The cool pre-dawn air of Delhi bit at Kishan's skin as he stumbled through the deserted streets. His head throbbed, a dull ache a constant reminder of the bedside he'd struck just hours ago. The hospital gown was thin and conspicuous, a stark contrast to the familiar comfort of Daya's small home. Fear, cold and sharp, was his only companion, a stark difference from the warmth he usually felt heading to the radio station at this hour. He clutched the camera pen in his hand, its smooth metal a small, heavy comfort. He had managed to retrieve it from his hospital gown pocket before making his desperate escape. Reaching Daya's house just as the first hint of orange bled into the sky, Kishan banged frantically on the door. Daya, his face a mask of concern, opened it immediately, his eyes widening at Kishan's disheveled state and the bloodstain on his makeshift bandage."Kishan! What happened? I thought you were at your hometown, you said you were attending relative funeral !" Daya exclaimed, pulling him inside. Kishan, breathless and trembling, recounted a condensed version of the events - the de-addiction center, the suspicion, the forced stay, the discovery of something terrible, and the desperate escape.
He omitted the organ smuggling detail, fearing it would put Daya in too much danger. He simply said he saw something he shouldn't have, something illegal, and they tried to keep him there Daya, his usual gentle demeanor replaced by a steely resolve, listened intently. He helped Kishan clean his wound, gave him fresh clothes, and made him a cup of strong tea. "You did well to get out, beta," Daya said, his voice low. "But you're not safe. If they know you saw something, they'll come looking."Kishan nodded, the reality of his situation sinking in. He was a nobody who had stumbled onto something powerful and dangerous. The three lakh rupees from Jiya's friends felt like a pittance now, a paltry sum compared to the potential cost. "What should I do, Daya ji?" Kishan asked, his voice barely a whisper. Daya sat in silence for a moment, his brow furrowed in thought.
"The police... can you trust them? These people, if they are as powerful as you suggest, might have connections everywhere."Kishan thought of his brief, terrifying experience at the police station after being caught sleeping at the railway station. He didn't have much faith in the system protecting him. "I don't know," Kishan admitted. "I have this." He held up the pen. "I think it recorded something."Daya took the pen, examining it carefully. "This could be important. But it also makes you a target. They'll want this back. "The next few days were a blur of anxiety and caution. Kishan stayed hidden in Daya's small house, only venturing out for his radio show. The Dawn Show became his sanctuary, a place where he could be Kishan, the problem solver, for a few hours, escaping the fear that gnawed at him. He still broadcast with his usual energy, his voice a beacon in the early morning, but beneath the cheerful mask lay a deep unease. He tried to analyze the recording on the pen using Daya's old computer, but the file format was unusual, and he couldn't access the content. He needed help, but who could he trust? Jiya was the only person who knew the full extent of the plan, but after his terrifying experience, he wasn't sure about her motives anymore.
Was she truly seeking justice for Kavita, or was she just using him for her own ends, perhaps even connected to the very people he was running from? The three lakh rupees now felt less like a reward and more like a payment for a potentially fatal service.