Previously on NIRAYA: THE PAST
Anandpur. A city that hides more than it shows.
Kabir lies awake at 2 AM counting fan rotations while his father's fists and his mother's crying echo through the house. Morning flips the script—he's on stage with Avni, two hundred kids screaming their names, and for a few minutes the world makes sense. Backstage she punches his arm—"We killed it." Vihaan grins—"When are you gonna admit you like her?" Kabir says they're just friends. His stomach disagrees.
School blurs. History. Math. Throwball. Everything clicks. Until the final bell rings and the weight comes back. He takes the long route home, stands outside his building for a full minute before going in. His mother comes out of the kitchen. He walks straight into her arms. He sees the bruise on her wrist. "Why don't you leave him?" She looks away. "This is our family."
He watches The Walking Dead alone. Texts with Avni. Evening comes. Six seniors block the studio door. Rohan—arms crossed, voice dripping—"Does it hurt being so perfect?" Kabir doesn't flinch. "I'm not gonna apologize for working hard." Inside, Avni cracks on a high note. Kabir fixes it. After class, pani puri two streets over. They argue about implied dog deaths and zombies. On the bus home they share an earbud. She asks if he's okay. He says yes. She doesn't believe him.
The apartment's empty when he gets home. His mother tells him to drop it. He doesn't. "We could leave." She cups his face. "You're fourteen. You don't understand how the world works." Upstairs he watches more Walking Dead. Does homework. Then—the front door. Heavy footsteps. His father's voice, drunk and too loud. The slap echoes. Kabir walks to his door. Hand on the knob. Freezes. He's fourteen. His father's twice his size. So he just stands there. Listening to his mother cry. Hating himself.
Morning acts like nothing happened. School brings prize money—five hundred rupees. Kabir hands it all to his mother. "Buy something for yourself." She cries. Gives him two hundred back. Then he looks out the window. His father's car. A stranger. A thick envelope. Stacks of cash shoved into a duffel bag. Their eyes meet through the glass.
His father comes upstairs. The zipper gives. Bills hit the floor. He picks them up slowly. Looks at Kabir. "I hope one day I'll tell you who I am. Or maybe you'll figure it out yourself. Either way... you'll understand the business."
At the studio Rohan's waiting—"Not so perfect today, golden boy?" Kabir forgot his sheet music. He misses his cue. Then misses it again. Mrs. D'Souza stops the class. Avni puts a hand on his arm. But all Kabir can hear is his father's voice. You'll understand the business.
Chaat stand. Kabir stares at untouched pani puri. Avni and Vihaan try to pull him back. He gives them nothing. Home. His father's car arrives at the same time. Dinner happens. No yelling. It feels normal. That's what makes it strange. Then Avni texts. Questions about Riya—his old best friend, his first girlfriend. Avni asks too many questions. Gets quiet. "Are you jealous?" "No." She goes to bed. Kabir smiles in the dark.
Next day she corners him at lunch. Vihaan watches like it's a match. The bell saves him. Then the final bell. Kabir walks out and freezes. His father. Waiting. "Can't a father pick up his son?" He's never done it before. They drive to a grey building. His father disappears for twelve minutes. Returns with a stranger. Something small changes hands. Kabir writes it all down. Then chai. His father keeps staring. Searching for something. Never finding the words.
Rajesh sits in his car. Pulls out his second phone. The one his wife has never seen. "The route is confirmed. Farooqi handled the timing. Payment clears after delivery. Not before." He hangs up. Turns it off. Drives home.
Kabir gets a gift from his cousin Aryan—Left 4 Dead 2. He plays for hours. Dead Center campaign. The violence on screen easier to process than the violence downstairs. Dinner's normal again. Then his father asks—"Tomorrow. You leave school at the same time, right?" The warmth drains. The lightness—gone.
