When one is in anxiety, time drags like a broken clock. The ten minutes felt like the longest of Batakrishna's life. Every second stretched unbearably as the stench of his disguise assaulted his senses, the rancid odor clinging to him threatening to fail him at every step. But he was too determined to give in. Even if he throws up, it would be a drunkard's deed, he thought and smirked bravely. His eyes darted to Bhargavi once again, sitting alone on the street in a tense posture. What a stubborn girl, he sighed, she didn't move an inch despite knowing the eminent danger! Batakrishna looked away, and in a fleeting moment his gaze spotted briefly a shadow of one of the Mouni in her blue saree, moving from a wall to the roof of the police station like a whisper in the wind.

Batakrishna took a long deep breath and exhaled sharply. They were there. In position. Ready to pounce. Ready to kill. 'To kill'- the word lingered in his mind like a sinister echo. To kill ! How easy it seemed for these women to take a life, to snuff it out as if it were nothing more than a candle's flame. And they don't even flinch. Batakrishna had seen them in action before. His memory dragged him back to that fateful night by the riverbank, the day they had carried blood-drenched Satyakirth and the limp body of Officer Davidson away from his eyes into the shadows of the night. The one with the arrow had moved like lightning, he could never forget that look in her eyes and her hands were steady when she had shot down five men in the blink of an eye, right in front of him. The mayhem of that moment had chiseled itself into Batakrishna's soul for a lifetime, and he knew in his heart how ruthless and selfless these women were! That day, his own body had borne the scars—bruises blooming across his skin like dark, accusing flowers. He had snuck out of the Chattagram Sadar Hospital for an hour, unnoticed, and his elder brother Anirudh had covered for him, as he always did. 'Anirudh'- the name brought a fresh wave of guilt. The brother who had been more of a father to him, shielding him from life's cruelties, filling the void left by their absent father. And now, Batakrishna had hurt him beyond measure. But wasn't it all for their safety? Not just Anirudh, but for Bondita and Kaka too, Batakrishna argued with his own self. The ruthless scheming of the British police was already looming like a dark cloud over their family, just waiting for a chance to harass the mighty barrister. Batakrishna would not—could not—allow his family name to be tarnished.

Will his dearest Dada ever understand, will he ever forgive him, he wondered.

A sharp siren pierced the tense atmosphere, yanking him out of his thoughts. It announced the time, signaling that the moment had arrived. Batakrishna sprang up, and his heart pounded faster, every muscle in his body stiffening with readiness. He half-limped, half-ran toward one of the constables who appeared to be wrapping up his post. Without hesitation, he staggered into the man, almost sending him tumbling to the ground.

"What the—?!" The constable barked in anger, steadying himself and glaring at Batakrishna. His hand shot up instinctively, ready to strike. Batakrishna, however, was prepared. He ducked just in time, evading the blow and stumbling onward to the next man, his breath shallow, his mind racing. He cant win in a flight with so many men, and fight was his last resort. He knew that one wrong move from him and everyone dies! Every step felt like a gamble, and yet, beneath the grime and the pretense, Batakrishna knew that there was no turning back.

"Oye, you scoundrel!" barked the second constable in a voice sharp enough to cut through the night air. Batakrishna didn't flinch. This was his moment, and he would see it through—no matter the cost. He instantly bend down and lung to the man's legs with desperate fervor, murmuring an unintelligible litany of "My baap, My baap," as though his salvation depended on it. The constable tried to kick him off, but Batakrishna's grip was vice-like, his strength was surprising for a man pretending to be a drunken, limping hag.

"What fresh hell is this?" the first constable growled, pulling out his thick baton. He charged at Batakrishna with an air of impatience. "Leave him, you piece of filth, or I'll break this on your back!" he spat as his eyes blazed with irritation.

Batakrishna released the second constable's legs as though on cue and, without missing a beat, lunged dramatically at the first constable, clutching his ankles in a comical display of contrition. "My baap, My baap, Hujoor..."

The second constable burst into laughter at the absurdity of the scene.

Ordinarily, they would have booted such a nuisance out of the area in no time. But there was something oddly fascinating that they found about Batakrishna—perhaps the false humility in his exaggerated groveling, or the satisfaction of superiority complex at the strange sight of a tall, well-built man in rags throwing himself at their feet. Three more constables joined the scene, their interest had piqued by the commotion. Batakrishna quickly assessed his surroundings. Six now, he thought. His sharp eyes caught one constable heading toward the thatched shed near the gate, probably to collect his belongings to go home. Five left. None of them carried guns—just batons.

Batakrishna returned to his antics, rubbing his face against the patched, grimy boots of each constable in turn. "My baap, My baap!" he wailed theatrically. Some kicked him in annoyance, while others doubled over with laughter at the spectacle. To them, he was a joke, a pitiful entertainer who had accidentally wandered into their midst.

