Chapter 2: BROKE LIKE GLASS
Aryan Goenka stepped out of his sleek car and onto the polished glass facade of D&D Couture. He was already running late for a crucial meeting, and Durga Thakur’s absence only added to his irritation.
“Mr. Goenka, welcome to D&D Couture. May I help you?” the receptionist asked, her smile practiced.
“I’m here for a meeting with Durga Thakur,” Aryan replied curtly. “Where is she?”
The receptionist hesitated. “Ma’am is currently not available at the premises.”
Aryan’s temper flickered. “Not available? I was informed she would be here.”
Before the receptionist could respond, Aryan’s phone vibrated. He excused himself and stepped outside.
“Viraj, what’s going on?” Aryan asked, his voice low.
“Durga Thakur didn’t show up,” Viraj replied, his tone sharp. “Find out what’s going on.”
Aryan’s irritation simmered as he ended the call.
Later, at a luxury club, Aryan’s anger boiled over when a friend mocked Viraj. “Are bhai, tera Viraj bhai toh na bas ek over-smart businessman hai.”
Aryan’s rage exploded. He slammed his fist onto the table, making glasses shatter. “How dare you?!” he roared.
In a swift motion, Aryan grabbed the friend’s collar and dragged him across the table. The friend stumbled, trying to break free, but Aryan’s grip was unyielding.
Aryan’s fists rained down mercilessly. The friend’s cries echoed through the club as Aryan punched him repeatedly.
The sound of shattering glass and the friend’s pleas for mercy filled the air. Aryan’s eyes blazed with fury, his face twisted in a snarl.
Viraj intervened, his voice icy. “Shor machaane ki zarurat nahi. Tumhare jaise log bas mooh chalana jaante hain.”
He pinned the man to the ground. “Next time, zubaan sambhal ke.”
Aryan’s chest heaved as he stood back, his knuckles bloodied.
Viraj turned to Aryan. “Acha hua main time pe aa gaya. Tum toh murder kar dete.”
Aryan scoffed, still fuming. “Usne mere bhai ke baare mein bakwas ki thi.”
Viraj’s lips curled slightly. “I know. But a Goenka doesn’t lose control like this. Samjha?”
Aryan exhaled sharply but nodded reluctantly.
At the Thakur residence, Durga navigated an awkward meeting with a potential suitor and his family.
The suitor’s father boasted, “Amar chhele bhalo chhele Durga-r shathe sundor life thakbe.”
Durga’s mother-in-law, Suman, smiled politely. “Durga apne kaam mein bohot acchi hai… Humara parivar kaafi modern hai.”
The aunt asked Durga, “So, Durga beti, tumhare cooking skills kaise hain?”
Durga replied firmly, “Main ek art curator hoon aur business handle karti hoon.”
The suitor attempted to salvage the situation. “I like independent women, Durga. But I believe family should always be the first priority.”
Durga’s lips curved into a polite smile. “Balance is important. Par ek aurat ka sapna sirf kitchen tak seemit nahi hona chahiye.”
As silence blanketed the room, Mr. Thakur cleared his throat, diverting the topic to lighter matters.
Durga’s gaze flickered briefly toward the window, her mind elsewhere. Marriage had become nothing but a strategic game for alliances.
She knew this wasn’t about love or companionship—it was business wrapped in tradition.
The clock ticked audibly, yet Durga’s thoughts raced faster. Another game, another player, but Durga Thakur always played to win.
In the opulently adorned Thakur residence, a carefully orchestrated charade was unfolding. Durga, draped in a rich red saree, exuded a quiet grace that masked the turmoil within. Across from her sat Rohan Sen, an arrogant suitor whose lack of decorum and dismissive attitude grated on her nerves. His mother, Mrs. Sen, eyed the house critically, making snide remarks about its old-fashioned charm.
