Nishaan -

He threw it high into the air, a silver ring against the vast, indifferent sky. It spun, catching the sun, and then sailed far, far away, landing with a soft thud in the tall grass of the Yamuna’s bank.

“The nishaan is gone, Mother,” he said.

The heel was new. But the man’s gait—that slight drag of the right foot—told Arjun everything. He had been born with a twisted ankle. The nishaan in the mud five years ago had been a limp, not a boot. nishaan

There was no one left to kill.

And for the first time in five years, Arjun Rathore smiled. The nishaan of revenge had been replaced by the nishaan of a new beginning. He threw it high into the air, a

Arjun stood before the ber tree, the morning light now fully upon him. He looked at the hundred knife marks. He looked at the red clay circle he had drawn every day for five years. Then, he raised his chakram one last time.

“The mark is all that is left of him, Mother,” Arjun would reply. The heel was new

The next morning, before the sun bled over the fields, Arjun went to the ber tree. He took out a small, folded piece of paper. On it, he had sketched the boot print—the half-moon crack. Then, with a steady hand, he drew a line connecting it to a name he had finally uncovered by bribing an old servant: Ratan Singh , Sukha’s elder brother, who had died in a cart accident three years ago. Ratan had the limp. Ratan had the boot. And Ratan was dead, killed by his own guilt-ridden horse falling into a ravine.

She looked at his empty hands. “What is your mark now, my son?”

Arjun felt his pulse become the drumbeat. He did not confront Sukha. He did not draw his chakram . Instead, he waited.

“The steel remembers what the heart cannot forget,” he would whisper.