Everything was silent. The entrance stood cold and hollow, and the rain outside pounded heavily, as if determined to shatter every shutter and window of the building. Amidst the chaos, Vidya remained still, her gaze fixed upon the floor, her eyes vacant—devoid of anger, fear, or even sorrow—just a haunting blankness.
The senior policeman, his voice firm yet urgent, ordered his lady police inspector subordinates to move quickly, to rescue every hostage trapped inside. The bandits had already fled into the storm, leaving behind no solid evidence to bring down Lalan Raj. Still, the officer commanded his best inspectors to launch a search, unwilling to let the man vanish into the shadows.
As the flurry of movement filled the corridors, the old lady beside Vidya suddenly collapsed into grief. Her cries pierced through the damp air as she beat her frail chest in shame. "This is all my fault!" she wailed. "That bastard kills without a thought, but if only I had killed him in my womb before he was born—none of this would have happened." Her voice broke as despair crushed her from within, and she struck herself harder, as though punishment could erase the weight of her son's sins.
Vidya, who had been silent all this time, listening to every painful word, finally stepped forward. She knelt beside the old woman, gently holding her wrinkled hands, her voice low yet steady. "No," she whispered, "this is not your fault. It is mine. If I had never come here, I would never have been forced to hear these truths. I would have lived with the belief—false or not—that my sister was still alive. At least then, I would not have carried the pain I feel now."
She paused, her grip tightening as if to lend the woman her strength. "But it has happened. We cannot undo it. All we can do is endure. Hold yourself together… you will be fine."
The senior policeman, who had been quietly observing the scene nearby, stepped closer. Folding his hands respectfully, he addressed the old lady with a voice heavy with sincerity. "Maaji, I am sorry… sorry that you have suffered this unbearable trauma for so many years because of him. But I promise you—we will find him, and we will avenge every wrong he has done, not only to you but to all the women whose lives he destroyed."
The old lady slowly turned her head, her weary eyes refusing to meet his. Her lips trembled as she spoke, her tone drained of all strength. "No, my child… it is not your fault. None of this is. We are simply… unlucky. Nothing else." And with that, she fell into silence, her grief swallowing every word she might have said.
The policeman's brows furrowed in worry. A heavy guilt pressed upon him, but he did not linger. Turning instead toward Vidya, who still sat motionless on the floor, he asked gently, "So… you are the woman who gave all those pictures and videos to Madhu's phone, am I right?"
Vidya's voice came out faint, almost a whisper. "Yes."
The senior policeman nodded solemnly. "Madhu wanted me to tell you something. She said she is safe… and everything that happened, everything that became possible, is because of her brother Rajesh."
Vidya did not respond. She remained seated, her eyes fixed downward, her face expressionless. But the officer, seasoned in reading the unspoken, understood. Beneath her silence, her heart was quietly relieved—grateful even. She simply refused to let it show.
Breaking the moment, the senior policeman straightened his stance. His voice grew firm as he gave his orders. "Alright, let's wind this up. Move everyone out from this place. But before we leave—" he raised his voice to his subordinates, "—check every corner, every room. Nothing should be left behind. Seize the entire building and the surrounding area."
"Yes, sir!" his men replied in unison. And at once, they dispersed, carrying out his command.
But on the other hand, Vidya's voice suddenly broke the silence. She asked something so unbelievable, so emotional, that it pierced even the hardened heart of the senior policeman.
"Sir…" she said softly, lifting her eyes to meet his directly, her face pale but steady. "This is the place where my sister died." Her voice trembled, but she continued with strength. "I want to perform a proper puja here… and then burn this place down. Please. It is my only request. Otherwise, my sister's soul will wander here for decades, never finding peace."
The senior policeman, who had faced ruthless criminals and bloodshed without a flinch, suddenly felt his throat tighten. His stern, battle-worn heart turned heavy. Slowly, he rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, hiding the sadness that threatened to overwhelm him. "Alright…" he said in a low, emotional voice. "Do as you wish."