Morning. No sleep. Eyes heavy. But he thinks about Avni and that gets him moving. At school Vihaan sees it—"Something's going on." Kabir watches Avni walk past without looking. Vihaan grins—"Just go talk to her." He does. "Can I sit here?" Avni doesn't look up. "No. Go sit with Riya." They argue. She stands. "I was waiting for you to ask. And you never did." She walks away. Kabir sits there frozen. Vihaan—"You'll figure it out."
Final bell. His father's car. Same spot. Kabir gets in without hesitation this time. They drive in silence. Twenty minutes. Then—a transport yard. Trucks everywhere. Diesel. Grease. Burnt metal. Makeshift sheds. Men smoking. His father parks. Looks at Kabir. "Stay here." Locks the car from outside. Walks toward the sheds.
Kabir sits alone. Surrounded by trucks and strangers and the suffocating smell of diesel.
And he waits.
NOW
Kabir didn't know what to do.
His father's figure got smaller as he walked across the yard, heading toward one of those metal sheds where men sat around in plastic chairs. The car felt stuffy now. Hot. Kabir reached for the seatbelt and unclicked it, the sound loud in the silence.
He shifted in his seat. Looked left. Looked right.
The yard was bigger than he'd thought. Rows and rows of trucks—some with tarps covering whatever they were carrying, some open, showing stacks of crates and boxes. A few drivers stood around smoking, leaning against their vehicles like they'd been there for hours. Nobody seemed in a hurry.
Kabir cracked the window open.
The smell hit him immediately—diesel, thick and oily, mixed with something metallic. Like rust or old machinery. Somewhere nearby a radio was playing—some old Bollywood song he didn't recognize, the music tinny and distant.
He heard voices. Loud. Rough.
"Route 47! Anyone going 47?"
Metal clanged against metal somewhere. A wrench hitting the ground maybe, or someone working under a truck. A dog—thin and mangy—wandered past the car, sniffed at a puddle of muddy water, then lay down under the shadow of a tempo and closed its eyes.
The puddles were everywhere. Some were just water, brown and thick with dirt. Others had rainbows on top—oil floating on the surface, swirling in colors that looked almost pretty if you didn't think about what they were.
Cigarette smoke drifted through the window. Someone laughed—sharp and short—then coughed.
It felt dirty. Old. Hidden. But also... alive. In a dangerous way. Like the whole place was breathing, moving, doing things people weren't supposed to see.
Kabir turned his attention back to his father.
He was standing near one of the sheds now, talking to someone Kabir couldn't see clearly. His father checked his watch. Looked around. Waited.
Kabir leaned forward, squinting. Then he remembered—the side mirror. He adjusted it carefully, angling it so he could see better.
His father was still waiting. Patient. Calm.
Kabir reached into his bag and pulled out the diary. The same one from before. Flipped it open to a blank page. Found a pen.
April 1st, 4:30 PM. Transport yard. Father brought me here. Locked me in car. Told me to stay.
He paused, then kept writing.
Trucks everywhere. Drivers smoking. Someone shouting route numbers. Diesel smell. Metal clanging. Old Bollywood music from somewhere. Dogs sleeping under trucks. Muddy puddles with oil on top.
He looked up.
Two men were walking toward his father now. One tall, one shorter. They shook hands—quick, businesslike. His father said something. The shorter man nodded. Pulled out a folded paper from his pocket and handed it over.
Kabir wrote faster.
4:35 PM. Two men. Shook hands with father. One gave him paper. Father looked at it, folded it, put it in pocket.
His father was talking now. Gesturing toward one of the trucks. The men listened. Nodded. Then they walked away.
Kabir watched his father closely.
He wasn't nervous. Wasn't fidgeting or looking around like he was worried. He was just... patient. Calm. Controlled. Like he'd done this a hundred times before.
The way he stood. The way he checked his watch again. The way he nodded when someone spoke to him.
Kabir wrote it all down.
Father = patient. Calm. Controlled. Not nervous at all.
More trucks rolled in. Kabir counted three. They parked in different spots—one near the entrance, two farther back.
And that's when Kabir noticed something.
Not all trucks were treated the same.
One truck—a big red one with a green tarp—rolled in and nobody even looked at it. The driver got out, walked toward one of the sheds, disappeared inside.
