Summary: Maya and Jaya escape prison, but freedom is brutal. With no plan, Maya must disappear fast. Jaya goes her own way. Alone, Maya scavenges for food, shelter, and a fake ID. She hides in slums, eats at langars, and steals what she must. A short stop at Kamini’s place gives her a breath, a shower, and a shove back into the shadows. As she changes her look and identity, a hidden ring box reveals a locker key—Arjun’s trail. That single clue pushes her to follow a hunch, leading to a photo. Now, for the first time, Maya isn’t just running. She’s hunting.
Section 1: The Break and the Split
They climbed out of the tanker and stood beside the road. It was late morning. The sun hit hard. Their khaki prison uniforms were stained in places where dirty water had soaked through. Steam rose from the road. The tanker rolled away, its engine rumbling into the distance. The prison was behind them. But freedom didn’t feel real.
For a few seconds, they stood still. Their eyes scanned the street. No sirens. No guards. Just heat, dust, and the low hum of traffic somewhere far off. They had escaped.
But they weren’t safe.
Not yet.
Jaya squinted at hoardings, roadside shops, and a shuttered fuel station. Her mind worked fast. She looked at Maya.
“We’re near Wadala,” she said. “Close to the old railway yard.”
Maya said nothing. Her legs shook. Her breath came in bursts. She couldn’t believe they were out.
Jaya turned, eyes sharp, voice low but urgent. “Maya, listen to me. We need to vanish. Right now. The hunt has begun. If they catch one of us, they’ll rip us apart to find the other. We’ll be skinned alive. There’s no time to think. No room for mistakes.”
Maya swallowed hard and gave a short nod. Her lips were tight. Her eyes stayed low. She couldn’t think straight. Her mouth was dry. There was nothing useful to say. So she said nothing and waited for Jaya to move.
“I can’t take you with me,” Jaya said. “There’s a spot we used when Rani ruled. That’s where my stash is. If it’s still untouched, I survive. If Vikas has taken over, I walk into a death trap. I don’t know yet. But I have to go. I don’t have a choice. If I don’t pay Sheikh, Abdul, and the Shetty gang soon, they’ll hunt me down.”
She looked Maya in the eye. “That area is pure underworld. That place is full of gang members. If they don’t know your face, they’ll know you don’t belong. And that can get you killed. I can’t risk dragging you in. If Vikas controls that area now, and I take you there, it’ll be like giving you to him myself. I can’t do that. I won’t do that.”
She stepped back. “You’ll have to fend for yourself now. Stay low, trust no one, do whatever it takes to survive. I hope we meet again, but be ready that we might not. People like us don’t always get second chances. If I die, at least I’ll go down trying. You do the same.”
She didn’t wait. She turned and walked fast. Maybe to outrun her own emotions.
Maya stood still.
Alone. Scared. Unsure.
She looked at the road. Then at the sky. Then at the empty stretch ahead. Jaya had told her roughly where they were. That was something. She took a breath. She had no map. No money. No plan.
Only instincts.
She started walking.
The real test had begun—disappearing.
She moved like a ghost through the city. She stayed low, slipped through alleys and ducked behind roadside stalls. Every siren made her freeze. Every shout felt like a trap.
She wore a thin, torn hoodie stolen from a slum clothesline. The damp, oversized kurta clung to her frame in odd places, stained and faded. Her scarf was cheap, fraying at the ends, barely hiding her face. Plastic sandals scraped the road with each step. Her prison haircut had grown wild, unkempt, her skin darker from sun and grime. She knew the city was crawling for them now. The prison break had turned them into targets. Every cop, every camera, every whisper on the street could lead to her or Jaya. One wrong move and it was over.
She hadn’t eaten in hours. Her mouth was dry. Her head spun. She saw a water cart near a bus depot and moved fast. No thinking. Just need. She reached for a bottle. The vendor grabbed her wrist and swung at her. She jerked back, twisted free, and ran. He chased her, shouting. Half a lane. Maybe more. She ducked into a slum corridor and vanished behind a rusted gate.
Her chest burned. Her legs shook. Her feet barely touched the ground. But she kept running. Because stopping meant capture. Or worse.
By nightfall, she collapsed in the stairwell of an old chawl. Hunger burned inside her. Her head spun. A rat brushed past her foot. She jerked awake, hands twitching for a weapon that wasn’t there. Her throat felt like sand. Her skin itched from grime and heat.
