The morning had unfolded with the lazy promise of a perfect day, the kind where time bends to your whims and every small pleasure feels amplified. I had planned nothing more ambitious than lounging in the quiet aftermath of last night's chaos, letting the sun climb higher while I savored the rare luxury of peace.
Then came the knock.
Two sharp raps on the door shattered the stillness. I peered through the peephole and saw Gauri standing there, radiant in the soft morning light, her smile already carrying the infectious energy that made resistance futile.
I opened the door.
"Good morning," she said brightly. "How was your night?"
I rubbed the back of my neck. "Don't ask. Pretty much chaotic."
She tilted her head, eyes sparkling with mischief. "Want to walk outside? Clear your head?"
"Sure," I replied, surprising myself with how quickly I agreed.
We descended the stairs together, turning the mundane task into an impromptu competition—who could skip the most steps at once. My record climbed to seven; Gauri's stalled at five. Victory was mine, and she conceded with a dramatic groan and a playful shove.
Outside, the air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of dew and distant woodsmoke. I followed her lead as she veered off the main path toward a narrow alley tucked between weathered buildings. She stopped at the edge of a small, overgrown clearing and clapped
her hands.
"Hey, everyone! Come out!"
From the shadows and underbrush burst seven puppies—fluffy bundles of energy with oversized paws and bright, curious eyes. They barreled toward her in a tumbling wave of yips and wagging tails.
I let out a low whistle. "Wow. I'm impressed."
Gauri laughed and tried to scoop one up, but the little rebels darted away, forcing her into a gleeful chase. For the first time in my life, I witnessed the surreal spectacle of dogs being pursued by a human. She ran after them with arms outstretched, hair flying, while the puppies zigzagged in delighted panic. It was absurd, joyful, and utterly wonderful—a perfect way to greet the day.
Soon the neighborhood children joined in, their laughter ringing out as they formed an impromptu hunting party. Now it was a full troupe: a gaggle of kids led by a grown woman, all in hot pursuit of a scampering pack of puppies.
I stood at the edge, arms folded, content to watch the chaos unfold.
Then everything changed.
A low rumble rolled through the clearing—not thunder, but something far more primal. I turned, and my blood turned to ice.
They emerged from the far side of the clearing like shadows given form: massive dogs, each one a mountain of muscle and menace. Himalayan Sheepdogs with their thick, weather-beaten coats; broad-chested Pit Bulls scarred from battles unseen; Bully Kuttas, those formidable Indian guardians whose sheer bulk seemed to defy reason; and other giant breeds whose combined presence made the ground feel smaller. Any one of them could have weighed close to ninety kilograms—some perhaps more.
They moved as a pack, silent at first, then breaking into a bounding charge straight toward Gauri.
She didn't flinch.
"Hey, hey—slowly! One at a time!" she called, laughing as they reached her.
They leaped, a coordinated surge of power, but instead of aggression, it was affection. Tongues lolled, tails whipped the air, and they pressed against her legs, licking her hands with sloppy devotion.
"Isn't this nice, Amitesh?" she called over her shoulder, buried under a mound of fur and muscle.
No answer.
"Amitesh?"
She turned, scanning the clearing. The children pointed upward.
There, perched on a sturdy branch some ten feet off the ground, I sat rigid, gripping the bark as though my life depended on it.
Gauri blinked, then burst into laughter.
"Hey! What happened? And more importantly—how did you even get up there so fast?"
"I'm fine here," I managed, voice tighter than I intended. "You enjoy."
She extricated herself from the dogs and walked closer, hands on her hips.
"I'm asking why you're up there."
I swallowed. "I... I'm scared of dogs. Happy now?"
Her expression softened, surprise giving way to something gentler. "How can you be scared of such cute things?"
To prove her point, she wrapped her arms around the nearest Pit Bull—a battle-worn veteran missing one ear and one eye. The dog leaned into her embrace, content, but then his gaze shifted to me. A low rumble built in his throat. Lips peeled back just enough to reveal teeth—sharp, yellowed, unmistakable.
I felt the branch creak under my sudden tension.
Gauri noticed. She stroked the dog's head, murmuring soothing words until the growl subsided. Then she looked up at me again, eyes twinkling despite the moment.
"Come down, Amitesh," she said softly. "They're harmless. I promise."
I didn't move.
Not yet.
But in that suspended instant, with the morning sun filtering through the leaves and Gauri's patient gaze holding mine, I felt the first faint crack in the wall of fear I'd carried for years. The dogs below were hers—extensions of her warmth, her fearlessness.
