Act I: SCARS, Chapter Five: Spring Arrived Wearing Someone Else's Name
“AANE MEIN TEEN ghante lagenge? Itne mein toh main barf ban jaungi.”
[“It’ll take three hours to get here? By then, I’ll turn into a block of ice.”]
I mutter bitterly into the phone, shivering on the cold, damp wooden bench perched over the winding mountain road.
“Aapko theek se jagah bhi nahi pata, ma'am. Khojne mein waqt lagega,” the hotel receptionist replies from the other end, sounding just as exhausted as I am.
[“You don’t even know your exact location properly, ma’am. It will take time to search for you.”]
“Rehne do,” I huff, pulling the phone away from my ear.
[“Forget it.”]
“Ma’am, please cooperate. Hum nahi chahte aapko kuch ho—”
[“Ma'am, please cooperate. We don't want anything to happen to you—”]
“Kuch hua na, toh tauda hotel band karwaungi main!” I snap in irritation, immediately cutting the call before they can offer another useless excuse.
[“If anything happens to me, I’ll get your entire hotel shut down!”]
Great. Just brilliant.
I glare at the screen as a low-power warning pops up—10% battery remaining. How much worse could this morning possibly get? I should’ve just stuck with the rest of the research crew on the main transport bus, but no, the adventurous journalist in me insisted on traveling ahead alone to gather early location notes.
Beakal kudi. Total idiot.
I pull my thick wool shawl tighter around my trembling shoulders, burying my chin into the warm fabric as I scan the empty road. It’s barely dawn. A thick, ghostly mountain fog blankets the pines, swallowing the road whole, and every ragged breath I exhale billows into the freezing air like white smoke. My numb fingers tighten around the handle of my luggage, waiting for a miracle on a completely deserted mountain trail.
चाहे कोई मुझे जंगली कहे
[Let anyone call me wild if they want]
A faint, jaunty melody drifts through the thick mountain air, catching my attention over the rustling pines. I lift my head just in time to see the piercing yellow beam of a single motorcycle headlight slicing through the morning fog, the low, steady purr of its engine vibrating along the tarmac.
The rider is clad entirely in black: a heavy leather jacket, gloves, and a dark scarf wrapped securely over his lower face to shield against the biting mountain wind. He cruises past the bench without slowing down, disappearing into the mist... until the hum of the engine abruptly dips.
कहे कहने दो जी कहते रहे
[Let them say whatever they want to say]
The bike rolls backward, the tires crunching over loose gravel as he reverses smoothly back into view. He cuts the throttle, pulls off his dark riding glasses, and looks down at me.
“Aap kisi ka intezaar kar rahi hain?”
[“Are you waiting for someone?”]
I tilt my head back, pulling my shawl tighter across my chest as a protective shield. “Mere gharwale ka. Woh gaadi chalate hain, aa jayenge jaldi.” I lie right through my teeth, putting on the most confident front I can muster.
[“For my family member. He drives a car, he'll be here soon.”]
He blinks, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly in amusement. “Gaadi?” He lifts his wrist to check his watch. 6:00 A.M. “Itni subah sirf bus jaati hai yahan se, woh bhi saadhe paanch baje. Aapko nikalna hai toh paidal hi chalna padega.”
[“A car? At this hour, only the bus runs through here, and that too leaves at five-thirty. If you want to leave, you’ll have to walk.”]
हम प्यार के तूफ़ानों में घिरे हैं, हम क्या करें
[We are trapped in the storms of love, what can we do]
My eyes widen in pure horror. “Paidal?!”
[“On foot?!”]
He nods nonchalantly. “Kya naam hai aapke gharwale ka? Shayad main unhein phone karke bata doon.”
[“What is your family member’s name? Maybe I can call and let him know.”]
I huff defensively, burying the lower half of my face deep into the wool fabric to hide my flushed cheeks. “Rehne dijiye... koi zarurat nahi.”
[“Leave it... no need.”]
“Achcha...” he mutters, studying my obvious lie for a brief second. “Kahan jana hai aapko? Main chhod deta hoon.”
