All three of them boarded the bus and somehow managed to find space in its cramped interior. Tension hung heavily between them as the journey began. It was going to be an agonizing four hours, each passing minute stretching longer than the last. Silently, each of them prayed that nothing untoward would happen to Diya's father.
When they finally reached the bus stand, they almost leapt out before the bus had fully halted and began running toward the house. It was a couple of hours before dawn. The day of the festival had arrived, and they expected the household to be stirring awake—lamps being lit, voices echoing softly. More than anything, all three clung to the hope that Diya's father would be hale and hearty.
But as they reached the house, a strange stillness greeted them. The front door stood slightly ajar, and not a single sound came from within. Stepping into the courtyard, an uneasy realization took hold. The house was far from small, and never empty—it was always alive with Sumendu's father, his mother, his grandmother, and the servants. Yet now, it felt abandoned. On a festival morning, they had expected a house full of life. Instead, they found only silence.
They stood frozen in the courtyard, shock rooting them to the ground. Diya and her mother were on the verge of breaking down. It was Sumendu who recovered first.
"Let's check every room before we assume anything," he said firmly. "Diya, you go upstairs. Aunty, please check the ground floor. I'll search the backyard."
They split without another word.
Sumendu rushed toward the backyard, heading straight for the outhouse. Diya's mother moved through the ground floor rooms, her unease deepening with every step. Something was terribly wrong—she could feel it. She had always believed Sumendu's mother to be a kind and trustworthy woman, but that belief began to crack as she entered the kitchen.
Her eyes fell upon a small bottle lying in the dustbin.
Curious, she picked it up—and froze.
Shock coursed through her as she read the label. It was a chemical capable of inducing a deep, prolonged sleep. Panic gripped her heart. Clutching the bottle, she rushed back toward the courtyard, her breath quickening. Just as she was about to call out—
A scream pierced the silence.
Diya's scream.
Upstairs, Diya had been searching each room one by one. Disappointment followed her from one empty space to the next. In the last room, she found nothing and turned to leave—when a metallic clatter stopped her.
A steel glass rolled down from the attic stairs and hit the floor.
Her breath caught.
The attic.
She hadn't checked it.
Heart pounding, she rushed up the narrow steps. What she saw there made her blood run cold.
Her grandmother lay bound and gagged.
A scream tore out of Diya's throat—raw, instinctive.
Within moments, Sumendu and her mother rushed into the room.
The grandmother struggled briefly before steadying herself. Her eyes locked onto theirs, sharp and urgent.
"My dears," she said, her voice trembling yet resolute, "this is all because of the land your grandfather left behind. The one behind this... is none other than your mother, Sumendu—and the sarpanch. Then she looked at Diya and said, They have taken your father somewhere, unconscious."
The words hung heavy in the air.
"Don't worry," she continued, her tone firming. "I have a fair idea where they've gone. Come—we must end this now."
Then she turned to Diya, her gaze unwavering.
"Go. Bring the dartboard from the attic. It's time I used the final dart."
Sumendu and Diya exchanged a stunned glance. Diya's mother stood frozen, confusion etched across her face.
Sumendu opened his mouth to speak, but the grandmother cut him off sharply.
"This is not the time for questions," she said. "Get the dartboard... and the final dart, Diya."