As the group began to disperse from Madan's General Store, with the plan set for the following morning, Dev lingered behind just a moment longer, the unease in his eyes growing more visible. He stepped forward, his voice cutting through the mild chatter of the others.
"Aren't you going to give us an advance?" Dev asked, the tone carefully neutral, but firm.
The words landed like a pebble tossed into still water. Every eye turned toward Madan. The man paused mid-sentence, glanced at Dev, and then looked around, noting the silent questioning in everyone's gaze.
Madan scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Hmm... It's a big job after all," he muttered.
Without another word, he disappeared behind the wooden gate of the storeroom. Ten minutes passed. Then, the gate creaked open and Madan emerged holding a jute sack, the sound of clinking coins betraying its contents.
He began distributing small pouches to each person with calculated precision.
"Leena," he said, handing over a tightly tied bundle, "four pie, seven dhole."
"Raj, three pie, five dhole."
"Manju, three pie, five dhole."
"Vishal, three pie, four dhole."
Then his eyes fell on Dev. "Dev, two pie, eight dhole."
Dev raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Madan continued, "Meet here by six sharp tomorrow morning. We leave at seven. Not a minute late."
The group slowly made their way out, the sound of their footsteps mixing with the evening's rustling winds. Dev, however, had a different route in mind. He walked towards his camel, Jagira, tethered near the thorny patch by the side lane. With a practiced motion, he mounted the beast and began his slow journey home.
As Jagira trotted through the sun-drenched outskirts of the town, Dev opened his pouch and began counting.
"I owe Moneylender Sethi exactly one pie and eight dhole," he murmured. "That leaves me with one pie."
He mentally ticked off his debts.
"Milkman—three damri.
Vegetable vendor—two damri.
House owner—one dhole, three damri."
He sighed. "After everything, I'll be left with seven dhole and two damri. Just enough to breathe but not enough to move."
Dev was so engrossed in his mental calculations that he didn't even notice when Jagira reached home. The camel, familiar with the route, didn't need direction. It was Dev's refuge—his steady companion when the world felt uncertain.
But that peace shattered the moment he reached his doorstep.
A commotion greeted him.
From a distance, he could see two rugged men, clearly henchmen of Moneylender Sethi, shoving his aging father against the wall while the household goods lay scattered and broken on the floor. A wooden stool was shattered. A clay water pot lay in pieces. Curtains torn from the rods.
Dev's eyes widened. He slid off Jagira and stormed toward the chaos.
"What is the meaning of this?!" he shouted.
One of the men—a tall, broad-shouldered thug with scars tracing his arms—turned slowly. "You're late, Dev. We said four o'clock. It's already half past four."
"I have the money," Dev snapped, pulling out the pouch. "One pie and eight dhole. The exact amount."
But the second man, slimmer but no less menacing, scoffed. "That was then. Now it's two pie and one dhole."
Dev blinked. "That wasn't the deal."
His elder sister stepped forward, her voice measured but intense. "You agreed to one pie and eight dhole. Changing the amount now is extortion."
The taller man smirked. "And you were supposed to be here thirty minutes ago. Do you think our time is worthless? While you were busy riding around, we were working. We waited. We warned. We enforced."
"You broke our furniture!" she exclaimed.
"Call it a fine," the slimmer man said, spreading his arms. "For wasted time and disrespect."
Dev clenched his fists. Rage pulsed through him, but so did helplessness. What could he do? Fight? The men were not just thugs—they were Sethi's legal tools of fear. Any resistance would mean more than broken furniture next time.
With a frustrated sigh, Dev unfastened his pouch and counted the coins again. He pressed them into the taller man's open palm, who inspected the amount like a jeweler examining gems.
"Good. Smart decision," he said, his smirk deepening. "For future reference, Dev—punctuality saves property."
With a final glance of superiority, the two men turned and walked away.
Silence lingered after their departure, heavy and bitter.
Dev stood still, his hands empty, his heart pounding—not with fear but with shame. His sister began picking up the remnants of their home, and his father leaned against the wall, breathing heavily, more humiliated than hurt.
"I'm sorry," Dev said quietly.
His sister didn't answer. The only reply came from the wind nudging the broken curtain across the floor.
He looked at the coins he had left—seven dhole and two damri.
He sat beside his father and spoke more to himself than anyone else. "This is how we live—calculating every coin, chased by time, always one step behind. Even when we pay, we pay more."
His father placed a weathered hand on his shoulder. "What matters is that you came back. We'll fix the rest."