[“Alright... Where do you need to go? I can drop you.”]
“Main kisi ajnabee ke saath nahi jaa sakti,” I deadpan, locking my jaw with stubborn determination.
[“I can't go with a stranger.”]
He looks at me for a beat, shrugs without a single argument, and pulls his scarf back over his nose. “...Theek hai.”
[“...Alright.”]
He revs the throttle, clicks into gear, and simply drives away into the fog.
What?
Why am I disappointed?
I stand up and start walking with my luggage, dragging the rattling suitcase along the asphalt. After a few minutes of shivering uphill, I spot him again—this time parked near a small roadside shack, casually taking a chai break.
Oh, please…
The tiny wooden stall is selling biscuits, chips, and all sorts of snacks. Packets of Parle-G, salted wafers, and classic glass jars full of colorful candies hanging from plastic strings sway gently in the cold morning breeze.
He notices me approaching. This time, his helmet is off, his dark scarf unwrapped from his neck. He has clean, short dark hair, a sharply trimmed beard, and shoulders so broad he somehow resembles a solid tree trunk.
“Chai le lo! Chai garam!” the elderly shopkeeper calls out with a warm smile, stirring a bubbling pot of spiced tea.
[“Take some tea! Hot tea!”]
I look away, pretending to be deeply fascinated by the pine trees on the other side of the road, trying my best to ignore the man sitting on the wooden bench.
“Pii lo beti, haath jam gaye hain aapke,” the uncle says gently, sliding a steaming glass of hot tea across the wooden plank toward me.
[“Drink it, child, your hands are completely frozen.”]
I let out a quiet sigh and take it. My fingers are so numb from the mountain chill that I can’t even register how scalding hot the glass actually is.
Ugh... I haven’t even had the chance to freshen up or brush my teeth. My hair is a windblown mess, my nose is probably bright red, and I must look utterly ridiculous standing here with a heavy trolley bag.
I blow lightly over the steam and take a tiny, careful sip. The ginger and cardamom instantly send a wave of warmth rushing through my chest.
The man leans back against the rough wooden post of the stall, watching me over the rim of his own glass.
“Aap agar aise hi bahar rahi toh thand lag jayegi,” he says evenly, his voice carrying easily through the quiet morning air. “Jammu mein pehli baar aayi hain?”
[“If you stay out like this, you'll catch a cold. Is it your first time in Jammu?”]
I take another sip and nod, staring down into the dark amber liquid.
There’s no point in lying anymore.
“Kuch zaroori kaam ke silsile mein aayi hoon,” I add quickly, not wanting him to think I was just some clueless tourist wandering blindly into the hills.
[“I’ve come here for some important work.”]
He nods slowly, his steady gaze never leaving my face. “Kahan jana hai aapko?” he questions again, his voice deep and calm.
[“Where do you need to go?”]
“Hotel Pine Crest,” I reply, blowing softly across the top of my tea.
“Agar aap ijazat dein toh main pohuncha sakta hoon,” he offers smoothly, a subtle glint of amusement in his dark eyes. “Ajnabee hi sahi.”
[“If you give permission, I can drop you. Stranger or not.”]
I bite my lower lip, looking him up and down with genuine skepticism. “Aap rasta jaante bhi hain?”
[“Do you even know the way?”]
“Yahin ka rehne waala hoon.”
[“I belong here.”]
Hmm.
“Theek hai,” I mutter, finally surrendering to the biting mountain freeze.
[“Alright.”]
I quickly gulp down the rest of my tea, the liquid burning the roof of my tongue. I set the empty glass down on the wooden ledge and bend over to unzip the outer pocket of my trolley bag to fish out my purse.
Before my fingers can even touch the zipper, he waves a dismissive hand. “Iski takleef mat kijiye.”
[“Don't trouble yourself for this.”]
With practiced ease, he pulls a weathered leather wallet from his jacket pocket and hands two crisp twenty-rupee notes over to the shopkeeper.
“Jai Shankar,” the man murmurs respectfully, pressing his palms together over the cash before carefully placing the notes inside his wooden register box.
[“Hail Lord Shiva.”]
