Whispers of Rebellion: Palak's Flight

Part _1 Of the Story :

 The ceiling fan whirred like a trapped wasp, its uneven rhythm mirroring Palak’s frayed nerves. Her father’s voice boomed across the cramped living room, drowning out the monsoon rain pounding the tin roof. “Enough, Palak! Rajveer’s family expects an answer by tomorrow. You will marry him.” She gripped the edge of her faded salwar kameez, the fabric thin from years of washes. “Papa, I’m not a goat to be sold at the market! I earned my degree—let me use it!” Her mother hovered in the doorway, eyes downcast, clutching a dishcloth like a lifeline.

The argument wasn’t new, but the rumors were. Last week, anonymous WhatsApp forwards had flooded the village—grainy photos of Palak laughing with a male classmate in the city, captioned “Modern girls forget their roots.” Never mind that the boy was her study partner. Never mind that the images were cropped to hide their textbooks. Her father’s face had turned the color of burnt clay. “You’ve shamed us,” he’d spat. “This marriage will bury the gossip.”

Now, as thunder rattled the windowpanes, Palak did something she’d never dared: she ran.

The schoolhouse stood skeletal in the dawn light, its peeling blue paint and cracked benches a ghost of her childhood. Palak traced the initials she’d carved into a desk—P + A—a fleeting crush on Ajay, the mason’s son, who’d married last year. She waited for the guilt to come, the ache of abandoning her family. Instead, she felt… nothing. A hollow where duty once lived.

Night fell. No one came.

By midnight, she boarded a tempo idling near the tea stall, its driver half-asleep. “Where to, beti?” he yawned. “Anywhere but here.”

The city hit her like a slap: neon signs screaming “Call Center Jobs!”, the stench of diesel and sweat, a labyrinth of alleys where shadows moved too quickly. Disoriented, she stumbled onto a highway, her dupatta snagging on the wind of passing trucks. Brakes screeched. A silver SUV swerved, missing her by inches.

The door flew open. “Are you mad?!” A man leapt out, his crisp white shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows, revealing a tattoo—a coiled serpent with emerald eyes. Palak’s gaze traveled up to his face: sharp jawline, brows furrowed in anger, but eyes that lingered on her trembling hands. “You’re hurt,” he said, softer now.

She glanced at her scraped knees. “It’s nothing.”

“Nothing?” He scooped her up before she could protest. “You’re bleeding on my seats. That’s definitely something.”

The hospital smelled of antiseptic and lies. “Nihal Singh Rathore,” he told the nurse, flashing a platinum card. “Put everything on my account.” Palak studied him—the way he commanded the room, the expensive watch glinting under fluorescent lights. A man used to buying solutions.

“Why help me?” she whispered as he drove her away hours later.

He lit a cigarette, the glow etching shadows under his cheekbones. “Let’s say I owe karma a debt.” His phone buzzed—a name flashed [Unknown]. He silenced it. “You need a place to hide? I’ve got a big house. And a problem.”

“Problem?”

“My parents think I’m a reckless playboy. They’re sending a ‘chaperone’ from Delhi. If they find you here…” He smirked. “Pretend you’re my cook. I’ll pay you. No questions asked.”

The farmhouse was all glass and steel, a spaceship landed in Punjab’s wheat fields. Nihal tossed her an apron. “Kitchen’s yours. Rule one: Don’t open the east wing.”

But that night, Palak heard it—a muffled cry from behind the forbidden door. She pressed her ear to the wood. A man’s voice, trembling. “Please… I won’t tell anyone about the shipment—”

Floorboards creaked. She spun to find Nihal inches away, his smile gone. “Curiosity killed the cook, Palak.”