Batakrishna's mind, however, was racing. The plan was clear—create enough noise to draw out the Assistant Superintendent (ASP). Yet the man hadn't appeared. Panic bubbled in his chest. The distraction was supposed to last five minutes after the ASP's arrival, not before.

Perhaps he should escalate—strike one of the constables to force their hand? But that was risky. If they dragged him into the station or beat him senseless before the ASP arrived, the plan would unravel. Just as the thought crossed his mind, he felt a sharp blow on his back. He winced. The beating had begun. A cold sweat prickled his skin. He wasn't afraid of the pain, but of failure. But what he failed to notice was another pair of expectant eyes had winced along with his!

And then, in no time, piercing through the chaos, came a high-pitched, shrill voice.

"Hattocchara! Buro! Old hag! How dare you come here? To complain about me? How dare! Buro minshe!"

Batakrishna froze, startled by the unexpected interruption. He turned to look up, and there she was, his little Bhaggu, her hands planted firmly on her hips, her face flushed with feigned fury. Tears wailed up in his eyes out of nowhere. Despite the dirt and makeup masking his face, his dumbfounded expression was unmistakable. The constables noticed it too, and it piqued their curiosity fully.

Bhargavi stormed forward, half-crying, half-yelling, launching into a tirade. She hurled abuses at Batakrishna, in a voice with a perfect blend of rage and despair. "This drunkard husband of mine!" she wailed. "He left me without a word! And now he's trying to get into jail to escape my wrath! Coward old hag!"

Batakrishna's lips curled up in an unnoticeable smile.

The constables were in stitches. One nudged the other, chuckling, "What a drama!"

Batakrishna got the cue. He too played his part seamlessly. He stood abruptly, towering over Bhargavi for a moment before slapping her cheek in mock anger. The constables howled with laughter, their amusement doubling as Bhargavi retaliated, raining down blows on his arms. Her cries grew louder in a shrill indignation. "How dare you!" she was screaming.

"Perfect match!" one constable quipped.

"Made in heaven!" another added, grinning.

Wasting no time, Bhargavi grabbed Batakrishna's shirt, as her voice crackled with emotion. "How dare you leave me and Bhulu? Not even thinking about us once, you hattocchara minshe!"

"Bhulu? Who's that? Your dog?" a constable asked, amused.

"My son!" Bhargavi shot back, glaring at him. "Laalu, Kaalu, Bhulu—my six-month-old, and a daughter too, Kaali!"

The constables burst out into fits off laughter and then exchanged knowing smirks with their laughter spilling over. "Busy man!" one muttered, shaking his head.

Batakrishna, however, had gone rigid. The ASP had finally emerged, drawn out by the commotion. He stood at the edge of the scene as his sharp eyes was scanning the drama with mild contempt.

His gaze lingered on Bhargavi, and he sneered, muttering a derogatory comment about her figure to the constables, and they snickered in response.

The ASP turned to her with a mocking smile. "We can't keep him in the station," he said sarcastically. "His delightful fragrance will make us throw up. But if you wish, I can have him beaten to death right here."

"Na, Na na..." Bhargavi let out a piercing scream, loud enough to make the ASP flinch. "What would happen to my four children if this hag dies? Who will take care of them?"

The ASP chuckled darkly. "Doesn't seem like this one takes care of you anyway, except for warming your bed. You can choose one of these fine men once this filthy dog is gone. Then you can have more children. What do you say?" The others were chuckling too.

Bhargavi theatrically looked up at the sky, pretending to ponder. Then she turned her gaze to the constables, as though inspecting them for suitability. The men were thoroughly entertained, leaning in with grins plastered across their faces.

Bhargavi pursed her lips dramatically once again and addressed the ASP with mock hesitation, "I don't want more children, but what about the ones I already have? Who will take care of them?"

"I will!" one of the older constables jumped in, grinning evilly. "My old woman is as good as dead. It'd be nice to have a fresh young one at home!"

Batakrishna saw the constable's eyes lingering on Bhargavi's slightly loosened saree. The bright unblemished olive skin of her collarbone and shoulders was now exposed, catching the light and their attention. A protective fury surged through Batakrishna and his jaw tightened at once.

He sprang up abruptly and grabbed Bhargavi by her hair, tugging violently to undo her neatly tied bun. Her long, curly hair spilled down her back in a dramatic cascade.

"Saali, haramjadi," Batakrishna growled through gritted teeth, his voice dripping with false rage. "Etoo shook! How dare you ogle at other men like this, you filthy bitch?"

Bhargavi matched his performance, screaming as if in terror. Batakrishna shook her by the arm, forcing her into the role. He reached into his tattered bag and pulled out a whistle, blowing it with a shrill, piercing sound.

"What... what's this now?" the ASP barked, momentarily startled.