The pitbull's teeth-flash wasn't even playful—it was straight-up "I see you, tree boy, and I remember faces." My hands gripped the branch tighter, legs dangling like I was auditioning for a scared-cat video. Heart doing full drum solo.
Gauri just laughed, that bright, zero-worries laugh that somehow made everything feel less deadly.
Gauri: "Amitesh! Come down, yaar.
They're not going to eat you. Look, this one's a total sweetheart." She scratched behind the pitbull's missing-ear side like it was the most normal thing in the world. The dog leaned into it, eyes half-closed, tail thumping the ground hard enough to make dust clouds.
Amitesh (muttering to myself): "Sweetheart with one eye and a glare that could melt steel. Sure."
One of the smaller puppies—the fluffy golden one from the earlier chaos—trotted over to the base of my tree, sat down, and stared up at me with those big, innocent eyes. Tail wagging like a tiny helicopter. Betrayal from the puppy squad now? Not fair.
The kids were cracking up, pointing at me like I was the morning entertainment.
Kid 1: "Bhaiya is scared of doggies!"
Kid 2: "He climbed like a monkey!"
Gauri walked closer, still hugging the big pitbull around the neck like a living scarf.
The other giants—Himalayan
Sheepdog looking like a walking bear rug, Bully Kutta built like a tank with extra attitude, and that one massive beast that had to be pushing 90–100 kg easy—circled loosely around her. They weren't aggressive toward her, just… possessive. Like royal guards around their queen.
Gauri (tilting her head, teasing): "You're really not coming down? What if I promise no jumping? They only jump when they're excited to say hi."
Amitesh: "That's exactly what I'm afraid of. 'Hi' from those guys would flatten me into chapati."
She giggled again, then crouched down and whispered something to the one-eyed pitbull. The dog looked up at me, ears perked, then—oh no—started walking toward the tree. Slowly. Like he had all the time in the world to ruin my life.
The puppy joined him, bouncing along, yipping happily.
I pressed my back against the trunk.
"Gauri, call off your assassin squad!"
Gauri: "He's not going to bite. He just wants to sniff you. Come on, live a little!"
The pitbull stopped right below me, sat, and looked up. No growl this time.
Just… waiting. The missing eye made him look oddly wise, like he'd seen some stuff and decided trees weren't worth the effort.
One of the kids threw a stick. The whole pack exploded after it—except the pitbull. He stayed, still staring.
Gauri sighed dramatically and climbed up a couple of low branches until she was eye-level with me.
Gauri (soft now): "Hey. For real… they're my family here. Rescued most of them. The big ones look scary, but they're gentle unless someone threatens the little ones—or me. You're safe.
Promise."
I glanced down. The pitbull had lain down now, chin on paws, watching us like this was mildly interesting TV.
Amitesh: "…Fine. But if he so much as licks me and I die of heart attack, it's on you."
She grinned, jumped down lightly, and held out her hand like I was the one who needed rescuing.
I took a deep breath, slid off the branch (more like half-fell, half-climbed in panic), and landed on shaky legs.
The second my feet hit dirt, the puppy launched itself at my shins, tail wagging so hard his whole body wiggled. I froze.
Gauri: "See? Baby steps."
I crouched slowly. The puppy licked my fingers—tiny, warm tongue. No teeth involved.
The pitbull stood up, walked over… and just bumped his big head against my knee. Gentle. Like "you're approved, I guess."
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.
Amitesh: "Okay… maybe not total monsters."
Gauri beamed, tossing a treat to the big guy. "Told you. Now come play properly. Loser of the next stair-skipping round has to walk all eight of them later."
The giants barked in agreement—like they understood the bet.
I looked at the pack, the kids, Gauri's proud smile… and realized my peaceful morning was officially over.
But maybe chaotic wasn't so bad after all.
Gauri tilted her head, studying me with that mixture of curiosity and gentle persistence that always made me feel exposed.
"Why are you so scared of them?" she asked softly. "You're still shaking."
I exhaled through my nose, fingers still curled tight around the rough bark. The branch felt like the only solid thing left in the world.
"I got bitten twice," I said, the words coming out flatter than I intended. "After that… this happened."
She waited, giving me room.
"First time I was seven. At my grandfather's house in the village. There was this stray—some kind of village mongrel gone half-feral. No one knew who it belonged to, but it used to hang around the mango grove behind the house. One afternoon I went to pick up a fallen fruit and it just… charged. No warning. Latched onto my calf and wouldn't let go until my grandfather beat it off with a stick.Three stitches. I still have the scar shaped like a crooked crescent."
