he was moving underwater.
He reached out and pulled back the first sheet.
It was Vikram. His face was bruised, a cut running down his forehead, but he looked like he was sleeping. The determination, the anger, the laughter from the snowball fight—it was all gone. He was just a shell.
Arjun pulled back the second sheet.
Anjali. She looked peaceful, except for the blood matted in her hair.
Arjun stood there. He didn't scream. He didn't cry. His brain couldn't process it. Just yesterday, they were laughing in Delhi. Just this morning, his dad was making jokes about the heat.
How? Arjun asked. His voice sounded like it belonged to someone else.
The Inspector sighed. He had a script to read.
The driver survived. He is in the hospital. He gave a statement. He said your father was driving. He said your father was tired from the trip... he dozed off at the wheel. The car lost control. It was a tragic accident.
Arjun looked at the Inspector.
Dozed off?
My dad never sleeps when he drives, Arjun said. He was a Formula One fan. He loved driving. He was awake. We just came back from vacation. He was happy.
The Inspector put a hand on Arjun's shoulder.
Grief makes us deny the truth, son. It was an accident. The report is filed.
Arjun looked at his father's dead face. Then he looked at the Inspector's eyes. The Inspector wasn't looking at him. He was looking away, nervous, wanting to leave.
Arjun remembered the meeting this morning. He remembered the Trust. He remembered the empty feeling he had when he looked at the MLA.
Five million dollars.
His dad went to get the money back. And now he was dead.
It wasn't an accident.
Arjun fell to his knees. The realization hit him harder than a physical blow. They weren't just dead. They were murdered. And the people who did it were going to get away with it because they wrote 'Accident' on a piece of paper.
He looked at his mother's hand, hanging limply off the stretcher. He remembered her smile on the boat in Kerala. He remembered his dad laughing when he caught the boot. He remembered the promise they made to build a hospital.
The tears finally came.
They didn't come as a whimper. They came as a scream. A raw, guttural sound that tore out of his throat and echoed through the empty house.
Arjun grabbed his father's cold hand and pressed it to his forehead, sobbing until his chest hurt, until he couldn't breathe.
He was fourteen years old. He was alone in a country he didn't know. And the monsters were watching.