Batakrishna grinned maniacally, his colored teeth clenched in feigned madness. "Whenever this sly woman screams," he hissed, "I blow this to shut her up. If she doesn't listen, I beat her."

The constables erupted into laughter, their attention entirely on the bizarre spectacle unfolding before them. From the corner of his eye, Batakrishna caught sight of a Mouni silently shifting from the rooftop of the station, melting into the shadows unnoticed. His heart eased slightly.

"Chol! Chol maagie!" he bellowed, yanking Bhargavi by her arm. "You filthy, fallen woman. I'll deal with you myself!"

With exaggerated anger, Batakrishna dragged Bhargavi away from the gathered men, who were still howling with laughter, and as they walked not more than ten steps, an abrupt sound of a short blast with billowing plume of erupting smoke, swiftly engulfing the entire area.

"Cover your nose and mouth and walk fast." Batuk instructed as they held hands and started to sprint as fast as they could.

"Now what?" Bhargavi asked again, breathing heavily. They had walked far enough from the police station to ensure they were safe. Batakrishna had reached a pre-decided shaded spot beneath a sprawling Peepal tree. This place was pleasant, as the faint chirping of birds complemented the serene stillness of the field. Adjacent to them was a massive Christian church that stood like a silent guardian of their respite.

"That's Saint Pauls Church." Batakrishna muttered, gestured Bhargavi to sit down, and he too settled across from her, locking his eyes on hers with a tender admiration.

"Who are you?" He smiled at her proudly, and Bhargavi looked away bashfully at once.

Batakrishna let out a sharp exhale. "Now, we wait here, Bhaggu" he said. "They'll send us a message." His eyes continued to study her intently.

"What?" Bhargavi asked, smiling shyly, as she covered her face with both her hands. "Why are you staring at me like that?"

"Nothing, Bhaggu," he replied softly. "You just amazed me today. You saved Nakul's life—and mine too."

Bhargavi looked down, her cheeks warming as she blushed. "I had to," she murmured.

"But I know people who would've run from a situation like that," Batakrishna said earnestly. "You didn't. Thank you, my math nerd. It wasn't even your responsibility, yet you—"

"How is it not my responsibility?" Bhargavi interrupted, her eyes sparkling with a fierce determination as she looked straight at him. "This country is mine. These streets, trees, and roads are mine. Nakul Da's safety is mine. You—" she faltered slightly but continued, "you are mine. And this shame of colonial captivity is mine too! So how is it not my responsibility, Choto Babu?" Her voice quivered with emotion, and tears glistened in her eyes, mirroring Batakrishna's own.

"Bhaggu..." Batakrishna began but stopped himself, overwhelmed. "No more Choto Babu," he declared. "Call me Batuk Da. You said you had no one of your own, but now you have me."

"Batuk Dada!" Bhargavi exclaimed, and then leapt into his arms in joy. He was her master and she was just an Aarshita, a dependent of his family. But today she got a new relation, she was his same! In happiness, Bhargavi wrapped her arms around his neck and he hugged her back tightly, moved by her courage and this newfound connection. It was way more than just appreciation, it was perhaps also a celebration of their victory, or perhaps a reminder that they had cheated death together, just now. And as for Batakrishna it was perhaps a little more, as in that moment, he had realised that Bhargavi was no longer the young girl he had once known—she was a patriot, a kindred spirit, and a source of his pride.

"I am so proud of you Bhaggu, so so proud." he murmured.

The sun was almost setting, and the few passersby in this part of Calcutta saw two lowly humans in rags tied in each other's embrace, and no one threw a second glance, no one cared and definitely no one realised that they both were conversing in English.

The peaceful moment however, was abruptly interrupted by the sharp hiss of an arrow slicing through the air. It struck the tree trunk beside them, embedding itself with a resounding thud. Both jolted at once and broke from their embrace.

"Instructions," Batakrishna said with a grin, retrieving the small chit tied to the arrow. He unfurled it and read, "Midnight at the river." He looked at her with a triumphant smile. "This means everything is going as planned." Bhargavi grinned too.

"I'll drop you back to your boarding tomorrow, Bhaggu. You'll be safe."

"Then, what now?" Bhargavi asked, her gaze steady on him and in response Batakrishna rose to his full height, his posture tall and unwavering. He extended his hand to her, pulling her up gently.

"Now... we go meet Laalu, Bhulu, and the others—and their stepmother ofcourse, who's probably by now, is furious with me for not returning home since last night."

He widened his eyes comically and pursed his lips, drawing a laugh from Bhargavi as the duo burst out into fits of laughter, together.

"How is Mira Didi doing, Batuk Da?" Bhargavi asked softly, smiling at the sound of her new address, and Batuk smiled at her too, lovingly.

"Good, she's good; we're good." His eyes glint happiness.