But another truck—smaller, white, scratched along the sides—got stopped immediately. Two men walked up to it. One checked the back. The other talked to the driver, who looked... tense. Nervous. His hands kept moving, gesturing, explaining something.
The man checking the back pulled at the seal on the cargo door—a metal tag with a number stamped on it. He wrote something down on a clipboard. Nodded. Let the driver go.
Kabir watched all of it. Wrote it down.
Some trucks ignored. Some checked carefully. Men checking seals. Driver nervous.
Then his father moved.
He walked toward one of the trucks—a tempo, medium-sized, with no markings on the side. The driver was leaning against the door, smoking.
Kabir adjusted the mirror again. Watched.
His father didn't touch anything.
Didn't inspect the truck. Didn't open the back. Didn't check the tires or the engine or anything physical.
He just... talked. Pointed at something. The driver nodded. His father checked his watch again. Said something else. The driver flicked his cigarette away and climbed back into the truck.
The engine started. The truck rolled out.
Kabir's pen moved across the page.
Father doesn't touch anything. Doesn't inspect trucks. He only talks. Watches. Gives instructions. Confirms things.
He underlined that last part twice.
He's not labor. He's managing.
Then someone else arrived.
An older man. Maybe sixty, maybe older. Hard to tell from this distance. He was wearing a white kurta and dark pants, walking slowly, like his knees hurt. Two men flanked him—younger, both wearing jackets despite the heat.
Kabir sat up straighter.
His father's whole body language changed.
With the workers—the drivers, the men checking trucks—he was casual. Gave orders. Spoke quickly. Moved with confidence.
But with this old man?
Careful. Respectful. Measured.
His father stepped forward. Said something. The old man nodded. They didn't shake hands. Just stood there, talking quietly. His father's posture was different. Shoulders back but not aggressive. Head tilted slightly, listening.
Kabir's eyes narrowed.
Old man arrived. Two men with him. Father changed. Careful. Respectful. Measured.
He couldn't see the old man's face clearly—just movements. The way he gestured with one hand. The way his father nodded. The way the two younger men stood perfectly still, watching everything.
Then his father smiled.
Not the fake smile from family dinners. Not the drunk angry smile from late nights. This was different.
Cold. Professional. Like a mask.
Kabir felt something twist in his stomach.
Father smiling differently. Cold. Professional. Something's wrong.
The old man turned and walked away. His two men followed. Just like that—appeared, talked, left.
Kabir watched his father watch them go.
Then his father checked his watch again.
Another truck appeared almost immediately after. Like it had been waiting for a signal.
Big one this time. Blue, with a covered cargo bed. It rolled in slowly, stopped near the shed.
His father walked over. Talked to the driver. Nodded. The driver handed him something—an envelope, maybe? Kabir couldn't see clearly.
His father put it in his pocket. Checked his watch one more time. Then turned and started walking back toward the car.
Kabir's heart jumped.
He shoved the diary back into his bag—fumbling, hands shaking—and zipped it shut. Pen went into his pocket. He straightened in his seat. Clicked the seatbelt back on.
But his mind was still racing.
The way men stopped talking when his father walked near. The way nobody joked around him. The way he kept checking his watch—like timing mattered. Like everything was on a schedule.
The way those route numbers were being shouted. The way some trucks got checked and others didn't. The way his father never touched anything physical—just talked, watched, confirmed.
And that old man. The respect his father showed him.
Kabir's father opened the car door. Got in. Closed it behind him.
He didn't say anything. Just sat there for a moment, staring straight ahead.
Then he turned and looked at Kabir.
That same searching look. Like he was trying to find something. Understand something. Like he was waiting for Kabir to ask a question—or maybe say something first.
Kabir looked back. Didn't speak.
His father's jaw tightened slightly. Then he turned forward and started the car.
They pulled out of the yard. Back onto the main road.
Kabir stared out the window. The window was still cracked open, fresh air rushing in, cooling the sweat on his forehead. He watched the city blur past—shops, people, bikes weaving through traffic.