Her body was failing. She hadn’t eaten in days. Her stomach cramped. Her eyes blurred. A dull buzz rang in her ears.
Later, she collapsed again—this time behind a stack of crates in a dark alley. For a moment, she thought someone was watching her.
No one was there.
Just the fear. And the dark.
She was exposed. Every street, every shadow, every second.
By the second night, the city had changed. Patrols doubled. Checkpoints appeared in new places. News of her escape had spread fast. It was everywhere. People at a tea stall talked about a cash reward for her capture. Her photo—old and grainy—was taped to lampposts and police barricades. She was being hunted. The only relief—she no longer looked like the photo on the posters. That girl was gone. This one wouldn’t be recognized so easily.
She reached the edge of an old industrial zone. The buildings looked dead, weeds crawling through every corner. Behind a scrap yard wall stood a rusted gate. She had seen it only a few times, and that was many years ago.
This was once a safehouse. Arjun used it in the early days. The man who ran it was Shivlal, one of Arjun’s old logistics men. He had handled tools, transport, and cash drops back then. He owed Arjun his life. Maya had met him once—quiet, loyal, always in the background. She hadn’t seen him in years, but if anyone would still open the door, it would be him.
She paused. The code knock—three times, then twice, then once—felt odd now. Distant. Like a message from a past life.
She tapped.
The gate creaked open.
An old man stood behind it. Lean, tired, a hammer in his hand. Tool or weapon—she couldn’t tell. He saw her and froze. Recognition flickered.
No words. Just a slow nod.
He stepped aside.
She walked in.
The door slammed shut behind her.
For the first time since she ran, Maya let out a breath. It wasn’t relief. It was survival. Just a pause before the hunt closed in again.
Section 2: Nowhere to Turn
The safehouse stank of rust, diesel, and sweat. Shivlal said nothing. He handed her a frayed blanket, a fistful of dry poha (rice crisps), and water in a dented jug and tumbler. Then he pointed to a corner room. No words. No comfort. Just routine.
Maya was starving. She could have eaten anything. But this was all there was. She gobbled the poha, drank a stomachful of water that tasted of rust and metal, and curled up in the corner.
Looking around, she saw how Shivlal lived—bare, broken, just getting by. He didn’t thrive. He survived. Like her. Whatever he had given, he had shared from that struggle. That mattered.
She closed her eyes and slept. For the first time in two days.
By sunrise, he was gone. So was the illusion of safety. After Arjun's death, it felt unreal that someone like Shivlal still existed. Still loyal. Still willing to help—for old times' sake. To Maya, that felt almost like a miracle.
Maya left early. The city was still asleep. She limped through narrow lanes, her body wrecked. Hunger tore at her. Her legs barely moved. She needed help. But she had no one left.
She reached the old modeling agency in Andheri. It wasn’t open yet. She loitered nearby, knowing someone could report her, but she had no choice. Years ago, this had been her starting point when she first came to Mumbai from Delhi.
As soon as the agency doors opened, she rushed in. The security guard called after her, suspicious. She looked like a ragpicker, not someone meant to walk into a modeling agency. She muttered something and kept walking. The guard followed, still asking questions.
The receptionist was new, cheerful, and didn’t know her name. The place looked polished now—brighter, younger, faster. A world she no longer belonged to. She asked for Meena—the only one who had once cared. "She quit two years ago," the girl said flatly.
Maya said nothing. She had no one left. No help coming. She walked out—eyes dull, legs heavy, mind blank. Just one thought: keep moving.
The guard watched her go. Relieved. She didn’t belong there, and he knew it. If she’d caused trouble, he’d have lost his job. Places like that were for the polished and perfect. Not women like her. Not anymore.
Next, she went to Kamini’s place. They had once modeled together. Not close, but familiar. The building was the same. The guard looked at her with suspicion. She followed a delivery man inside, avoiding the register. At the door, she rang twice. Then again.
Kamini opened it—and froze.
Her eyes widened in shock, then fear.
"What the hell are you doing here?" she hissed, yanking Maya inside in a panic, glancing around as if someone had seen them. Her hands trembled. She wanted to help—but fear was stronger.