Durga, with effortless poise, responded with veiled sharpness, reminding them that age only enhances authenticity. When Rohan smugly implied that he preferred women who prioritized family over careers, Durga met his arrogance head-on, subtly dismantling his overconfidence. The atmosphere turned even more charged when she casually brought up their business struggles, leaving the Sen family visibly uncomfortable.
Then came the final blow. With a calculated smile, Durga revealed her full name—Durga Dev Thakur—the widow of Dev Thakur. The revelation sent shockwaves through the room, leaving the Sens flustered and scrambling for an exit. As they departed, humiliated, Anirban whispered with amusement, “Mission accomplished,” acknowledging Durga’s masterstroke.
Yet, as the guests left, the weight of reality bore down on Durga. Her aunt’s cutting words—dismissing Dev as a mere memory—stung deeply. Rage and grief twisted inside her as she defiantly declared that Dev lived within her, in every breath she took. The confrontation left the room in stunned silence, but Durga had no interest in lingering.
Back in her room, the bottled-up storm within her erupted. Her reflection in the mirror mocked her—wrapped in the red saree Dev had loved, looking every bit the woman society wanted to break. In a moment of raw anguish, she let out a heart-wrenching scream, sweeping everything off her dressing table. Perfume bottles shattered, jewelry scattered, and glass shards littered the floor, mirroring the wreckage inside her. As her hand struck the debris, pain flared—her palm now streaked with crimson.
The door burst open, and Anirban rushed in, alarmed. Seeing her wounded and trembling, he didn’t hesitate—he knelt beside her, wrapping his arms around her in a comforting embrace. “Di, aapko jeetna hai, tootna nahi,” he murmured firmly.
Tara soon arrived, her face pale with worry. She quickly fetched the first-aid kit as Anirban held Durga steady. Together, they cleaned and bandaged her wounded hand, all while Durga sat in silence, her emotions raw.
Their mother-in-law, Suman Thakur, soon entered, her frail frame trembling at the sight of Durga’s distress. With gentle yet firm reassurance, she reminded Durga that Dev would always live on through her. Overcome with emotion, Durga clung to her, allowing herself to grieve, to feel.
But grief wouldn’t consume her.
Later, in the solitude of her bathroom, Durga sought refuge in warm water, hoping it would wash away the night’s turmoil. Instead, memories of Dev flooded her—his voice, his touch, his promise that red was her color, a symbol of her fire. As grief turned into anger, she clenched her fists, vowing not to let anyone erase him.
Tears mixed with bathwater as she whispered brokenly, “Dev… kyun?”
But Durga Thakur was not meant to drown in sorrow.
As the water stilled around her, so did her breath. Her reflection no longer mocked her—it reminded her of who she was. She would rise, stronger and more dangerous than ever.
And this time, the world wouldn’t see a grieving widow.
They would see Durga Dev Thakur, unbreakable.
Tara gently cupped Durga’s face, her voice calm yet firm. “Didi, don’t worry. I’ll take care of everything. You just freshen up, hmm?” She gave a reassuring smile, hiding the concern in her eyes as she glanced at the blood still oozing from Durga’s hand.
Durga, still shaken but composed enough to nod, walked toward her room, leaving behind a worried Tara and Anirban. As Durga entered the bathroom, the cool marble floor pressed against her feet, contrasting the heat of her swirling emotions. The sound of water filling the tub echoed through the room.
She took a deep breath, stripping herself of the broken fragments of that suffocating evening—the spoiled makeup, torn clothing, and shattered pride. Stepping into the warm water, Durga closed her eyes, hoping for some solace. But instead, memories surged like a flood, pulling her back into the past.
A flashback revealed Dev’s laughter echoing through her mind, vivid and heartwarming. He twirled her around, his eyes gleaming with admiration. “Tumhe pata hai, Durga?” he whispered as he gently tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “Laal rang tum par kaise rehta hai… bilkul shama ki tarah. Jise dekhne ke liye log jalne ko tayar ho jaayein.”