I lifted the hem of my pant leg just enough to show the pale, jagged line that had never quite faded.
"Second time was worse because I should have known better. I was twelve, same house, same summer.
Grandfather sent me to the little shop at the end of the lane to buy salt and matches. I was walking back with the packet under my arm when another dog—this one belonged to the neighbor—came barreling out from behind a wall. Different breed, bigger, angrier. Bit me on the forearm while I was trying to shield my face. Same arm I'd used to push it away. Another round of stitches, another tetanus shot, another month of waking up convinced something was still growling in the dark."
Gauri's expression had softened into something almost tender.
"But I remember you telling me you had a dog once," she said. "Buro."
The name landed like a stone in still water.
"Yeah." My voice dropped. "I named him that. Found him as a tiny puppy behind the same house—shivering, covered in mud, abandoned. I hid him in the cowshed for weeks before my grandfather found out. He let me keep him… probably because he saw how badly I needed something to trust after the first bite."
I looked down at the pack below us. The big Pit Bull with the missing eye was lying beside Gauri now, chin on her foot, utterly relaxed.
"Buro grew up with me. Followed me everywhere. Slept at the foot of my bed. When he got old and his hips gave out, I carried him to the vet myself. Held him while they… you know. I cried like a child. Still do sometimes when I think about it."
Gauri reached up and touched my ankle where it dangled from the branch.
"So you're not scared of every dog," she said quietly. "Just the ones that aren't yours."
I gave a small, humorless laugh. "Pretty much. I'm not terrified to death. It's more like… my body remembers before my brain gets a vote. Heart rate spikes, palms sweat, legs want to run. Takes time to convince myself they're not going to turn."
She nodded slowly.
"Okay. Then we go slow." She stood, brushed dirt from her knees, and walked to the low compound wall. With an easy hop she was over it, returning moments later dragging two large sacks of dry dog food. The pack surged toward her in a joyful, jostling wave as she tore the bags open and poured kibble into several wide metal basins.
They ate with focused, happy intensity.
I watched from my perch, pulse still elevated but no longer jackhammering.
After the last tail stopped wagging and the dogs dispersed to nap in patches of sunlight, Gauri dusted her hands and looked up at me again.
"Ready to come down?"
"Not today," I said. "But… maybe tomorrow I'll stand closer to the wall."
She smiled—small, victorious. "Deal."
We left the clearing and walked in companionable silence toward the main camp office. Captain Singh was waiting behind his desk, arms folded, expression thunderous.
The moment we stepped inside he fixed me with a stare like i try to hit on her granddaughter.
"Your nickname has spread all over the camp," he growled. "Now people think it's cute to call me that and no one's giving any sign of stopping."
Gauri's shoulders began to shake. I felt the same helpless laughter clawing up my throat. We both pressed our lips together so hard I was sure we'd bruise them.
Captain Singh's scowl deepened.
"Just patrol through the watchtower today," he ordered. "One of you up there till six this evening."
I blinked. "Six in the evening?"
"You heard me."
I opened my mouth to protest, then closed it. There was no winning this one.
"And Amitesh," he added, voice dropping to something dangerously calm, "I want to know exactly what you plan to do with the resources you've been funneling my way.
" We'll talk after your shift. After six. Now get lost."
We backed out of the room like scolded children.
The moment the door clicked shut, Gauri let the laughter escape in a bright peal.
"Don't worry," she said, wiping her eyes.
"It's not that hard. You just sit there, look important, maybe wave at the occasional jeep."
"That's the problem," I muttered. "What am I supposed to do sitting in a tower till 6 p.m.?"
"Sit. Sing. Think deep thoughts. Stare dramatically into the distance." She grinned. "I'll bring you tiffin in the afternoon, okay? Proper food. No camp slop."
I looked at her—hair still messy from chasing puppies, eyes bright with that unshakable optimism—and felt something loosen in my chest.
"Yeah," I said. "Okay."
She bumped my shoulder lightly as we walked toward the tower ladder.
"Tomorrow," she promised, "we try one step closer to the dogs. No pressure."
I glanced back toward the clearing where the big shadows were now sprawled in lazy contentment.
"Maybe," I said.
And for the first time in years, the word didn't feel like a lie.
The watchtower was nothing more than a rusted metal platform bolted to four thick wooden legs, twenty feet above the dusty perimeter road. A waist-high railing of peeling green paint, a narrow bench bolted to one side, and a tin roof that turned the space into an oven by ten in the morning. That was it. No radio, no shade worth mentioning until I'd scavenged the enormous faded beach umbrella someone had abandoned behind the supply shed. Its once-bright stripes had bleached to ghostly pastels, but it worked. Mostly.