Maya dropped onto the sofa, body trembling, breath ragged. Kamini froze, eyes wide at the sight—bruised, hollow-eyed, starved. This wasn’t the Maya she remembered. This was someone barely surviving.
“You’re mad. Do you know what you’ve done? There’s a reward out on you. Every street corner has your face.”
“I need a place to sleep,” Maya said. “One night. That’s all.”
Kamini paced, glancing at the window, gripping her phone.
"Just yesterday, my boyfriend and I talked about you,” Kamini whispered. “He saw the news. He said, ‘Hope she doesn’t land up here.’ If he finds out you came—and I let you in—he’ll hit the ceiling. He wants no trouble. No lafda. If anyone sees you here, I’m finished.” Her voice shook. She wanted to help—but fear pinned her down.
Maya’s voice didn’t rise. “I’m not asking you to save me. Just one night. Then I vanish.”
Kamini hesitated, then moved fast. She pulled out fresh rotis, a bowl of hot dal, and some pickles. Maya pounced. Her fingers trembled. She tore the roti, scooped dal, stuffed it in her mouth. No pause. No manners. Just hunger. Steam hit her face. Spices stung her throat. Her eyes watered. She didn’t stop. She ate like she hadn’t eaten in years.
Afterward, Kamini handed her a towel and pointed to the bathroom. “Shower. Please.”
Once, Maya Sharma wouldn’t step out without three showers a day. She never smelled of anything but soap and perfume. Not a single hair out of place. Now she looked like she’d crawled out of a drain.
Kamini couldn’t meet her eyes. She just wanted the stench gone.
Maya stepped into the bathroom and shut the door.
She turned on the tap.
Hot water.
It hit her skin like memory. She stood still, let it run. The stink of jail. The cold, dripping taps. The stained tiles. All of it peeled away.
She scrubbed till her arms hurt. Washed till the water ran clear. Then she just stood there, face up, steam rising. For a moment, it felt human again.
For a moment, she remembered who she used to be.
When she came out, Kamini had neatly placed a few pairs of clothes on the bed—some clean clothes, a few undergarments, a few basic necessities—female hygiene products, a toothbrush, toothpaste. And most importantly, a thick wad of crisp notes. An old duffel bag sat beside them, half unzipped. No words were spoken. No warmth offered. But this was more than Maya had hoped for. Not pity—just a quiet act of care from someone who couldn’t do more.
“You need to leave by tomorrow morning,” Kamini said, her voice low. “I’ve done what I could. But if you’re found here, I’m finished. Don’t tell anyone you came.”
Kamini stayed distant. She didn’t sit. Didn’t speak more than needed. Didn’t ask how Maya had survived or what came next. She helped, but made sure Maya knew—this help had limits.
Maya nodded. Not out of gratitude—but understanding.
Later that night, Maya stood on the tiny balcony of Kamini's flat, staring at the skyline she once knew. The city glowed—music from penthouses, laughter from rooftops. Nothing had changed out there. But she didn’t belong anymore.
Prison had stripped her dignity. But freedom had stripped her identity.
Inside, the air was still. Kamini’s bedroom door hung open. On the desk—scattered papers, unpaid bills, old credit cards, and a mess of used SIM cards. Maya looked without interest. Then something caught her eye.
A laminated voter ID card. Untouched. Unused.
Her fingers hovered.
Then moved.
She picked it up, slid it into her bag, and closed the drawer softly. No hesitation. No second thought.
Not pity. Not guilt.
Survival.
Kamini wouldn’t notice—not for weeks, maybe months. And Maya didn’t care anymore.
She zipped her bag, stepped into the shadows of the hallway, and whispered under her breath—“No more asking.”
From now on, she would take what she needed.
And disappear.
Section 3: New Skin, Old Scars
She stood in the grimy bathroom of a suburban railway station, facing a broken mirror. The tiles were cracked. The light flickered. The stink of urine and damp clung to the walls.
She pulled out the small scissor she had flicked from Kamini’s.
Her hands shook, but she began. The blades snapped. Hair dropped onto the filthy sink, stuck to the rim, slid down the drain. She hadn’t cut it in years—Arjun had liked it long. Neat. Glamorous. Untouchable.
Now it was jagged. Rough. Chopped short and uneven.
She tied what remained into a tight knot. Her reflection wobbled in the cracked glass.
