Chapter 2
I work at ICICI Bank in Gohana, a small yet bustling town tucked away in Haryana’s grainy landscape. I’m the MSME manager—not the flashiest title in the bank, but it comes with responsibility, Pressure, Purpose.
I share a flat in Gohana with two of my colleagues—Tapan and Rakesh but they are in to other departments. Decent guys. We live modestly: three mattresses, a temperamental geyser, and a shared kitchen we barely use. Most evenings, we’re too tired to cook, so we rotate who orders dinner.
My zonal office is in Karnal, around a hundred kilometers from here. Most of the time, when I’m summoned there, I travel by bus. The journey cuts through Panipat, the midway point. That stretch—Gohana to Panipat to Karnal—has become second nature to me. In the past four months, I’ve done it more than twenty times. I know the timings of the early buses by heart. I know which stop sells decent samosas. I know which routes will leave me stranded if I don’t time it right.
It’s the return trip that’s always a gamble. Evening falls fast in this part of the country, and after 7 PM, buses from Panipat to Gohana become scarce—like they’ve disappeared into the darkness. Most of us who travel that route have stopped hoping. We rely instead on the local safaris—shared jeeps that run with no fixed schedule and barely enough room. Cramped, dusty, unpredictable—but they get us home.
Until today, it was all routine. Familiar. Even dull.
But today was different.
Not everyday unfolds as planned. Life does not always follow the script. One moment, everything is ordinary – the next, chaos crashes in uninvited. That’s the thing about accidents- They don’t knock before entering
After finishing my work in Karnal, as usual, I made my way towards Panipat. I reached the Panipat bus stand around 8:30 PM. The place was quiet and still. I waited there for an hour. No bus showed up, no taxi came by—just the silence of the night all around me. The streetlights flickered now and then, and the cool air brushed against my face like the night itself was trying to comfort me.
Then, out of nowhere, I saw headlights in the distance. A Tata Safari slowed down in front of me. The window rolled down, and a man inside shouted:
“Gohana, Gohana…”
I quickly walked up to him and asked, “Yes, how much, bhai?”
“Hundred,” he said firmly.
“Bhai, I travel every day. How about 80 rupees?”
He looked at me for a second, then nodded. “Okay, okay. Get in.”
I climbed into the Safari. There were already three people sitting inside. They looked tired and quiet, just like me. No one said anything. Everyone seemed lost in their own thoughts.
The vehicle started moving, slowly leaving the silent bus stand behind. The city lights faded as we drove into the night. Outside, the roads were mostly empty, with only a few trucks and shops glowing faintly in the distance.
Inside the car, everything was still. No music, no talking—just the sound of the engine and the steady movement of tires on the road.
And just like that, we rolled on towards Gohana, wrapped in the calm darkness of the night.
As the Safari moved ahead into the quiet night, I leaned back in my seat, trying to relax. The cold breeze came in through the half-open window, brushing against my face. But even with the cool air and the silence, something didn’t feel right.
There was a strange feeling in my chest—like a soft alarm going off inside me. Nothing was clearly wrong, but my instincts had started whispering.
I looked around slowly.
The other three passengers sat quietly, their faces half-hidden in shadows. No one spoke. No one even looked at each other. It was too quiet—unnaturally quiet. Their eyes stared ahead, empty and still, like they were just bodies without thoughts. One man kept glancing at his phone, not typing, just staring at the screen. Another held a bag tightly on his lap, as if guarding it.
The driver was focused on the road, but he didn’t seem like an ordinary taxi driver. He wasn’t playing music, not even a radio. His hands gripped the wheel too tightly, his eyes fixed too hard on the highway.
I shifted in my seat.
Maybe it was just my tired mind playing tricks on me. Maybe it was the long day or the dark night. But deep down, something felt off. Something inside the car wasn’t as it seemed.
The road stretched ahead, quiet and empty. But inside the Safari, the silence had weight. And my instinct, that small voice we often ignore, was no longer whispering.
About twenty minutes had passed since we left Panipat. We were nearing Israna—the point where we should’ve turned towards Gohana. I knew this route well. The turn wasn’t easy to miss. But as we approached the fork in the road, the driver didn’t slow down. The road to Israna came and went. We were supposed to turn. We didn’t.
The Safari kept moving straight—too straight.
I leaned forward, heart suddenly loud in my chest.
“Bhai, where are you going? I have to go to Gohana.”
Silence.
No one answered. No one looked back.
The driver kept his eyes on the road. Hands tight on the wheel. Jaw clenched.
My voice felt small in that moment—but the fear behind it was growing fast.
Something was wrong.
This wasn’t just a missed turn.
This was the moment everything changed. Before I could speak again, the man sitting beside me slowly turned his head.
His eyes were cold—empty, like a night with no stars.
Without a word, he reached into his pocket and pulled something out.
A bullet.
He held it between his fingers, like a warning, not a threat. No gun in sight—just the message. Clear. Quiet. Final.
My throat went dry. My hands froze.
He leaned in close and whispered, “Phone. Wallet. Rings. Bag. Everything.”
I didn’t move at first. Then I felt the cold tip of the bullet brush my arm. That was enough.
One by one, I handed everything over. My phone. My wallet. My bag. Even the rings on my fingers.
No one in the car said a word.
It hit me then—this wasn’t a ride. This wasn’t just a wrong turn.
I had been kidnapped.
And the night… the night had swallowed me whole.
At 24, you fear heartbreaks, failures., Not bullets. Not death threats. But when it comes, it is like your soul starts packing its bags, quietly, unwillingly, too soon