I smile slightly at his gesture.
Without a word of fuss, the man unzips his heavy leather jacket, pulls it off, and holds it out toward me.
I raise my eyebrows, surprised.
“Jab gaadi tez chalegi, tab bohot zor se hawa aayegi. Pehen lijiye,” he insists quietly.
[“When the bike goes fast, the wind will hit very hard. Put it on.”]
I take the heavy leather from his hands, feeling the lingering warmth trapped inside the lining. “Aur aap...? Aapko thand nahi lag rahi?”
[“And you...? Aren't you feeling cold?”]
“Aadat hai,” he says simply. Underneath, he's only wearing a fitted, dark full-sleeved t-shirt, completely unbothered by the crisp mountain breeze that has me shivering to the bone.
[“I'm used to it.”]
I unwrap my shawl for a moment, slipping my arms through the oversized leather sleeves over my kurti before re-wrapping the thick wool securely around my ears and neck. The jacket smells faintly of pine, leather, and cedarwood.
I look down at my heavy trolley suitcase standing on the gravel. “Ise kahan rakhun?” I point at the luggage.
[“Where should I keep this?”]
“Mere sar pe,” he replies without missing a beat.
[“On my head.”]
“Aapka sar tamaam ho jayega,” I reply with a deadpan stare.
[“Your head will be crushed into pieces.”]
He lets out an amused huff under his breath, grabbing the suitcase by its frame. He secures the trolley's handle tightly to the heavy rear mount of the motorcycle, making sure it won't budge an inch.
“Ab theek hai?” he asks, checking the tension.
[“Is it fine now?”]
I nod.
“Baith jaiye.”
[“Sit.”]
I step onto the footpeg and carefully climb sideways, resting a hesitant hand on his broad shoulder for balance. “Maaf kijiyega, bohot din ho gaye bike par baithe hue. Veer ji ke saath jaati thi.”
[“Sorry, it’s been a long time since I sat on a bike. I used to ride with my elder brother.”]
He shakes his head, his posture steady as a rock. “Koi baat nahi. Achche se pakadiye.”
[“No problem. Hold on properly.”]
I hum in acknowledgment, tightening my grip slightly on his shoulder as he hands me the spare helmet. I slide it over my wrapped shawl, clicking the strap under my chin, while he pulls his own helmet on and settles it in place.
He kicks the stand up, turns the key, and the engine rumbles to life with a steady purr. With a smooth release of the clutch, the motorcycle glides forward onto the tarmac, the tiny wheels of my trolley bag rolling along obediently behind us down the winding Jammu slopes.
Tring, tring.
My phone buzzes against my palm inside the deep pocket of his leather jacket. Only 5% battery left now.
I tap the screen to accept the call—it’s Preet, my co-assistant for this week’s documentary shoot.
“Jas! Kithe reh gayi tu?”
[“Jas! Where are you left behind?”]
I huff loudly into the mic over the rushing wind, “Badi jaldi yaad aa gayi meri?”
[“You remembered me pretty quick, huh?”]
“Arey yaar, raste vich tyre di hawa nikal gayi! Khaayi vich digde-digde bachi aa!”
[“Oh friend, the tire went flat on the way! I was about to tumble into the gorge!”]
I gasp playfully, “Waheguru... dig kyu nahi gayi?”
[“God... why didn't you just fall?”]
“Aake vekh, fir teri class lani aa main!” Preet snaps back with fake outrage.
[“Just get here, then I'll teach you a lesson!”]
I laugh softly under the helmet, the vibration buzzing against my jaw. “Chhad hunn, serious ho ja. Hotel pohanch gayi tu?”
[“Leave it now, get serious. Did you reach the hotel?”]
“Haan ji, addhe ghante pehle hi pohanchi aan,” she replies, the background noise of lobby chatter filtering through the call. “Tu kadon aa rahi hai?”
[“Yes, reached half an hour ago. When are you coming?”]
“Bas pohanch gayi!” I yell over the rushing air as the bike speeds up along the winding slope. “Ek bande ne lift ditti ae.”
[“Almost there! A guy gave me a lift.”]
