Chapter 4: The Last Oath

Maybe there was. Across the street, Dr. Yusuf, hiding in the basement, couldn’t stand it anymore. The doctor wiped his spectacles, his hands trembling. He looked at his old medical bag, its leather cracked with age, and made a decision.

Dr. Yusuf was the last doctor in the neighbourhood, but he had not forgotten the Hippocratic Oath. He whispered the oath under his breath, remembering his teacher’s words at Aligarh Medical College. "Kisi bhi mareez ko akela nahi chhodna hai, Yusuf."

He repeated it as a prayer, as if the words could shield him from bullets. Even now, in the middle of hell, Dr. Yusuf clung to the only thing that made sense—his duty.

Looking around, Dr. Yusuf rushed out, waving his white coat to indicate, “I am a doctor,” and ran to the wounded. He braved the open street, arms raised, shouting "Main doctor hoon! Dawai dene aaya hoon!" hoping someone would show mercy.

He prayed the hidden sniper would at least follow the Geneva Convention’s ban on shooting medical personnel. His faith was simple, almost childlike. But just as he began dragging the wounded, another gunshot rang out. This bullet hit him squarely in the abdomen.

He doubled over, his white coat blooming red. His cries mixed with those of the other wounded, a chorus of agony. The red spread, bright and merciless. The doctor’s oath ended where the bullet found its mark.

It turned out Arjun’s mother was just bait. The realization hit Arjun like another blow. His mother was used as a lure, nothing more. This experienced sniper had not missed; he deliberately shot a non-fatal part of an exposed person. He was a professional in cruelty, calculating every shot for maximum pain and fear.

That way, the wounded wouldn’t die immediately and couldn’t move, but would instinctively cry for help. It was a trap, designed to catch any who still dared to care. If anyone came to help, they’d fall into the sniper’s trap; every rescuer would be shot, until no one dared to help…

One by one, hope was snuffed out, replaced by terror and helplessness. Even compassion became a death sentence. The most despicable part of this tactic was its destruction of humanity; bystanders could only watch the wounded bleed to death, then live on with guilt, or become numb and heartless…

It was as if the city itself was being forced to choose: death, or the slow death of indifference. Most people chose to look away, ashamed but powerless.

Arjun, still rational, reacted first. His veteran father had told him this story in shooting class. He remembered, through the haze of pain, his father’s voice: "Beta, kabhi aisa ho toh sniper ko dhundh ke khatam karna."

To save his mother and the doctor, he had to kill the sniper first. He wiped his eyes, crawling to the closet, every movement agony, but his will stronger than his wounds.

He could do it. His father often took him deep into the hills to hunt; if not for the war, Arjun might have become a national-level shooting athlete. He remembered the smell of damp earth, the thrill of a perfect shot. His father’s proud smile—now, it was a ghost urging him on.

But his father had never taught Arjun how to kill a human being—to shoot at others. That was never needed in peaceful Kaveripur. With shaking hands, Arjun loaded the rifle, sweat dripping down his face. He whispered, "Maaf karna, Papa."

Arjun struggled to crawl to the bedroom, rummaged out a .22 rifle from the closet. It had been his coming-of-age gift. The rifle was cool to the touch, a reminder of better days. Arjun took aim, his breath slow and steady, just as his father had taught him.

The sniper never expected to become prey himself. Arjun watched through the cracked window, spotting the flash of a scope on the rooftop. He waited for the perfect moment. A moment ago, the sniper was still smugly watching his targets struggle in the street, waiting for the next foolish rescuer to come and die.

The next moment, a bullet passed cleanly through the back of his head. The sniper died instantly. Arjun didn’t wait to see the body fall. He slumped against the wall, the rifle dropping from his hands.

April 7, 1992: Arjun got his first kill. He wasn’t sure if the blood on his hands was his own, or if it belonged to the city itself.