FORBIDDEN FLAMES

The world outside the bungalow was vibrant with life—children running barefoot, merchants bartering with their loud voices, and the occasional whistle of the distant train cutting through the serenity. Yet, within these walls, I sat at my desk, staring blankly at a map of Uttar Pradesh as if I hadn't already memorized every contour, every village, and every path.

She thought she was clever. Roshni Thakur, with her fiery eyes and stubborn resolve, always underestimating the extent of my awareness. She’d slipped out two nights ago under the pretense of delivering something to the local temple, leaving me with a vague, hurried excuse and an air of defiance. I hadn't followed her, not then. Instead, I had waited. Watched.

Tom had come rushing in the next morning, his usual casual demeanor overshadowed by a rare hint of worry.
“Roshni’s missing,” he blurted out. “It’s been hours—no sign of her.”

I had responded with what I hoped was convincing indifference. “She’s probably with her family or attending to some errand.”

In truth, I had already known where she was. I’d known from the moment she left, her veil barely covering the determination etched on her face. The whispers in the market, the trail of fresh sandalwood powder left behind, the subtle movement of her shadow through the village—I’d pieced it all together without much effort.

It wasn’t hard to find someone who didn’t really want to be hidden.

But pretending not to know gave me a peculiar satisfaction. Let her think she’d outsmarted me. Let her believe I was a clueless British officer, preoccupied with railway schedules and colonial paperwork. I wanted to see how far she would go, how many lies she could weave into her carefully constructed facade before it all came undone.

“Edward, you don’t seem particularly concerned,” Tom said, leaning against the doorway with a half-raised eyebrow.

“I’m not,” I replied curtly. “Roshni is not a child. She’ll return when she’s ready.”

Tom grumbled something under his breath, but I barely registered it. My mind was already wandering to the dusty path leading toward the village outskirts, to the modest hut where I knew she was holed up. She wasn’t alone—her brother, Arjun, had been seen there, along with a few others whose names I hadn’t bothered to learn. Revolutionaries, no doubt. Dreamers with ideals too grand for their own good.

I should have sent someone after her. I should have confronted her. But the thought of doing so left a sour taste in my mouth. This marriage wasn’t about control or loyalty—it was a chess game, and every move had to be calculated.

For now, I would let her play her little games, let her believe she was free to do as she pleased. But she didn’t realize that every step she took, every word she spoke, was being silently cataloged in my mind.

By the time she returned that evening, the veil of innocence firmly back in place, I was seated in the drawing room with a book in hand.

“Where were you?” I asked, not looking up.