“Banda?! Theek taan hai na tu?” she questions, her voice pitching up with sudden worry.
[“A guy?! Are you alright?”]
“Haan, bilkul sahi salaamat aan. Theek-thaak hi hai banda... bas thoda aakdu ae, te lakdi de khambe warga lagda.”
[“Yeah, completely safe and sound. The guy is alright... just a bit stuck-up, and looks like a wooden pillar.”]
Preet bursts out laughing on the other end. “Arey, haule bol! Sun lavega!”
[“Hey, speak softly! He’ll hear you!”]
“Na ji, Punjabi nahi lagda mainu,” I dismiss breezily, tapping my fingers against his back.
[“Nah, he doesn’t look Punjabi to me.”]
“Chal theek ae, oh sab chhad te chheti aa.”
[“Fine, leave all that and get here quickly.”]
“Aa gayi bas!”
[“I’m practically there!”]
The screen flashes red once and goes pitch black. The call cuts off, and my battery finally dies.
चाहे कोई मुझे जंगली कहे—
The vintage track keeps buzzing merrily from the handlebar console. I let out an exasperated groan behind my visor.
“Aap yeh gaana band karenge? Mujhe ghutan ho rahi hai.”
[“Will you please turn this song off? I'm suffocating.”]
He tilts his helmet back just an inch to shoot me a brief, unreadable sideways glance. Without uttering a single word of protest, he reaches forward with a gloved thumb and clicks the music system completely off.
Finally, after several winding turns, the heavy bike rolls to a halt in front of a warm, wooden-paneled building with a misty front lawn. A rustic wooden signboard nestled among the pine trees reads: Hotel Pine Crest.
I hop off quickly, unstrapping the helmet and shaking out my hair. “Shukriya aapka! Aapke bina toh main ab tak barf ban chuki hoti.”
[“Thank you! Without you, I would have turned into a block of ice by now.”]
He simply gives a low, unbothered hum, swinging his long leg off the motorcycle. While I scramble through my bag to fish out my ID cards, documents, and press clearance, he unbuckles my heavy trolley suitcase from the rear mount with effortless ease and wheels it inside the glass entrance for me.
I march straight up to the front counter and slap my documents onto the desk.
The receptionist looks up, adjusting her glasses as she reads the paperwork. “Achcha... toh aap hain Jasleen Kaur Rangi. Aap ne toh subah-subah humein pareshan hi kar diya tha,” she sighs, shaking her head.
[“Ah... so you are Jasleen Kaur Rangi. You really troubled us early this morning.”]
“Waise kahan hai aapki rescue team?” I lean over the counter, pointing an accusing finger at her. “Har cheez ki khabar rakhungi main! Aapke hotel ki reputation customers ke haath mein hoti hai.”
[“By the way, where is your rescue team? I'm keeping track of everything! Your hotel's reputation is in the hands of customers.”]
The receptionist casually rolls her eyes, ignoring my righteous rant completely as she slides an electronic keycard across the polished counter. “Third floor, Room 5.”
I snatch the keycard.
Just as I turn around, the receptionist's eyes go wide with absolute reverence, her bored demeanor vanishing in an instant.
“Arey, Rauf Sir! Aap? Aap bhi yahin ruk rahe hain?”
[“Oh, Rauf Sir! You? Are you staying here as well?”]
I stop dead in my tracks.
Sir...?
He stands by the lobby pillar, holding his helmet under his arm, shaking his head calmly. “Ji nahi, bas inki madad kar raha tha.”
[“No, I was just helping her out.”]
“Yeh lo! Inhone aapko bhi pareshan karke rakh diya?” The receptionist casts a judgmental glare in my direction.
[“Look at that! Did she trouble you as well?”]
How dare she—
“Usse aapka koi lena-dena nahi,” his voice drops—low, sharp, and commanding enough to instantly freeze the room. “Apne kam pe dhyan dijiye.”
[“That has nothing to do with you. Focus on your work.”]
The receptionist shrinks back, her face falling as she immediately rings the brass bell to call a bellboy for my luggage.