I'd been up here since just after noon.
The sun had crawled across the sky like it had all the time in the world. Shadows lengthened, then shortened again. A pair of mynah birds argued in the neem tree thirty meters away. A distant jeep coughed once, twice, then fell silent. Every fifteen minutes or so a sentry would stroll past below, glance up, give me a lazy salute, and keep walking. That was the height of excitement.
I tried counting clouds. Then I tried not counting clouds. I hummed half-remembered film songs until my throat felt dry. I sketched invisible maps on the hot metal floor with my fingertip until the patterns evaporated in seconds. I even attempted to meditate—eyes closed, breathing slow, focusing on the present moment.
The present moment mostly smelled of hot metal, diesel fumes drifting from the motor pool, and my own slowly intensifying boredom.
By four o'clock I was ready to confess to imaginary crimes just so someone would come haul me down.
Then I heard footsteps on the ladder—light, quick, familiar.
"Hey," Gauri called up, voice bright against the flat afternoon. "I'm here."
I leaned over the railing so fast I nearly knocked the umbrella askew.
"I think it might take forever," I said, only half joking.
She climbed the last few rungs, balancing a steel tiffin carrier in one hand and a water bottle tucked under her arm. Her hair was tied back in a messy knot, a few strands escaping to stick to her damp forehead. She looked like the only cool thing in a five-kilometer radius.
"Where did you get that big umbrella for shade?" she asked, eyeing my prize with open amusement.
"I found it," I said, shrugging. "No one was using it, so I took it."
Gauri laughed—a short, delighted sound. "You really can take anything for use, can't you?"
"Resourceful," I corrected primly. "Not thieving."
"Mm-hmm."
She stepped onto the platform, set the tiffin down with care, and lowered herself onto the bench beside me. Our shoulders brushed. The umbrella's fringe swayed gently above us, throwing dappled stripes of light across her face.
"I'll eat with you," she said.
"Okay." I felt the first real smile since Captain Singh had banished me up here. "So what's inside? Just curious."
She popped the lid off the top container. A warm, rich aroma rolled out—cumin, coriander, the faint sweetness of caramelized onions.
"Masala bhindi," she said, lifting the dish so I could see the glossy okra flecked with spices. "And fresh chapati. Made them myself."
My stomach growled loud enough to make her grin.
"Let's eat."
She handed me a steel plate and a folded chapati still warm from the tawa. I tore off a piece, scooped up a generous helping of the bhindi—tender, tangy, perfectly spiced—and popped it into my mouth. Flavor exploded: the slight bitterness of okra tamed by tomatoes, the slow heat of red chili, the bright lift of coriander.
For several long minutes there was no conversation, only the soft sounds of eating, the rustle of the umbrella fabric overhead, the occasional clink of steel against steel.
I swallowed, wiped my mouth with the back of my hand.
"This is unfairly good," I said.
Gauri shrugged, but her eyes crinkled at the corners. "You were suffering up here. Figured you deserved something decent."
"I was dying of boredom," I admitted.
"Actual, clinical boredom. I started naming the rust spots on the railing. The big one near the corner is now called Redrust."
She snorted into her chapati.
"Redrust," she repeated. "Very dignified."
"Extremely. He's been here longer than either of us."
We ate slowly after that, trading small stories between bites. She told me about the puppy from this morning—the one with the white blaze on its forehead—who had tried to steal an entire chapati from the kitchen counter. I told her about the time I'd once spent an entire afternoon in a similar tower during a college N** camp, convinced I was going to spot a leopard (I didn't; the only wildlife was a particularly judgmental squirrel).
The sun slid lower. The air lost some of its furnace edge. Shadows stretched long across the parade ground below.
When the last piece of bhindi was gone and the chapatis reduced to crumbs, Gauri leaned back against the railing, legs stretched out, ankles crossed.
"Better?" she asked.
"Worlds better." I glanced sideways at her. "Thanks for coming up. And for the food. And for… everything."
She bumped her shoulder against mine—gentle, deliberate.
"Anytime, Amitesh."
A comfortable quiet settled between us. The mynah birds had stopped arguing. Somewhere far off a bugle sounded evening retreat, thin and golden in the cooling air.
I looked out over the camp—the low buildings, the dusty track, the distant line of hills turning violet—and felt, for the first time all day, that the hours hadn't been wasted after all.
They'd led here.
