AUTHOR'S POV
|National Law University,Bhopal |
The campus courtyard was unrecognizable.
Strings of marigold and fairy lights coiled around the iron railings, student volunteers flitted in bright college tees, and the hum of microphones echoed through the lawn where chairs and stage had been set up. Banners flapped lazily in the wind:
“Symbiosis of Minds: Inter-College Cultural Fest 20XX”
Law | Medicine | Arts ~ Collide, Create, Conquer.
Kaushiki stood draped in a simple blue saree, mascara deepening her lashes and a warm brown tint gracing her lips yet, in that quiet grace, she looked no less than an enchantress while standing near the backstage tent, arms folded, expression unreadable as the organizer handed her the final debate list.
She wasn’t one for festivals.
Not really. Too many people pretending. Too much noise, too much forced cheer.
But debates? That was her arena. It was the one place where no background, no skin tone, no history could interrupt logic.
Her name was on the list for the upcoming legal speech event.
Despite the noise, she remained collected, her long lashes lowered over eyes sharp as blades, thick brows slightly furrowed.
Behind her, the murmurs grew.
"Isn’t that Kaushiki Jaiswal from Bhopal Institute? The girl who destroyed a senior in the last debate round?"
“Yeah, and also I heard she fought with some girls on the first day of her college. Like who does that".
"Looks sweet until she opens her mouth," a girl in mustard kurta chuckled to her friend.
Kaushiki heard it all and rolled her eyes mentally for not knowing the whole matter and still having the audacity to judge her.
If they thought she was sugar and spice, they were still in for a rude awakening.
Suddenly, the clack of boots echoed sharply behind her.
Taraksha. Wearing a monochrome saree with combat boots and zero subtlety. As if declaring a war.
Her thick curls tied into a sleek braid, eyes fierce, mouth already curled with mockery.
"Trying to warm the mic with your aura before speaking?" Taraksha smirked, standing next to her. “Or just rehearsing your 'emotionally damaged girl' story again?"
Kaushiki tilted her chin slightly. “Better than staging power with volume. You might want to try it. It's surprisingly effective. Oops but you won’t understand that would you?”
“Oh, sweetheart,” Taraksha chuckled darkly, “Keep your therapy lines for the ones who need healing. I'm here to win, not cry.”
“Good,” Kaushiki replied smoothly. “Because I don’t offer healing to the ones who are undeserving. And we will see who will cry and who will win.”
She scanned the list.
“Impromptu Round — Final Pair: Kaushiki Jaiswal (Law) vs Taraksha Verma (Law)”
Topic: ‘Intentions or Outcomes — What truly defines morality?’
Kaushiki let out a slow breath, lips twitching at the corners.
Of course. Fate had a sense of humor.
She turned , to move towards the stage. Followed close behind by Taraksha.
◇◇◇
On The Stage.
The host was already building it up “Two of Bhopal Law’s most promising students, both known for their fierce perspectives ” and Kaushiki hated that she could feel the energy changing.
Eyes turning. Attention narrowing. Some hoping for drama. Some just wanting a good show.
And Taraksha smiled that sharp, knowing, blade-of-glass smile before taking the left podium.
Kaushiki simply replied with her overly sweet sarcastic smile and took the right podium.
The host flipped a coin. “Kaushiki speaks for intentions, Taraksha for outcomes. Two minutes each. Followed by rebuttals.”
Kaushiki’s hand closed briefly around the podium. Not in nervousness. In focus.
Then she looked up, met Taraksha’s eyes once steady and began.
Kaushiki’s Speech:
“Intentions are the roots from which all outcomes grow. Even poison can come wrapped in results that seem beneficial. But does that make it moral?”
Her voice was calm, deliberate. She didn’t perform. She didn’t raise her voice. But the silence that slowly fell over the crowd was louder than applause.
“A soldier shoots. A doctor amputates. A judge punishes. The outcomes may appear harsh. But the morality lies in why they do it. In what they aim to heal, to protect, to prevent.”
She paused, letting her gaze scan the audience and for a second, it lingered on a girl seated in the second row, sketchbook open on her lap,charcoal staining her fingers.
She sat alone, Her features were delicate skin pale like fresh canvas, hair tucked behind one ear.
But it was her eyes green like ancient moss, deep and still that made her presence quietly magnetic.
She tilted her head, capturing Kaushiki’s stance with a few fluid strokes.
Interesting, Kaushiki noted.
She looked back ahead.