He felt lighter for a second. Just breathing. Just watching.
Then the car slowed.
Kabir looked up.
They were at the chai stand again. Same one as yesterday.
His father turned off the engine. Looked at him.
"Chai?"
Kabir nodded.
They got out. Walked up to the small counter where an old man was pouring steaming tea into glasses.
"Two" his father said.
The man nodded. Poured. Handed them over.
They stood there, side by side, drinking in silence.
Kabir could feel his father's eyes on him. That stare. Always that stare.
He looked away. Watched a crow land on a nearby wire. Watched a kid ride past on a bicycle, pedaling hard, laughing about something.
His father finished his chai first. Set the glass down. Still staring.
Kabir drained his own glass. Didn't look back.
His father sighed—quiet, almost like he was disappointed—and walked back to the car.
They drove the rest of the way home in silence.
When they pulled up outside the building, Kabir didn't wait. He opened the door, grabbed his bag, and climbed out.
He reached the door. Rang the bell.
His mother opened it, smiling. "Oh, you're back! How was—"
Kabir pushed past her. "I'm coming. Call me when lunch is ready."
He ran upstairs before she could say anything else.
Her voice drifted up behind him. "Kabir? Beta—"
He closed his door. Locked it.
Dropped his bag on the floor. Pulled out the diary.
Opened his laptop.
Sat down at his desk and stared at the blank search bar.
Transport yard. Trucks. Checking seals. Route numbers. Managing logistics.
He typed: What kind of work involves managing trucks and routes?
The results loaded. Logistics companies. Transport coordinators. Freight management.
He scrolled. Kept reading.
Cargo management. Supply chain. Dispatchers.
It fit. Some of it. But not all of it.
Why the secrecy? Why the cash? Why the old man with the respectful treatment?
He tried again: Illegal transport work India.
The results got darker.
Smuggling. Black market goods. Contraband.
Kabir's stomach tightened.
He clicked on a few links. Read about smuggling networks. How they worked. Middlemen. Brokers. People who connected buyers and sellers without ever touching the goods themselves.
Just like his father. Never touching the trucks. Never inspecting. Just talking. Watching. Confirming.
He opened an AI chatbot. Typed: What does a smuggling broker do?
The response came back quickly.
A smuggling broker facilitates illegal transactions by connecting suppliers with buyers. They arrange logistics—transport routes, timing, payments—without physically handling the contraband. They act as intermediaries.
Kabir read it three times.
Then he heard his mother's voice from downstairs.
"Kabir! Lunch! Come down! You'll be late for music class, come fast, you boy!"
He closed the laptop. Stood up. Took a breath.
Then went downstairs.
His mother had set out rice and dal. She was smiling, humming something under her breath.
Kabir sat down. Started eating.
"So," his mother said, sitting across from him. "My boy's birthday is coming. I'm so excited. Are you?"
Kabir nodded. Mouth full.
"We'll do something special. Invite some friends, maybe? Vihaan? That girl you always sing with—Avni?"
"Maybe."
His mother smiled wider. "And your classes—how are they going? You have that registration today, right? Wednesday?"
"Yeah. Today's registration."
"For the auditions?"
"Yeah. Internal auditions next week. Then inter-school two weeks after that. Main talent show first week of May."
"That's so soon!"
"I know."
They talked for a while. His mother told him about a neighbor's daughter getting engaged. About the market being crowded today. About how she wanted to make his favorite food for his birthday.
Kabir listened. Nodded. Ate.
But his mind was somewhere else.
On that glimpse—the conversation they'd had before. When he'd asked her to leave his father. When she'd said no.
You're too young to understand.
He wanted to bring it up again. Wanted to shake her and make her see.
But he couldn't. Not now. Not yet.
So he just accepted it. Finished his food. Stood up. Washed his plate.
His mother walked over. Cupped his face.
"You're a good boy, Kabir."
He nodded. Kissed her forehead. Grabbed his bag.
"Bye, Maa."