I stand frozen between them—confused, angry, and utterly baffled all at the same time. “Rauf... Sir?” I mutter, looking him up and down.
[“Rauf... Sir?”]
The receptionist leans in, speaking in a hushed, impressed whisper: “Arey, aap inhein nahi jaanti? Rauf Farooqi. Northern sector mein naye recruits ko field training dete hain. R&AW ke officer hain.”
[“Don't you know him? He trains the new recruits in the Northern sector. He's a R&AW officer.”]
WHAT.
My jaw physically drops. My eyes widen into saucers.
An elite intelligence operative. A senior combat instructor.
“Bas, bohot ho gaya,” he cuts in quietly, his deep voice slicing through her explanation. “Itni jaankari dene ki zarurat nahi.” He turns those calm, piercing eyes directly onto me. “Thak gayi aen? Apne kamre vich jaa ke aaram farmao.”
[“Enough, that's plenty. There's no need to give out this much information. Tired? Go to your room and rest.”]
THE.
“Tussi Punjabi bolde ho?!” I shriek, taking a sudden, panicked step closer to him. “Kitthon de ho tussi? Amritsar? Patiala?”
[“You speak Punjabi?! Where are you from? Amritsar? Patiala?”]
A slow, devastating smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. He tilts his head, his dark eyes sparkling with wicked amusement.
“Hunn jaan ke ki karengi? Main taan lakdi da khamba haan.”
[“What will you do knowing now? After all, I'm just a wooden pillar.”]
FUCK.
Ghum nahi tha.
Dumb nahi tha.
He heard every single word I said on that call.
“Oh... roopak si! Metaphor!” I quickly blabber, gesturing wildly with my hands. “Aiddan chauda seena te modhe! Uncha-lamba kadd! Main taan tareef kar rahi si!”
[“That... was a metaphor! Such a broad chest and shoulders! Such tall height! I was actually complimenting you!”]
He raises a single eyebrow, his gaze deadpan and razor-sharp. “Te ‘aakdu’ kehda roopak hunda ae?”
[“And what kind of metaphor is ‘stuck-up’?”]
I squeeze my eyes shut. God, please open the floorboards and swallow me whole.
“Jas! Tu aa gayi!” Preet’s loud, cheery voice cuts through the lobby as she jogs over and grabs my arm. “Saaman tere kamre vich rakhwa ditta ae. Chal, aaja, bohot kam paya ae! Pehla thoda aaram kar le.”
[“Jas! You're here! I had your luggage sent up to your room. Come on, we have a ton of work to do! Get some rest first.”]
I take a relieved step toward the elevators, ready to escape—
“Meri jacket vich saun da iraada ae?” his voice calls out from behind us.
[“Do you intend to sleep in my jacket?”]
Oh, shit.
My face burns all over again. I quickly slide the heavy leather jacket off my shoulders, the biting hotel lobby chill hitting my skin the second it leaves me. I hand it back with frantic apologies, and he takes it smoothly, slipping his long arms through the sleeves.
Preet notices him standing there, immediately stepping in front of me like an aggressive bodyguard.
“Oye bhaisahab! Manna sohni kudi ae, par aiddan ghooro na haan! Apne kam te wapas jao!” Preet barks, waving him off.
[“Hey mister! Agreed she’s a pretty girl, but don't stare like that, okay! Go back to your work!”]
“Mat bol...” I hiss under my breath, frantically pulling at the hem of her kurta, but she doesn't listen.
[“Don't speak...”]
“Arey darr na, main haan na!” Preet shushes me loudly, turning back to glare at the elite officer. “Haan, te hunn wapas jao! Koi number-shumber nahi milna etthe!”
[“Don't be scared, I'm here! Yes, so now go back! You're not getting any phone number here!”]
I let out an exhausted sigh.
Rauf squints his dark eyes at Preet, utterly unimpressed by her protective lecture.
“Chahida vi nahi,” he mutters dryly.
[“Don't want it anyway.”]
Without another word, he turns on his heel and strides calmly out of the glass doors into the misty morning.
Good. Save me from this nuclear-level embarrassment.
MAIN TAAN GAYI.
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