To this small, high place with a striped umbrella, good food, and Gauri sitting close enough that I could smell the faint jasmine in her hair.
Forever, it turned out, hadn't been so long after all.
***
The afternoon had softened into the honey-colored hour when the second voice floated up from the base of the tower—young, bright, edged with the careless confidence of nineteen.
"Gauri di!"
Arjun.
I leaned over the railing again. Below stood a lanky boy in a faded olive T-shirt and cargo shorts, hair tousled by the evening breeze, a small canvas satchel slung across his chest. Even from up here I could see the faint shimmer around his hands—elemental awakening stage, fresh enough that the air around his fingers still crackled faintly when he flexed them, like heat rising off sun-baked stone.
Gauri's face lit up. "Arjun!"
I glanced at her. "Know him?"
"He's here, which means your shift is officially over. Let's go."
We descended the ladder in quick, easy rhythm—her ahead, me following, the umbrella left furled and forgotten against the railing like an old friend we'd visit another day. Arjun waited at the bottom, grinning wide enough to show the slight gap between his front teeth.
"Captain sent me to relieve you," he said to me, saluting with exaggerated formality. "Said you looked like you were about to start talking to the rust spots."
"Redrust and I were getting along famously," I replied dryly.
He laughed, already climbing. "Enjoy your freedom, uncle."
Gauri swatted his leg as he passed. "Behave up there."
We left him whistling and headed across the parade ground toward the low administrative block. The moment we stepped into Captain Singh's office he fixed us with that legendary scowl—the one that could curdle milk at thirty paces.
I didn't bother with rank anymore. "CS. I want my answer from this morning."
He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled. "You'll know at breakfast tomorrow."
Gauri nudged me with her elbow. "See? Something special to eat in the
morning. Don't stress so much."
We talked briefly about tomorrow's roster—light patrol, inventory check, nothing that sounded like punishment. CS ended the conversation the way he ended most conversations with me.
"Get out."
We got out.
Outside, the camp lights were beginning to flicker on, pale yellow halos against the deepening indigo sky. Crickets had started their evening chorus. The air smelled of cooling earth and distant woodsmoke from the mess kitchen.
I turned to Gauri. "So… where do you live?"
"Building A. Room 23. Right beside my parents' place."
"You've got your own apartment?"
She nodded, a small proud smile tugging at her mouth. "Yes. And the twins live with me most of the time. You should pay us a visit sometime."
"Sure," I said. "Baby-sitter duty accepted."
"Hey!" She punched my arm lightly. "I just like teaching and taking care of people, okay?"
"Okay, okay."
We walked a few more steps in easy silence before she spoke again, voice dropping to something more serious.
"One more thing. There's this… cult. Bunch of stupid people who pray to mushroom-heads like they're gods."
I raised an eyebrow. "Mushroom-heads"
"You know— They call them 'Divine Ascendants' or some nonsense."
I let out a low whistle. "Wow. Interesting. I'd actually like to become student of that cult leader."
She frowned. "Huh? Why?"
"Because he's a genius, Gauri. Don't you see? If a man can convince people that a monster is a god, just imagine what else he can make them believe. He knows they're monsters—probably better than anyone. But he's turned fear into worship. That kind of psychological control? That's not just clever. That's dangerous brilliance."
She looked at me for a long moment, expression unreadable.
"You think too much sometimes," she said finally, but there was no real rebuke in it.
I shrugged. "Occupational hazard."
We reached the fork in the path—her building to the left, mine straight ahead.
"See you at breakfast?" she asked.
"Wouldn't miss it."
"Night, Amitesh."
"Night."
I watched her walk away until the curve of the path swallowed her silhouette, then turned toward my own building.
The stairwell was dimly lit, the familiar smell of old concrete and faint disinfectant clinging to the walls. I took the steps two at a time, already thinking about a cold shower and the thin mattress that suddenly felt like luxury after a day in the tower.
I reached my door.
Key halfway to the lock.
A whisper of movement behind me—too close, too quiet.
Before I could turn, something sharp kissed the side of my neck.
A needle. A syringe.
The sting was immediate, cold fire spreading under the skin. My vision blurred at the edges almost instantly—colors bleeding, sounds warping into a dull underwater hum.
I tried to shout. Nothing came out but a choked rasp.
Strong arms clamped around me from behind. A rough sack—coarse jute, smelling of mildew and motor oil—was yanked over my head. Darkness swallowed the hallway.
My knees buckled.
The last thing I registered was the faint metallic taste of whatever they'd injected, spreading across my tongue like rust.
Then the world tilted sideways and went black.