“If we strip morality from intention, we reduce it to results something manipulable, corruptible. That’s not ethics. That’s performance.”
Silence. One second. Two. Then nods, murmurs. Not cheers but something better. Respect. And then slow sounds but unmistakably sounds of applause.
Taraksha’s rebuttal was immediate.
“And yet, intentions are the easiest lies we tell ourselves.”
Her voice rang out sharp, confident, expressive.
Kaushiki spoke with composed calm, while Taraksha’s voice, in contrast, was edged with agitation and heat.
“A tyrant may believe they’re cleansing the system. A criminal might think they’re avenging justice. Intentions are convenient illusions. Outcomes are truth.”
She moved a step forward.
“What we do what we leave behind not what we meant to do defines who we are. Ask the victim of a failed surgery if intentions matter. Ask the child left orphaned by a ‘mistaken’ war strike.”
The audience was eating it up. Some started clapping mid-way.
Kaushiki didn’t flinch. Her fingers traced the wood of the podium slowly, eyes unreadable.
The debate wrapped with rebuttals crisp, sharp, emotionally charged.
But the real battle was in the silences between them.
Taraksha narrowed her eyes, as if she could slice Kaushiki open with nothing but her glare.
Kaushiki, unflinching, met her gaze head on equally fierce, equally unyielding.
When it ended, the audience erupted. Not for a winner they couldn’t pick one. But for the tension. For the duel.
Off-stage.
As she descended the steps, still carrying the echo of her words, Taraksha’s slow clap broke through.
"Impressive. Almost made me feel something. Almost."
“Thanks goddess then but I wouldn’t dare hope for that miracle, especially when it’s you we are talking about” Kaushiki replied, walking past her.
From behind the art stall, the green-eyed girl tucked the sketch into her bag. No one noticed her leave quietly a ghost in sunlight. But Kaushiki did maybe because of her Simplicity or her grace she didn’t know that yet.
Later, in a corner near the refreshments,
Two junior girls whispered:
"Who was that girl sketching? New?"
“Fine arts student, I think. She’s from the Arts college across the city. Heard her name’s Ira... something.”
“Ira,” the other girl repeated softly.
“Pretty name. Kinda suits her. She looked like a painting.”
"Yeah,but i think she is kind of arrogant, never really talks to anyone"
"Maybe, maybe not who knows"
Kaushiki heard this conversation but she wasn’t sure who they were talking about, but she was sure of one thing that people immediately judge a person without even knowing them properly.
◇◇◇◇
Kiyansh’s Office, New York | Late Afternoon|
The Manhattan skyline shimmered behind the floor-to-ceiling windows of the executive suite.
The atmosphere inside was as always
Cold. Impeccable. Silent.
Kiyansh Singh Rathore stood with his back to the room, sleeves rolled, one hand resting in his pocket, the other holding a crystal glass of untouched bourbon.
His expression was unreadable, eyes fixed on the distant city, jaw tight with a kind of habitual restraint.
His assistant, Aryash, entered quietly, tablet in hand, familiar with the silence that lingered between words in this space.
Aryash started speaking carefully.
"Sir, there’s an invite from the Gualtieri Foundation. It’s a closed-door diplomatic and investor event Genova, Switzerland. Three days from now."
No response. Kiyansh didn’t even turn.
Aryash again added after a beat.
"The Vice President of Omega Holdings will be there. So will the Interior Minister of France. They're expecting high-level contributions on private equity in post-conflict reconstruction zones."
Still nothing.
Aryash was now hesitant in proceeding further but he still continued.
"I’ve tentatively declined your presence, as usual, unless you’d like me to—"
Kiyansh said cutting in, his voice like a knife.
"Who else is on the speaker list?"
That caught Aryash off-guard. He blinked.
"Uh… local heads of state, some royal families, private envoys from Europe, Middle East, a few..."
Kiyansh asked sharply.
"Anyone from the Kapoors?"
Aryash hesitated, subtly thrown off by the mention.
"Not on the official list boss. But there is... a possibility. Harshvardhan sir is invited through the Italian diplomatic corridor. They haven't confirmed."
Kiyansh exhaled slowly, as if contemplating.
He turned finally, walked back to his desk, and placed the untouched glass down with a soft but final thud.
"Book it."
Aryash asked slitly surprised.
"Boss,Genova?"
Kiyansh didn’t answer verbally simply gave a nod. Then he sat at his chair and picked up the next file as if nothing changed.
☆☆☆☆
Three days later
Geneva, Switzerland - International Business Summit.
