Chapter 9: Loss and Amnesia

By now, I was nearly dead from torture in lockup.

My body was broken, spirit battered, yet a single ember of hope burned on. The guards spoke in whispers, afraid of the legend I had become.

My subordinates—yes, a small group from the million Northern Frontier troops—broke into the lockup and rescued me.

It was a daring midnight raid, the kind sung about by village bards. The crash of metal, the shouts of men loyal to a fault, the chaos of a plan fueled more by love than logic.

At the time, I was already deep in a coma.

They carried me out, bloodied but breathing, the prayers of thousands urging us on. Somewhere, a temple bell tolled, as if blessing our escape.

I couldn’t leave Ananya any clues.

For her safety, my trail was erased. Even the gods were asked to keep silent.

It was already the fifteenth of August. The heroine, still trapped in the PM’s residence, had prepared a pile of kaju katli, hoping to see me.

The sweets sat untouched, their silver foil gleaming in the candlelight. Ananya waited by the window, each tick of the clock a fresh torment. The smell of ghee and cardamom filled the air—a reminder of festivals we’d once celebrated together.

The food descriptions in this section are incredibly mouthwatering.

The author lingered over every detail—the flakiness of the barfi, the stickiness of jalebi, the comfort of hot chai on a rainy evening. Even I, half-dead, could almost taste the love in each bite.

When Rajeev heard the news, he flew into a rage and sent troops to hunt me down.

The PM’s face contorted with anger. The whole city buzzed with the news—papers screamed headlines, children whispered of the great escape.

That day, Rajeev coldly refused the heroine’s request to see me.

Ananya wept, her sobs muffled in her pillow. Even the household gods wept for her.

Cue more of the heroine’s struggles and Rajeev’s tortures.

The cycle continued: threats, punishments, solitary confinement. Her spirit never broke. She clung to hope like a banyan tree rooted in storm.

After over a hundred chapters of turmoil, the heroine finally decided to see for herself.

Her patience exhausted, she donned a servant’s sari, slipped past the guards, and made her way through Delhi’s winding alleys to the lockup.

She sneaked out of the PM’s residence again and entered the lockup.

In India, a woman’s courage can topple empires. Even the city’s stray dogs seemed to bark in encouragement.

Honestly, I think…

Her love was more dangerous than any sword. I wondered, briefly, if fate itself was on her side.

After discovering I was gone, the heroine returned to the PM’s residence and confronted Rajeev.

Her voice, once gentle, rang out like thunder. Even Rajeev hesitated before her fury.

Rajeev bluntly told her I was dead.

A cruel lie. His words were cold, deliberate, calculated to break her heart.

The heroine couldn’t bear the shock, fainted on the spot, and lost her memory—she only remembered loving someone deeply, but not who.

Her amnesia was total. She wandered the palace at night, pausing at a window where the rain fell, her hand unconsciously tracing a name she couldn't remember on the fogged glass. The staff pitied her, whispering prayers for her recovery.

Rajeev took advantage, claiming they were childhood sweethearts, and that person was him.

He spun tales, weaving false memories, feeding her laddus and stories until she believed every word.

The heroine believed it.

Love, in India, is sometimes a matter of faith rather than fact. She clung to Rajeev, seeking comfort in his lies.

They began living a shamelessly happy life in the PM’s residence.

The halls once filled with sorrow now rang with laughter. Rajeev played the doting husband, showering her with silks and jewels.

Two children in three years.

A son and a daughter, both bearing Rajeev’s eyes. The newspapers celebrated their happiness, the people sighed at the injustice.

At this point, you might ask: where did I go?

For a time, even I forgot myself. The world turned, and my absence went unremarked.

Actually, I lost my memory too…

The gods must have laughed. Two lovers, each forgetting the other, each searching for meaning in a world suddenly turned upside down.

After rescuing me, my subordinates fought desperately with government pursuers and were nearly wiped out.

Their sacrifice was legend—tales told in whispers around campfires, mothers lighting lamps for their lost sons.

A few survivors put me on a small boat, and I drifted downstream to a fishing village.

The river carried me gently, as if aware of my wounds. The smell of wet earth, the sound of women washing clothes on the banks—these were my only comforts.

There, I was pulled from the water by a fisher girl.

She nursed me with simple kindness—warm milk, soft blankets, the songs her grandmother taught her. For a time, I forgot I was ever a commander.

A romantic commander and a pretty village girl—you know how it goes…

Every Bollywood film worth its salt has a sequence like this. The village elders, the jealous suitors, the festival of lights—my days passed in a gentle haze.

But whose memory would return first—and what would it cost?