Vijay: The reluctant woman

Vijay: The reluctant woman

Chapter 1: The Wrong Face

Vijay’s legs burned as he stepped off the bus in Vijayawada. The early morning sun was already hot on his back. Dust from the road stuck to his sweaty skin. He pulled the old kerchief tighter over his nose and mouth, like a sick man trying to hide a cough. His heart beat so hard he could hear it in his ears. Every person on the street felt like an enemy now.

He kept his head down and walked fast. The news boards at the bus stand screamed his name. Big photos of his face stared back at him — the same photo the goons had taken for their records years ago. “Wanted: Vijay Kumar, Killer of Minister!” the headlines said. “Contract killer on the run after brutal murder in Hyderabad.”

It was all a lie. But no one would believe him.

Fifteen years ago, life had been so different. Vijay closed his eyes for a second and remembered the big white house in Banjara Hills. The floors were cool marble. Every morning the smell of fresh filter coffee and jasmine flowers filled the air. He was only twelve then. He and his big brother Ramana would run around the garden laughing. Their father sat at the big dining table counting thick bundles of money, smiling like the whole world belonged to him.

Then everything changed.

Their father started gambling. First it was small card games with friends. Then bigger bets. Bigger losses. The money disappeared bit by bit. The servants left. The cars were sold. One by one the fancy things in the house went away. Their mother cried every night, but their father kept saying, “One big win and everything will be fine.” It never happened.

The creditors came like hungry wolves. They took the house. They took the jewelry. They took everything. And one rainy night, the worst happened. The goons came for the last payment. Vijay hid under his bed, shaking, listening to the shouts and the sounds of breaking glass. By morning, both his parents were gone. The police called it an “accident.” But everyone in the colony knew the truth. Debt had killed them.

Ramana was twenty-four then. He had just married Lakshmi, a quiet girl from a good family. On the day of the funeral, Ramana packed one small bag. He stood at the gate and looked at little Vijay with sad eyes. “I’m not dying for Father’s mistakes,” he said. “I’m taking Lakshmi and starting fresh in the Godavari villages. Stay alive, kid. Don’t be a fool like me.” Then he walked away. Vijay never saw him again.

At twelve years old, Vijay had no one. He slept on the streets for a few weeks. Then he started doing odd jobs — washing dishes at tea stalls, carrying bricks at construction sites, anything to eat. But money was never enough. One day the local goon, Srinivas Rao, found him. Srinivas was the same man who had taken their family’s wealth to clear the debt. He looked at the skinny boy and laughed. “You look just like your useless father,” he said. “Work for me and you won’t starve.”

So Vijay started working for the man who had ruined his family. For fifteen long years he did whatever Srinivas asked. Collecting money from scared shopkeepers. Breaking fingers when people didn’t pay. Driving cars with hidden guns in the back seat. He told himself it was just survival. He told himself Ramana had left him behind, so he owed no one anything. His hands grew rough. His eyes grew hard. He stopped dreaming about the old big house.

Until last night.

Vijay had gone to the old warehouse behind Kukatpally for a simple job — pick up an envelope, nothing more. The smell of diesel and old oil hung in the air. He pushed open the side door and froze. Srinivas Rao stood there with a pistol pressed to the head of a big politician. The man’s face was on every TV channel those days. One second of silence. Then the shot. Soft and muffled. The body fell like a sack of rice. Blood spread across the dirty floor.

Srinivas turned and saw Vijay standing there, eyes wide with shock.

“You saw nothing, boy,” Srinivas growled, raising the gun again.

Vijay ran. He ran through the dark streets, jumped over walls, hid in trucks. He kept running until he reached the highway and caught the first bus to Vijayawada. Now here he was — a wanted man with nothing but the clothes on his back, a half-dead phone, and a cheap kerchief hiding half his face.

He ducked into a narrow alley when a police jeep drove past. His hands shook as he pulled out the small visiting card from his purse. It was crumpled and dirty, but the writing was still clear.

Raja. Maternal uncle. Makeup artist for big films. Retired now. Living in Vijayawada.

Six months ago, Uncle Raja had seen him by chance outside a godown in Hyderabad. Vijay was loading heavy crates, sweat pouring down his face. Uncle Raja had looked at his scarred knuckles and tired eyes and shaken his head slowly. “You are better than this life, Vijay,” he had said in a soft voice. “I cut ties with your father because of his gambling, but you are my sister’s son. I’m settled in Vijayawada now. If you ever want out, call me.” He had pushed the card into Vijay’s hand.

Vijay had laughed it off back then. *Too late for uncles and second chances,* he had thought. *This is my life now.*

Now he regretted it with every beat of his heart. If only he had listened. If only he had left the goon’s world when he still could.

He asked three people for directions, keeping his voice low and his face hidden. After two wrong turns and one close call with a group of men staring at the news on a phone, he found the street. It was quiet and green. Old trees lined the road. The house was simple — two floors, pale yellow walls, bright bougainvillea flowers climbing over the gate. Nothing fancy. But right now it looked like heaven.

Vijay stood at the gate for a long minute. His mouth felt dry. What if Uncle Raja turned him away? What if he called the police? What if this was the end?

He pushed the gate open anyway. The metal creaked softly. He walked up the three stone steps. His finger pressed the doorbell.

Inside, he heard footsteps. The door opened almost right away.

Uncle Raja stood there. He was in his early sixties now, with neat silver hair and simple glasses. He wore a plain white kurta. His kind eyes widened when he saw Vijay. Then his gaze moved to the kerchief, the dusty clothes, and the TV playing silently in the living room behind him. The same photo of Vijay flashed on the screen again.

“Gods above…” Uncle Raja whispered. He did not slam the door. He did not shout. He simply stepped back and opened the door wider.

“Come inside, boy,” he said quietly. “Quickly. Before the whole street sees that face.”

Vijay stepped over the threshold. The door clicked shut behind him. For the first time in twenty-four hours, the world outside felt far away.

He was safe.

For now.

To be continued.....