More than a month and a half had crawled by like a wounded animal bleeding in silence. The last breath of 1899 had turned into the cold lungs of 1900, but Isarish held nothing in his hands except the emptiness of failure.
For the first time in his entire career—there was no lead. No whisper. No clue. Just the echo of a dead city and a broken promise to justice.
Subhash, the man who once stood like a defiant wall against everything unjust, had vanished into his own silence. He lived now like the world didn't exist—or worse, like he didn't.
That night, the Empire celebrated.
It was New Year's Eve—and behind the grand walls of the Governor's Mansion, the world outside was being deceived.
Only the noblest of the British and the most loyal of the Indian royals were allowed through the gates. Inside, music poured like wine, chandeliers sparkled like deceit, and laughter echoed like a cruel joke.
Children of colonisers ran across the marble floors, squealing with delight.
A young couple moaned behind the garden hedges, fusing lust with power.
But just beyond the walls, where lanterns didn't glow—Indians and blacks were being thrashed again, as if nothing had changed. As if the calendar had flipped, but not history.
Isarish stood by his window, cigarette between his lips, the embers reflecting in his eyes like fading hope.
"Ah," he whispered, dragging the smoke into his lungs.
"I'm invited to that circus tonight…"
He exhaled, letting his guilt and anger pour out like the smoke.
His eyes narrowed.
"I wonder what my idiot friend is doing… Subhash.
That stubborn ghost. Like me, he has no family—but at least he had that cat..."
He threw on his jacket—not like a man dressing for a party, but like a man putting on his funeral suit.
The night begged him to walk one way, toward the palace of masks and glass.
But his feet chose the other.
They walked toward Subhash.
---
The house was dim, hollower than before. But Subhash was not inside, curled up in grief.
He was outside.
Feeding chicken legs to stray cats, the only souls that still came when called.
Isarish approached quietly—but he couldn't stop himself from letting out a dramatic groan.
"AUGH! HMM!"
Subhash didn't even flinch. But a voice behind Isarish suddenly called out, sharp and polished:
"MR. ISARISH! THE MAN WHO HELPED US LIKE A BLOOD-BOUND RELATIVE!
I, EDWARD CARLSON, THE GOVERNOR, AM INVITING YOU TO OUR NEW YEAR'S CELEBRATION—WHERE HIGH AUTHORITIES AND ROYAL FAMILIES OF BENGAL SHALL GATHER!
IT WOULD BE OUR HONOUR IF YOU CAME AND SHARED YOUR INVESTIGATIONS WITH THE EMPIRE."
Isarish gave a dry laugh under his breath.
"My friend," he muttered, "it's a party thrown by ghosts."
Subhash turned slowly.
His eyes were swollen red—like he hadn't slept since the old year died. His body looked smaller, shadows clinging to his bones like guilt.
But he tried.
He tried to smile.
"Go, Isarish… It's an honoured opportunity for a non-royal Indian,"
he said quietly.
The smile cracked like glass under pressure—fake, fragile, yet tragically sincere.
Isarish looked at him.
For the first time, he didn't know what to say.
So, he just stood there, among cats, blood-soaked memories, and the shattered pieces of their hope—deciding whether to walk into the masquerade of power, or stay in the silence of truth.
But Subhash spoke again, softly. As if to no one:
"Do you know what the hardest part is?"
A pause.
"It's not the dying. It's not the beatings.
It's not even the forgetting."
He exhaled—a long, shaking breath.
"It's waking up every day and realizing the world kept going.
That it never even paused to grieve."
The cats circled his ankles, mewling for more. He threw the last bone down and wiped his hand on his kurta—leaving a dark smear across the fabric.
Then, he turned—slowly.
His voice cracked.
"You will go there tonight, Isarish. Into their palace of laughter and silk.
And they will look at you like a polished jewel—clean, unbroken.
They won't see the cuts under your skin, or the weight in your lungs."
A beat. His voice dropped lower.
"They never see what they ruin."
Isarish, almost whispering:
"I know
Subhash:
"Then why go?"
Isarish looked at him. Not with pity.
With something heavier.
A strange kind of mourning—for the man Subhash used to be, and for himself too.
After a long silence:
"Because the ghosts are tired of waiting outside."
The air stood still.
Isarish crouched beside him, not saying anything for a moment. He reached for the end of Subhash's shawl.
ISARISH (calmly):
"This won't do. You're coming with me."
SUBHASH (bitter):
"I'm not made for silk and chandeliers, Isa. I belong to the dirt."
ISARISH:
"Then come as the dirt. Come as the wound.
Let them see what they buried—and failed to kill."
Subhash didn't reply.
Isarish rose, dusted off his coat, and turned toward the house.
ISARISH (without turning):
"You don't have to smile.
You don't have to speak.
But wear something that doesn't smell like grief…
And for God's sake, don't feed the cats in front of the Queen's niece."
A breath of something almost like laughter escaped Subhash. A flicker. A spark.
And that was enough.
He stood slowly. The cats watched as he disappeared inside the house.
Moments later, he returned—changed.
A maroon coat suit clung to his thin frame; its fabric slightly wrinkled from being tucked away too long. It was a gift from Isarish on his last birthday—still new, still carrying the scent of memory.
His grief hadn't disappeared.
It never would.
But as he buttoned the coat with trembling fingers and stepped toward his friend, there was a quiet acceptance in his gaze.
In this whole cruel world, he had someone.
His Isa.
And sometimes, that was enough to stand again.