Blushing, she playfully pushed him away. “Bas bas, zyada mat badhao.” But he pulled her closer, his voice turning serious, “Promise me, no matter what happens, tum yeh rang kabhi nahi chhodogi. Yeh rang tumhare honth, tumhare chehre, aur tumhari rooh ko zinda rakhta hai.”
The memory shattered as Durga’s fists clenched, water splashing around her. Tears mingled with the bathwater, blurring her vision. The weight of betrayal, heartbreak, and loss pressed down on her.
In a fit of anguish, Durga screamed, her voice raw and echoing within the tiled walls. Her hands trembled as she slammed them against the edge of the tub. Glass perfume bottles and cosmetics littered across the vanity earlier flashed through her mind, remnants of the chaos she had left behind.
She sobbed uncontrollably, water slipping through her fingers as if trying to catch her slipping life. “Dev… kyun?” she whispered hoarsely, the pain unbearable.
As she tried to steady her breaths, the weight of sorrow lingered, but determination slowly crept back into her heart. Durga Thakur was no weakling. If fate thought it could drown her, she would rise—stronger, fiercer.
The flashback dissolved, leaving Durga trembling but slowly regaining her composure.
Durga vividly remembered entering Dev’s ancestral mansion after their wedding. Her nervous fingers clutched her vibrant red bridal saree. Every step echoed her hesitation.
The flashback begins with vibrant colors, flower garlands, and a crowd of family members. Durga, in a heavy red bridal saree, kept her gaze lowered as Dev led her in. He was calm, composed, and gentle.
That night, Durga sat nervously on the elaborately decorated bed. Dev entered, dressed in a simple white kurta, radiating warmth. “Kya tumhe lagta hai main kisi horror film ka villain hoon?” (Do I look like a horror movie villain?) he teased.
Durga blinked, laughing nervously. Dev pulled out a Ludo board. “Ludo kheloge?” (Wanna play Ludo?) he asked playfully.
As they played, their laughter echoed, dissolving barriers. Dev’s gentle care melted Durga’s initial hesitation.
As their embrace deepened, Dev’s touch remained tender, guiding Durga into intimacy and trust. The flickering oil lamp danced in rhythm with their breaths.
Outside, the moon glowed, a silent witness to their blossoming relationship. As night gave way to dawn, the silver orb transformed into the blazing sun.
Years passed, and the scene shifted to a bustling morning. Dev stood before the mirror, adjusting his tie. “Durga! Kothay gele?” (Durga! Where did you go?) he called out cheerfully.
Durga entered with a silver bowl of dahi-shakkar. “Itna shor kyun macha rahe ho?” (Why so much noise?) she teased.
Dev grinned. “New job ke pehle toh yeh shagun zaroori hai.” (This ritual is important before starting a new job.)
Durga raised an eyebrow. “Shagun ke bina toh tum gaye toh office ke darwaze bhi khulenge ki nahi?” (Will the office doors even open without this ritual?)
As she fed him curd, Dev chuckled. “Ei ki korle?” (What did you do?)
“Extra good luck diye dilam,” (Gave you extra good luck) she laughed.
Dev shook his head. “Tumi thakle amar kono tension nei.” (As long as you’re here, I have no worries.)
Durga’s smile faltered, an inexplicable unease settling in. “Bhalo kore jao,” (Do well) she said softly.
As Dev left, Durga watched, pride flickering in her eyes. Yet, beneath the surface, a gnawing sense of foreboding lurked.
Durga returned home, humming a soft tune as she balanced the beautifully crafted cake box in her hands. The soft glow of the house’s fairy lights glimmered through the trees, creating a picturesque view. A smile stretched across her lips as she imagined Dev’s reaction.
She pushed open the front gate, her brows furrowing slightly when she noticed something strange—no sounds of laughter or footsteps. Earlier, the house had been bustling with excitement, filled with chatter and preparations. But now, an unsettling silence loomed.
“Yeh sab kahaan chale gaye?” she murmured, puzzled.
