Chapter 2: Whiskey and Wounds

The place Ravi Sisodiya chose was known to only two men.

Hidden behind thick teak trees, far from temples, villages, and prying eyes, the old stone house had once been a hunting lodge. Now it stood forgotten—except by Ravi, who came here whenever the weight of leadership became unbearable.

Richard Souza arrived just after sunset.

He looked around once, lips curling slightly.
“So,” he said calmly, loosening his coat, “this is where the great Ravi Sisodiya hides.”

Ravi poured whiskey into two glasses without answering.

Richard raised an eyebrow.
“If you’ve called me here for drinking,” he said dryly, “know this—I don’t drink much. But I’ll give you company.”

Ravi slid one glass toward him.

“Not for that,” Ravi replied, his voice low. “Things are going out of control.”

Richard studied him carefully before taking the glass.
That sentence alone told him something had changed.

They sat across from each other, the table between them scarred with age—much like their history.

Ravi took a long sip, the burn familiar, grounding.

“Widows are being treated badly,” Ravi said, staring into the amber liquid.
“Still. Worse than before. They are blamed for deaths, for fate, for things no human controls.”

Richard’s jaw tightened, but he stayed silent.

“And marriages between different castes,” Ravi continued, his voice roughening, “are still seen as sin. Families are breaking. People are bleeding. It’s becoming hard for me to see all this.”

He paused, then admitted something that shocked even himself.

“I feel… helpless. Like I am not able to do anything anymore.”

Richard finally spoke, his tone calm but edged with old frustration.

“I already spoke to you about this, Ravi. Years ago. I told you—let’s talk to the people. Let’s educate them. Let’s stop hiding cruelty behind tradition.”

He took a sip of whiskey, eyes never leaving Ravi’s face.

“But you never listened. For you, rivalry mattered more. Winning mattered more than change.”

The words hit hard.

Ravi didn’t deny it.

“I know,” he said quietly. “Back then, I thought control was strength. I thought if I loosened the grip, everything would fall apart.”

He looked up at Richard, eyes tired—not defeated, but honest.

“But now it is falling apart.”

Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy.

Outside, crickets chirped. Inside, decades of pride cracked.

Ravi poured another round.

“Help me think,” he said. Not ordered. Asked.
“Let’s find a way to solve this—together.”

Richard leaned back, studying him as if seeing him for the first time.

“You understand,” Richard said slowly, “this won’t be easy. People won’t listen just because Ravi Sisodiya says so.”

“I know,” Ravi replied. “They might even turn against me.”

Richard lifted his glass slightly.
“And yet, here you are.”

They drank.

Not as rivals this time—but as men carrying the same burden.

“You can’t change beliefs overnight,” Richard said after a pause.
“But you can start by protecting those who dare to defy them. Widows. Inter-caste couples. You give them safety—others will follow.”

Ravi nodded slowly.

“For years,” he said, “I protected tradition.”

He looked into the glass one last time before finishing it.

“Now,” he said firmly, “I want to protect people.”

Richard allowed himself a small, knowing smile.

“That,” he said, “is all I ever wanted you to say.”

The whiskey burned as it went down, but this time, it didn’t numb—it awakened.

And in that secret place, amid old rivalry and shared regret, a dangerous idea was born:

Change