A stranger stared back. Gaunt face. Sunken eyes. Cracked lips. Skin pale and tired. Nothing of Maya remained.
That was good. That was the point.
The scarf was gone. So was the hoodie. Now it was a faded kurta, worn plastic sandals, and dark glasses—everything Kamini had given her. She slouched, lowered her head, walked slow. No one noticed her. No one should. Maya Sharma was gone.
She was no longer the queen in Arjun’s world, nor just a fugitive scraping by.
She had turned herself into a mask—plain, forgettable, invisible by design.
Now she needed an ID to match her new face. She racked her brain. Then it came—an old name from Arjun’s days. A counterfeiter in Byculla. Still alive? Still working? She didn’t know.
What if he recognized her? Worse, what if he now worked for Vikas? The risk was real. But she needed that ID.
She found him in a crumbling shack near the tracks. He looked older. Ink-stained hands, yellowed eyes, the smell of glue and sweat around him. He didn’t blink.
She stepped closer. Heart pounding.
He didn’t recognize her.
Good.
He looked at her like any other desperate customer. That was all she needed.
The counterfeiter stared at her. “Name?”
She froze. Nothing came.
He rolled his eyes. “You people come for fake ID and can’t even pick a name.”
She stayed silent.
He muttered, “Nanda Patel. Common enough. Nobody looks twice.”
She nodded.
He took a quick photo with an old phone, then vanished into the back room.
Fifteen minutes later, he returned with a laminated Aadhaar card. It looked perfect.
“Baroda,” he said, sliding it over. “That’s where you’re from now.”
Then his voice dropped. “Don’t get smart. If anyone checks this online, you’re finished. These days everything is digital. Back then, a fake was a fake. Now? Computers catch you in seconds. This business is a curse now. Should’ve quit long ago.”
To Maya’s relief, he didn’t ask for much. Maybe he’d stopped believing his work was worth more. Or maybe he just wanted her gone.
Didn’t matter.
She still had money left. Enough to keep moving.
She nodded. Took the fake Aadhaar card. Walked out without a word.
She checked herself in the mirror of a bus depot washroom—dull skin, hunched back, fingers stained from cheap dye. Her old instincts returned. Drop your gaze. Walk slow. Speak softer. Even her breathing adjusted.
She boarded only indirect buses. Shorter routes. Paid in cash. Saved every rupee. Ate only when she had to. Mostly, she lived off free langars at gurdwaras, temple kitchens, and church stalls. Picked old clothes from charity boxes. Scavenged what she could. At night, she slipped into dharamshalas, dorms, temple halls—anywhere with a roof and no questions. Never stayed two nights in the same place. Her eyes scanned every mirror, every shadow. One slip, and it was over.
The fear didn’t leave her. It deepened. Every police van was a death sentence. Every stranger a possible informant.
But she kept moving.
At a dusty roadside canteen, she sat on a rusted bench and ordered poha and chai. Her hands shook as she ate. The food was bland, the chai weak—but after days of scraps and tap water, it felt like a blessing. Every bite reminded her—she was still alive.
Later, inside a free dorm at a church, she sat in a corner and quietly unzipped her duffel bag. The room was crowded with strangers and noise, but she stayed still. She dug through the mess—spare clothes, a half-used soap, a plastic comb—then her fingers brushed something soft.
A velvet box.
She froze.
She had forgotten it even existed. Forgotten that she had slipped it inside her blouse while escaping—tucked close like Indian women often hide cash or keys for safety. She didn’t even remember doing it. Not until now. Her breath caught. Her chest tightened.
She opened it.
The ring was gone. She remembered now—it was taken with the rest of her things when she entered jail. What surprised her was that the guards had let her keep the empty box. Maybe they thought it was worthless. To her, it wasn’t.
But as she pressed the lining down, something shifted. Her fingers caught on a tiny bump. She pulled at the fabric. A dull brass key fell into her palm.
She stared at it—silent, stunned.
It hadn’t been planned. Hadn’t been remembered. She hadn’t even known it was there.
Like something—or someone—had wanted it to reach her now.
A locker key.
Her breath caught.
Engraved: 241.
She stared, stunned. Arjun had never mentioned a locker. No hint. No note. Nothing.