Stepping inside, she looked around the eerily quiet living room. The decorations were still intact, flowers adorning the walls and fairy lights blinking lazily. The scent of freshly arranged roses lingered in the air, but not a single person was in sight.
“Tara? Maa? Baba?” Durga called out, her voice echoing through the empty space.
No response.
She placed the cake carefully on the dining table, her heart beginning to race with unease.
“Kya koi bahar gaya hai? Lekin bina bataye?” she wondered aloud, trying to make sense of the situation.
Her eyes darted toward the front door, hoping someone would walk in and explain this strange disappearance.
Anxiety gnawed at her as she walked through the house, checking room after room.
Durga’s steps faltered as dread crept into her veins.
Why would they all leave without a word? Where could they have gone?
The cheerful anticipation she had felt just moments ago faded into a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.
The cake box sat on the table like a mocking reminder of the happiness she had been so eager to share.
Durga swallowed hard, trying to suppress the growing lump in her throat.
“Yeh sab kya ho raha hai?” she whispered, a sense of foreboding tightening around her heart.
Little did she know, her world was about to be turned upside down.
The joy she had been holding onto so tightly was slipping through her fingers, replaced by an unspeakable tragedy waiting to unfold.
Durga’s heart raced as she wandered through the empty house, the eerie silence unsettling her more with each passing second.
Her gaze kept flickering toward the decorated living room and the untouched cake on the table.
Something was wrong—terribly wrong.
Suddenly, the shrill ring of the landline shattered the suffocating stillness.
Durga jumped, her breath hitching.
She hesitated for a moment before picking up the receiver, her hand trembling slightly.
“Hello?” she said, her voice tentative.
The person on the other end didn’t waste a second.
A panicked, breathless voice exploded through the line.
“Run! Bas wahan se bhaag jao, abhi ke abhi! Jaldi!”
Durga’s blood ran cold.
“K-kya? Kaun ho aap? Kya ho raha hai?” she stammered, fear gripping her.
“Samajhne ka waqt nahi hai, Durga ji!” the man shouted urgently.
“Tumhare ghar ke aaspaas khatra hai. Bhaago, abhi ke abhi! Just RUN!”
The line abruptly went dead.
Durga stood frozen, the receiver slipping from her fingers with a thud.
Her chest heaved as panic clawed at her throat.
Who was that man? What danger was lurking around her home?
Adrenaline surged through her body, breaking the spell of shock.
Durga’s instincts kicked in.
She rushed toward the front door, her heart pounding furiously.
What danger? What had happened? Questions flooded her mind, but there was no time for answers.
She knew only one thing—she had to get out of there, fast.
As Durga rushed toward the front door, her heart racing with every step, she felt a sense of dread wash over her. She flung open the door, and a chill ran down her spine. The street was deserted, the only sound being the distant hum of a car engine.
Suddenly, a hand clamped over her mouth, silencing her scream. Durga struggled, but a strong arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her back into the house.
“Shh, Durga,” a menacing voice whispered in her ear. “You’re not going anywhere.”
Durga’s eyes widened in terror as she was dragged back into the house. She kicked and struggled, but her attacker was too strong.
As she was pulled into the living room, Durga saw a group of men, their faces twisted with cruel intent. They closed in on her, their eyes gleaming with malice.
Durga’s heart sank, and she felt a wave of fear wash over her. She was trapped, and she knew she had to think fast if she wanted to survive.
The men began to circle around her, their movements menacing. Durga’s eyes darted around the room, searching for an escape route.
But before she could make a move, one of the men lunged at her, his fist clenched. Durga raised her hands to defend herself, but the blow struck her with brutal force.
She stumbled back, her head spinning. The men closed in, their blows raining down on her. Durga tried to protect herself, but they were too strong.
As the beating continued, Durga felt a searing pain in her abdomen. She knew she was bleeding, and her heart sank.
Her baby. Oh God, her baby.
The men’s laughter echoed through the room, their cruel jeers cutting through Durga’s screams. She was trapped, and she knew she was running out of time.