A highly restricted event for billion-dollar mergers, political-economic negotiations, and secretive elite networks.
Everyone who is someone is here.
Everyone... except him -until now.
The room was thick with power. The kind that whispered in closed doors and smelled like old n money.
Beneath the glass chandeliers and golden crests, world leaders, tycoons, tech giants, and diplomats gathered
murmuring about the one name that never showed.
"He won't come."
"He never does.it's just branding."
"Even if he does, who would know?"
The moderator on stage clears his throat, visibly sweating.
"And now, joining us for the final deliberation on the Eastern Corridor merge, the one whose presence itself alters stock markets-"
The heavy doors creak open.
Silence drops.
Footsteps echo. Slow. Measured. Unhurried.He steps in.
Tall. 6'6". Broad-shouldered. Black tailored coat brushing his knees.
Face mostly obscured by a charcoal neck gaiter, wrapped like a second skin.
Eyes hidden behind matte brown-tinted lenses entered
Kiyansh Singh Rathore.
The silent destruction. Of the buisness world.
The air shifts in the hall and each and every person present there could feel it.
The man who doesn't attend press conferences - because he doesn't need to. The man with a aura so strong could be felt from miles away.
The man who hadn’t given an interview in a decade—yet whose name could move a billion dollars in seconds. People rose to their feet without knowing why; perhaps it was the weight of his presence, impossible to ignore, impossible to resist.
The German chancellor stops speaking mid-sentence.
The head of world's most powerful holding company steps aside.
One of the guards lowers his gun purely instinct.
He walks past them all. Straight to the seat at the far head of the table. The one meant for someone who didn't come.
He sits down. Without asking.
Because it's his now.
The moderator clears his throat again, unsure.
"Uh...Mr. Rathore....we-"
"Proceed" comes the voice.
Muffled by the gaiter. Calm. Baritone. But the room flinches like a whip cracked.
He doesn't Speak again. Doesn't need to.
One by one, the CEOs, diplomats, foreign ministers.... etc begin speaking, adjusting, correcting.
Every eye remains on him. Every sentence, aimed to please.
He doesn't respond. He watches.
Calculating. Deciding.
They say you can tell king by the way a room bends when he enters.
That wasn’t a bend
This was pure submission.
Harshvardhan arrived a beat later, smirk tugging at his lips.
“I didn’t think you’d show up. Anything special?”
Kiyansh didn’t answer right away.
Then, with a smirk hidden beneath his gaiter, he murmured, “Maybe I came because of you. Shouldn’t you be happy, hmm?”
“Oh, I’m not just happy .I’m ecstatic.” Harshvardhan chuckled, but his tone shifted quickly. “But really, why did you come? You wouldn’t be here unless there’s a reason.”
“There is. Keep your eyes on the Germans they’re trying to oversmart us.”
“They can’t,” Harshvardhan said simply.
“Of course they can’t. Still, stay sharp.”
“Yes, boss.” Harshvardhan gave a mocking two-finger salute.
“Stay less with him. You’re getting as dramatic and annoying as he is,”
Kiyansh muttered, irritation threading through his voice.
“Who, him?” Harshvardhan asked, mock-grinning, just to needle him.
“You know exactly who.”
“No, I don’t. Ishan or Abhi?” He tilted his head, feigning innocence.
Kiyansh’s jaw tightened. “You very well know.”
“Ohhh, you mean Ishan,” Harshvardhan drawled, grinning wider. “Don’t worry, I won’t stick around him too much. Just 24×7 and 365 days. That’s all.”
Kiyansh rubbed his forehead, done with his dramatics. He didn’t even bother replying.
But then Kiyansh finally looked at him, eyes gleaming with mischief.
“Marry him then. You can officially stay with him twenty-four seven. How about that?”
For once, Harshvardhan froze then recoiled dramatically, face twisting as if he might gag.
“Ewww. Chii. Yaaak. No!” He flung his hands in the air, making exaggerated retching noises before stalking off.
Kiyansh’s smirk widened at his retreat, leaving him with much needed silence he craved.
◇◇◇
So how was tha chapter??
Enjoyed reading?
The best part? The dialogue or the scene you felt like ohh myy goodness that was too good??
Vote,comment,share guys it makes me more grateful and motivated to keep writing ✍️
Until next time keep loving, reading and glowing ✨️ 💛
THANKS FOR READING 📚
YOUR AUTHOR♡Kaushi♡
Write a comment ...