Yet here it was. Hidden inside a box the jail guards hadn’t cared to check. Tucked into her blouse in a panic. Forgotten ever since.
She turned the key in her hand. Cold. Sharp-edged. Real.
What if it led nowhere?
What if it unlocked everything?
But one thing was clear—it hadn’t landed in her hand by accident. Not now. Not like this.
For the first time since she ran, she had something to chase.
Something that might matter.
She slipped it into her pocket.
Not as memory.
As mission.
Section 4: The First Clue
The locker key pressed into Maya’s palm as the bus bumped through potholes. She replayed every place Arjun had taken her—safehouses, hidden rooms, stash points. Then a line came back to her. He had once said, half-joking, 'The real stash isn’t where the money is—it’s where no one thinks to look twice.' That was enough. She followed the hunch. Crowded streets blurred past—markets, temples, old walls. But her mind was locked on that one clue. That one chance.
"If I ever disappear, don’t look in clean places. The only things that stay hidden are the ones buried in filth."
Back then, she hadn’t cared. Arjun always talked in riddles, half-joking, half-serious. But now the words hit hard—like they were meant for this moment.
By late evening, she reached a quieter suburb—one Arjun had used long ago. Laundry flapped on balconies. Stray dogs wandered the lanes. She was exhausted, every step heavier than the last. But she kept going. Something was pulling her forward.
The building was the same. A dull three-floor block beside a vegetable market. Cracked tiles. Peeling paint. Sagging wires. A rusted 'To Let' board still hung above the gate.
She waited till night. Then circled to the back. The wall was low, hidden behind weeds and garbage. She pulled out a small torch and clicked it on—just enough light to move. She climbed slowly, nearly slipped, and landed hard. Pain shot up her leg. She clenched her jaw and kept moving.
The stairwell was damp and full of cobwebs. On the second floor, she stopped at door 204. Arjun had used this place. She’d been here with him. The lock looked strong. She knew she couldn’t break it. But the frame—it was old wood. Weak. Maybe weak enough.
She searched around and found a loose brick from the broken steps. Her first hit bounced off. The second cracked the frame slightly. The third sent splinters flying. Her knuckles scraped raw, her hand stung. But the door gave way.
Inside, her torch cut through thick dust. The beam wobbled across cracked tiles, broken drawers, and a light fixture dangling like a bone. Mold streaked the walls. The smell of rats, rot, and old detergent clung to everything. In torchlight, it looked worse—shadows sharper, decay deeper, like the room had been rotting in silence just for her return.
Still, she remembered it. The spot where the table once stood. The mark on the wall from the old clock. The crooked bathroom tile near the door.
She searched the room slowly. Opened cupboards, tossed old paint cans, pried at loose tiles. Nothing.
Frustration built inside her. She slid down against the wardrobe, chest rising fast, sweat trickling down her temple. Her fingers dragged along the floor—then stopped.
The mirror above the dresser. Slightly misaligned. A sliver of dust-free space behind it.
Her heart pounded. She reached behind the edge with shaking fingers. Something was stuck there.
A folded photo.
She pulled it out carefully. The paper was brittle. The image faint but clear.
Maya stared at the photo in the torchlight. Arjun stood before a warehouse—rusted gates, stacks of barrels, a bent signboard behind him. Sleeves rolled up, cigarette in hand, calm as ever. The image was faint, almost faded into dust. On the back, in smudged ink: “5 Oct. Remember this.”
Her grip tightened. It wasn’t just a photo. It was a clue. A lead. A hint of where to go next. She needed to find that warehouse—the one in the picture. She didn’t know what waited there. But it was her next move. Like a treasure hunt with no map. Just one old photo and a date. But it was something. Finally.
She had to find that warehouse. It was the only clue she had. Maybe it led to something. Maybe it was a dead end. But she wouldn’t know until she found it.
Maya stared at it.
"Nothing stays hidden unless it’s buried among rot," Arjun’s words rang in her head. They had sounded vague back then. Now, they made sense. Sharp and clear.
She didn’t need more clues. That warehouse—wherever it was—was her first real lead.
She slipped the photo into her bag. Before leaving, she stood in the doorway a moment longer, breathing in the musty air—one last look at a place that once mattered.
Her body was tired, but her mind was clear.
This wasn’t just a chase anymore.
It was a hunt.
And she was ready.