Just when it seemed like all was lost, Durga heard a loud crash from the kitchen. The men paused, their heads turning toward the sound.
Durga took advantage of the distraction. With a surge of adrenaline, she pushed herself off the floor and made a run for the door.
She flung it open and sprinted out into the night, the men’s shouts and laughter echoing behind her. Durga didn’t dare look back, fearing what she might see.
She kept running, her heart pounding in her chest. She didn’t know where she was going, but she knew she had to get away.
As she ran, Durga felt a warm sensation spreading down her legs. She knew she was still bleeding, and her heart sank.
Her baby. Oh God, her baby.
Durga’s vision began to blur, and she stumbled. She fell to the ground, her body wracked with pain.
As she lay there, Durga knew she was losing consciousness. She thought of Dev, and her heart ached.
She thought of her baby, and her eyes filled with tears.
And then, everything went black.
I get it—you want a smooth transition from the emotional breakdown to Durga being alone in her room, lost in memories, before she gets that mysterious call. Let me refine it and connect everything seamlessly.
Tara sat beside Durga for hours, holding her hand, whispering soft reassurances, but Durga remained silent. The storm had passed, leaving behind only emptiness. No more tears. No more screams. Just a hollow silence that stretched between them.
Eventually, Tara left, pressing a soft kiss to Durga’s forehead before stepping out of the room, leaving her alone with her grief.
Durga lay back against the pillows, her fingers absently tracing the edges of Dev’s photograph beside her. The room felt suffocating, memories pressing down on her like an unbearable weight. The scent of antiseptic still lingered in her nose, a cruel reminder of that day. The day she lost everything.
Her hands curled into fists as she shut her eyes.
Dev’s laughter echoed in her ears. His touch, his warmth, the way he whispered her name like a prayer—gone.
Her baby’s heartbeat—gone.
A choked breath escaped her lips. “Kyun…?” she whispered into the emptiness. “Kyun sab cheen liya mujhse?” (Why…? Why was everything taken from me?)
Just then, in another flashback, her phone buzzed against the bedside table, the sudden vibration cutting through the silence.
Her brows furrowed. An unknown number.
A strange unease crawled up her spine, but she picked up. “Kaun hai?” (Who is this?)
A deep, distorted voice echoed through the receiver, slow and deliberate. “Bohot saal ho gaye, Durga Dev Thakur… par tumhari kahani abhi khatam nahi hui.” (It’s been years, Durga Dev Thakur… but your story isn’t over yet.)
Her grip tightened around the phone. “Tum kaun ho?” she demanded, her voice laced with both fear and fury.
A low chuckle. “Sach chahiyena tumhe? Toh suno… Dev ki maut sirf ek haadsa nahi tha.” (You want the truth, don’t you? Then listen… Dev’s death wasn’t just an accident.)
Durga’s breath caught in her throat. “Kya bakwas kar rahe ho?” (What nonsense are you talking about?
The voice continued, calm and taunting. “Jo dikh raha tha, woh sach nahi tha, Durga… Aur tum jitna kareeb jaogi, utni sachayi tumhe jala degi.” (What you saw wasn’t the truth, Durga… And the closer you get, the more the truth will burn you.)
A chill ran down her spine. She shot up from the bed, her pulse hammering in her ears. “Tumhe mere aur Dev ke baare mein itna sab kuch kaise pata hai?” (How do you know so much about me and Dev?)
A pause. Then, in a whisper—”Main hamesha dekhta raha hoon, Durga… ab tum bhi dekhna shuru karo.” (I’ve always been watching, Durga… now it’s time for you to start watching too.)
Before she could say another word, the line went dead.
A heavy silence filled the room. Durga’s fingers curled around the phone, her knuckles turning white. The air felt charged, like the calm before a storm.
Her grief had left her shattered. But now, something new flickered in her eyes—rage.
If Dev’s death wasn’t an accident… then it was murder.
And Durga Dev Thakur was going to find out the truth—no matter what it cost her.