"Bye, beta. Have fun at class!"
The walk to the studio was short. Same route he always took—through the park, past the bookstore, up the stairs to the second floor.
He reached the door. Heard voices inside already.
He pushed it open.
Avni and Vihaan were there. Sitting near the front. Avni had her guitar out, tuning it. Vihaan was scrolling through his phone.
Kabir walked over. "Hey."
Vihaan looked up. "Hey, man!"
Avni didn't look up. Just kept tuning.
Kabir sat down next to them. "So. Registration today."
"Oh, yeah!" Vihaan sat up straighter. "Almost forgot."
Avni finally looked up. Just a glance. Then back to her guitar.
Kabir cleared his throat. "We're both gonna register, right? Like always?"
Avni stared at him for a moment. Then, quietly: "Yes. Unfortunately."
Kabir felt something warm spread through his chest. He tried not to smile.
He turned to Vihaan. "What about you, bro? You registering?"
Vihaan shook his head. "Nah. I'm doing the instrumental category. Piano."
"Piano?"
"Yeah. I mean, I come to these classes for the music theory and stuff, but singing's not really my thing. I'm better with keys."
Kabir nodded. "That makes sense."
"Plus," Vihaan grinned, "I don't want to compete with you two. You'd destroy me."
Avni finally cracked a small smile at that.
Then Mrs. D'Souza walked in. Clapped her hands.
"Alright, everyone! Before we start today's session, let's handle registration for the auditions. Everyone participating, come up here. I'll take your names and categories."
People stood up. Formed a line near the front.
Kabir and Avni stood together. Not talking. Just standing.
One by one, people gave their names.
"Rohan Mehta. Vocals. Group."
As he stepped back, Rohan caught Kabir's eye and gave him a wink—the same one as before. That Goddamn wink.
"Shruti Iyer. Vocals. Solo."
"Daksh Verma. Vocals. Group."
Then it was Kabir's turn.
"Kabir Roy. Vocals. Duo."
Mrs. D'Souza wrote it down. Looked at Avni. "And you're the other half, I assume?"
Avni nodded. "Avni Desai. Vocals. Duo."
Mrs. D'Souza smiled. "Good. You two always work well together."
She wrote both their names down under the same line. Kabir & Avni - Duo.
Kabir looked at it. Felt something shift in his chest.
Kabir & Avni.
Like always.
Vihaan registered after them. Piano. Solo.
Rohan and his crew registered together. Group performance.
When everyone was done, Mrs. D'Souza clapped her hands again.
"Alright! Auditions are next Wednesday. That gives you one week to prepare. Choose your songs wisely. Practice. And remember—only the top acts move forward to inter-school. No pressure."
She smiled like she was joking. Nobody laughed.
Class started.
Warm-ups. Scales. Breathing exercises.
Kabir went through the motions. Hit every note. Followed every instruction.
But his mind was elsewhere. On the yard. On the trucks. On his father's face.
At some point, Mrs. D'Souza called him and Avni up to run through a duet.
They stood side by side. Avni picked up her guitar.
"Ready?" she asked quietly.
Kabir nodded.
She started playing. He came in on the second bar.
Their voices blended. Like always. Perfect harmony. Like they'd been doing this for years—which they had.
Halfway through, Kabir glanced at her.
She was already looking at him. Just for a second. Then she looked away.
But he'd seen it. That flicker. That something.
When the song ended, the room was quiet for a beat.
Then Mrs. D'Souza clapped. "Beautiful. As always."
Kabir and Avni walked back to their seats.
Kabir sat down. Looked at her.
She was staring at her guitar. Adjusting the tuning pegs even though they didn't need adjusting.
Then, without looking at him, she smiled.
Just a little. Just for a second.
And when Kabir turned away—when he looked down at his notebook—she laughed. Quiet. Under her breath. Like an idiot.
Like she'd been waiting for it.
They'd performed together so many times. Registered as a duo every year since sixth grade.
But this time felt different.
Kabir couldn't explain it. Didn't want to.
He just knew.
This time felt different.