But Dev wasn't convinced. Something in him shifted that evening. The anger no longer flickered—it settled, quietly. Not violent, not loud, but definite.
Later that night, Dev sat outside on the veranda, looking up at the stars. Jagira sat beside him, chewing lazily, unaware of the human storm unfolding beside her.
Dev's thoughts wandered back to Madan's plan, the job, and the journey ahead.
"Maybe this time," he whispered, "I won't just survive. Maybe this time, I'll write my own price."
The stars didn't reply.
But something inside Dev stirred—no longer crushed by coins or beaten by time.
Tomorrow wasn't just about leaving at 7:00 AM. It was the first step toward reclaiming what he had been forced to surrender one coin at a time.
He leaned back, the rough wood of the chair biting into his shoulders, but he didn't mind.
He had no riches. No power. No army.
But he had something stronger.
He had purpose.
And in Karimnagar, that could be more dangerous than any sword.
Dev watched the departing silhouettes of Sethi's men vanish down the dusty lane. Their sneers echoed in his ears longer than their footsteps did in the sand. The wooden frame of their modest home creaked faintly as a gust of wind blew through the splintered entrance they had left ajar.
The seven remaining dhole in Dev's palm felt impossibly light now — too light to bear the burdens they were meant to carry.
He stepped inside.
His father, a man once known for his calm wisdom, now sat hunched against the wall. His clothes were torn, not from battle, but from the grip of disgrace. His silence, however, roared louder than any plea could.
Dev kneeled beside him, eyes softening.
"I'm sorry, Bapu," he said, barely above a whisper. "I was late."
His father didn't respond, not immediately. His eyes remained fixed on the ground, but there was no accusation in them—only exhaustion and quiet surrender. Finally, he exhaled.
"You did what you could, beta," he said hoarsely. "The fault lies not in your effort, but in the hands that twist our lives for coin."
Just then, the front curtain was pulled aside, and two women entered. Dev's elder sisters — Meera and Sita — had returned from the nearby well, balancing clay pots of water. The pots, however, shook in their grip the moment they saw their father's bruised silence and the broken items scattered about.
"Dev?" Meera gasped.
Sita rushed forward, placing the pot down. "What happened here?"
"Sethi's men," Dev replied, his voice a mixture of tiredness and anger. "They said I was late—by half an hour. So they raised the debt. I gave them everything I had for him… everything."
Meera's face turned pale, but her eyes narrowed with fury. "We're not cattle to be herded by their cruelty."
"They don't see us as people, Meera," Dev said. "Only as ledgers to be cleared, weighed by numbers. And I have seven dhole left — no more."
Sita sat beside their father, brushing dust from his shoulders with a worn cloth. Her movements were gentle, but her voice was sharp.
"How will we pay for the milk? The vegetables? The rent?"
Dev sighed. "I've been calculating on the way back. Listen…"
He sat cross-legged and placed the coins on the ground like pieces of a broken puzzle.
"The milkman must be paid three damri. The vegetable seller — two damri. And the house owner… he's due one dhole and three damri."
Meera folded her arms. "That's six damri and one dhole total."
"Yes," Dev nodded. "I will still have six dhole and one damri remaining. Barely enough to keep the creditors silent — and not a whisper more."
His sisters looked at him, concern painted across their expressions.
"We can't live like this," Sita murmured. "Every week, it's like the roof will fall over our heads."
"We won't," Dev said with quiet resolve. "Not forever. This tour Madan has promised—if it pays well, it can fix things. It has to."
He rose slowly and walked toward the rear window, staring at the dimming horizon. The sky had turned a dull gold, the kind that burns beautifully before the dark claims it.
"I've never asked for anything easy," he continued. "But I have always hoped for something just — something fair. Is that too much?"
There was silence, and then Meera joined him by the window.
"No, it's not," she said. "And you're not alone in hoping. You're not the only one carrying the weight."
Sita stood as well, brushing off her skirt. "Tomorrow, we'll all wake up early. You'll go with Madan, and we'll take care of the house. Maybe even sell some pickled mango jars to neighbors. Every coin counts now."
Their father managed a small smile — one that had taken effort, pain, and dignity to form.
"You three remind me of your mother," he said softly. "When she faced hardships, she didn't complain. She found ways to heal without letting the world see her bruises. I see that same fire in you."
Dev's throat tightened, but he forced a smile.
"She would have said, 'The world might deal you cruelty, but never let it take your courage.'"