Moments later, his subordinates began gathering every woman from the building—rescuing them from the basement to the uppermost floor. The sight that unfolded left the entire police force shaken. Dozens of women emerged, frail and exhausted, their faces hollow, their bodies weakened from days of hunger. Some could barely walk, their eyes sunken from despair.
The policemen who saw them clenched their jaws in fury, their teeth grinding in helpless rage. Every instinct in them longed to strike back at the monster who had caused such suffering, but Lalan Raj had already fled. They could do nothing but swallow their anger. Even the senior policeman, who had built his life on discipline and steel-hearted resolve, could not stop his fists from trembling.
Finally, gathering himself, he spoke with firm authority: "Call the police vans and jeeps. And bring food—immediately. These women must eat. Also, gather the materials for the puja. After everything is done here, only then will we return home."
"Yes, sir!" the subordinates replied in unison, their voices echoing through the broken halls of the building.
And so, the orders were carried out, every man and woman in uniform driven not by duty alone, but by the heavy burden of what they had witnessed.
Moments later, the clock struck seven. The air was heavy with anticipation as everyone waited for the vehicles to arrive. At last, the sound of engines broke through the silence, and the police vans and jeeps pulled up in front of the building. The senior policeman stepped forward immediately, his voice firm yet compassionate.
"Alright, each and every one of you," he ordered his subordinates, "distribute the food among the women. Make sure no one is left hungry. If it isn't enough, we will bring more. Eat until you are full. And also—give the puja materials to Vidya."
The officers hurried to obey, handing out packets of food to the women who had been rescued. Their frail hands clutched the meals with desperation, and slowly, the sounds of chewing and quiet relief filled the air. After an hour, every woman had eaten, their exhaustion giving way to faint sparks of strength. The policemen also urged Vidya to take something, but she remained silent the entire time, her focus solely on arranging the puja materials with trembling hands.
At last, she stood, her face pale, her voice breaking. "We are ready to begin," she said. "Let us all pray—for my sister, for her peace, and for her unborn child."
Her words cracked under the weight of grief, and tears spilled down her cheeks. The moment shook everyone present. Hardened policemen, weary villagers, and even the victims—all felt the same heavy ache. Though they differed in nature, duty, and circumstance, in that instant, sorrow united them. The beauty of human compassion lay bare: when death takes someone away, grief is shared by all.
One by one, hands came together in prayer. Heads bowed, lips murmured, and silence fell—a silence filled with love, mourning, and unspoken promises.
When the prayer ended, Vidya wiped her tears and whispered, "Thank you… all of you. But now it is time for the final ritual—to burn down this building."
She turned to the senior policeman, her eyes unwavering. "Please, order your men to spread kerosene throughout every room, every hall. Leave nothing untouched."
The officer gave a solemn nod and relayed her command. Soon, the pungent smell of kerosene filled the air as the policemen soaked the cursed walls and broken floors.
Vidya then stepped forward, holding a fire torch in her hand. "Everyone… move outside," she said quietly.
They obeyed, gathering in the open air as Vidya stood before the structure that had brought so much pain. Without hesitation, she lowered the torch. The flames caught quickly, crackling and hissing as they spread. Within moments, fire consumed the building, crawling up its walls and devouring its wood and stone. The inferno roared, casting an orange glow into the night sky.
The commotion drew the countryside people from nearby villages. They stood at the edge of the crowd, watching the blaze. "We are relieved," some said with tears in their eyes. "At last, it has ended. Our daughters and wives were once taken from us, but now… now we are safe. Thank you."
But no one among the police or the rescued women responded. They simply stood in silence, gazing at the burning fortress of horror—a building that had been hell for so many.
And in the middle of them all stood Vidya, her eyes fixed on the flames. Yet inside, she was hollow. Blank. A vessel emptied of everything except grief.