Outside, the last of the sunlight slipped away, and shadows began their nightly dance across the courtyard. The camel, Jagira, rested quietly under the neem tree, sensing the heaviness in the air.
Inside, the family lit a small oil lamp. Its flame flickered — fragile, yet defiant.
And as they shared a meal of flatbread and chutney, something more powerful than coins filled the space — a sense of unity, of quiet rebellion against despair.
But in Dev's heart, a silent promise had begun to take shape: He would not let his family suffer another day longer than necessary. He would walk through fire if it meant bringing them out of darkness.
Tomorrow would be the beginning.
He only prayed fate wouldn't rob him of the chance.
Meanwhile, in a grand yet dimly lit room within an old haveli tucked in the city's inner labyrinths, a man sat reclined on a cushioned wooden swing, slowly rocking with a deliberate sense of entitlement. He appeared to be in his early fifties, dressed in a crisp cream kurta, his salt-and-pepper hair combed neatly back. His eyes, half-lidded, carried the sharp glint of a man who had seen too many lives unravel beneath the weight of his ledger.
Standing on either side of him were two tall, broad-shouldered men—bodyguards dressed in black—silent but alert, the kind of presence that never needed to speak to assert authority.
The iron gate creaked open.
Two men entered. As the low light of the antique chandelier illuminated their faces, it was evident—they were the same enforcers who had just returned from Mehta's household.
The man on the swing smirked slightly and leaned forward.
"So," he said, his voice calm but edged with mockery. "Did you bring my coins from the Mehtas, or did you sell their belongings for something special?"
One of the men stepped forward, placing a small cloth pouch on the low table. The sound of coins clinking echoed faintly in the room. A bespectacled accountant, sitting in the corner with a large leather-bound ledger, approached, opened the pouch, and began counting with practiced fingers.
"Two pie, one dhole," he announced. "They owed us one pie, eight dhole. This is… three dhole extra."
"Oh?" The man on the swing raised a curious eyebrow. "What's the occasion? Did they win a fortune?"
"Not quite, sir," the first enforcer chuckled darkly. "When we arrived, they had nothing. We were about to begin reclaiming value from their household when their son, Dev, arrived. He was late—half an hour past the time we warned. We had already begun moving their goods. He tried to talk, but…" he shrugged, "...rules are rules. We told him the rate just went up."
"And he paid it?" the man asked, leaning back again, amused.
"With hesitation, but yes. He had no choice."
"Hmm," the man murmured. "Dev Mehta… I like him. He'll learn soon enough—debt isn't just coins. It's time. It's respect. It's understanding who holds the scale."
He signaled subtly.
"Give these two their wages. And a bonus," he added, with a smirk. "Efficiency deserves reward."
The two enforcers exchanged pleased glances. A moment later, they bowed slightly and exited.
From a side corridor, soft footsteps approached.
A young girl stepped into the room carrying a polished silver tray. Her presence was quiet, restrained. She couldn't have been more than sixteen. Her features were delicate, her expression devoid of emotion—neither fear nor defiance, only a silence that hinted at endurance.
On the tray were fresh fruits—sliced apple, grapes, and strawberries arranged with care.
She walked over and stood by the man on the swing.
Without waiting for instruction, she delicately picked a piece of fruit and held it to his lips. He took it slowly, his gaze fixed on her with an unsettling calm.
"Good," he murmured. "You're learning."
The girl did not react. But something flickered in her eyes—displeasure, hidden behind obedience.
He continued to observe her.
She had been sent by her family six months ago. They had taken a large loan, failed to repay. When the date of repayment passed, Shetty had made them an offer: cancel the debt in exchange for service. Desperate, they had agreed. The girl had been sent to his household—like collateral in human form.
To outsiders, it was called a 'domestic arrangement.' But Shetty knew the truth. He owned her time, her future. And she knew it too.
"Tell your mother to send me the spices next week. No delay," Shetty said, finally breaking the silence.
The girl nodded silently and stepped back.
He turned toward the accountant still scribbling in the ledger. "Make a note. The Mehtas are one month behind for next quarter's interest. Let's see how long their son can keep pretending honor will pay their dues."
"Yes, sir."
Shetty rocked slightly in the swing. In his mind, every family in the lower quarters was a number, every life a currency to be collected or claimed. And Dev Mehta… he was just the latest to feel the weight of that number.
But little did Shetty know—Dev was not one to bow forever. Patience was not weakness. And the day was not far when debts would be repaid, not in coins, but in consequences.