The man awoke to the stinging pain in his head, his ears ringing as if a bomb had just gone off beside him.
Something heavy pressed down on his skull, pinning him to the ground.
For a moment, he thought he had finally descended into hell, but then he heard a sound that shattered that illusion—a woman screaming in Marathi, begging them to leave her son alone.
Confusion clouded his mind. He tried to move his hands, but they were tied, and strangely, his usual strength was gone.
He felt weak, powerless.
The boot pressing down on his head pushed harder, the man above him muttering something about annoying brats.
"Kid?" The man thought, confused by the word.
He couldn't fathom why anyone would address him that way.
But confusion was quickly replaced by instinct as he dislocated his fingers, freeing his hands with practiced ease. With a swift roll, he slipped out from under the boot, his body responding automatically despite the weakness.
As he turned, his vision cleared.
He saw a nearly naked woman kneeling on the dirt, tears streaming down her face, pleading with a group of men in old-fashioned police uniforms.
They loomed over her, their intentions clear in their leering eyes.
His mind reeled, trying to make sense of what he was seeing.
Memories that weren't his own came crashing down, mingling with his consciousness.
Images of a life of Srikanth Thakre ,a father killed for crafting weapons for rebels, a mother now at the mercy of these men.
He was disgusted ,angered, cofused and Sympathetic at the same time.
And yet, the most jarring realization was that the men before him, about to commit such heinous acts, were not British soldiers but fellow Indians—oppressors who had turned on their own people.
He stared at the woman, his mind struggling to focus as the weight of two lives bore down on him.
He was no longer the man who had defied governments and committed unspeakable acts.
Here, in this moment, he was something else entirely, trapped between past and present, powerless in a way he had never known.
Before Srikanth could fully grasp his situation, one of the men lunged at him, wielding a lathi with brutal intent.
As the man charged, Srikanth heard his mother scream, her voice filled with desperation, "Run, beta! Just run away!"
But there was nowhere to run.
Srikanth's instincts took over as he dodged the incoming strikes, despite his compromised strength and dislocated fingers.
With a few precise blows, he dismantled the attacker, who crumpled to the ground, gasping in pain.
The other men quickly became alert. One of them grabbed his mother, dragging her away as she struggled, shouting in Marathi, "Leave my son alone! Let him go!"
"Shut up, woman!" one of the men barked, tightening his grip on her. The other two leveled their guns at Srikanth, their eyes cold and unfeeling. "This brat's been more trouble than he's worth."
Srikanth tried to move, to dodge the bullets, but his body was too weak.
The gunfire rang out, and the pain was immediate and overwhelming.
One bullet tore through his eye, blinding him, while the other punctured his lung. He crumpled to the ground, gasping for breath.
As Srikanth lay there, his vision blurring and his strength draining away, his mother's voice reached him, trembling with fear and heartbreak. "No, beta... No No..Beta..."
But he couldn't move; his body was failing him, unable to respond.
"Just kill him already!" one of the men snarled as they began to retreat, dragging their fallen comrade and his mother with them.
Before they left, one of the men sneered at Srikanth's crumpled form. "Good riddance, kid."
They shot him twice more, each bullet tearing through his broken body.
The last thing Srikanth felt was the dull thud of their boots kicking him, his consciousness fading into darkness as they left him for dead.
In the stillness of the night, blood-curdling screams echoed through a secluded area, piercing the darkness.
The laughter of a few men followed, cruel and mocking.
Those who heard it only closed their eyes, pulling their children closer, too afraid to intervene, too terrified to stop the heinous act.
---
A few weeks passed before the villagers stumbled upon the battered body of Renuka Bai Thakre at the edge of the village.
Her body lay twisted and broken, mutilated beyond recognition.
Deep, jagged slashes crisscrossed her once-living flesh, now seared and blackened in places as if scorched by fire.
Her eyes were gouged out, leaving hollow, empty sockets.
Her legs were bent at unnatural angles, shattered bones protruding through the skin.
Words were crudely carved into her back with a knife, spelling out a message of hatred: "Traitor's Whore."
The villagers were horrified to discover that, before her death, Renuka had been subjected to unspeakable tortures.
The men had used her as a plaything, enacting inhuman forms of cruelty.
They had burned her with heated objects, twisted her limbs, and inflicted wounds only to leave her to suffer in agonizing pain.
The grotesque mutilation was the final act of their cruelty.
One of the villagers, a middle-aged man with trembling hands, whispered, "How could they do this... to a woman... to a mother?"
The "village chief," his face pale with disgust and anger, shook his head violently.
"This... this is beyond anything I've seen. Animals, all of them! But what can we do? What can we say to them? They've already left ."
Another villager, a wiry man with a bitter expression, spat on the ground.
"British dogs, all of them! Traitors to their own blood! They work for the British like slaves and commit these atrocities on their own people!"
A younger man, his voice quivering with fear, added, "They won't listen to us anyway. We're just villagers... nothing we say matters to those lapdogs."
The villagers stood in silent agreement, their faces filled with fear and sorrow.
None had the courage to seek out Srikanth's body at the Thakre household.
"We have to take her... for cremation," one of the older women in the group finally said, her voice choked with grief. "She deserves at least that much."
As they reached the Thakre household, one of the villagers hesitated, his eyes scanning the desolate home. "What about the boy? Srikanth... should we—"
"He's not here," another interrupted, his voice filled with dread. "Maybe... maybe they did the same to him and threw his body somewhere else. God help him."
The village chief, his voice heavy with regret, muttered, "We've failed them both... and it's those British dogs who did this! But we must do what we can now."
Resigned to the tragedy, the villagers could only mourn in silence as they carried Renuka Bai's body for cremation, haunted by the violence that had shattered their hearts.
---
From a quiet distance, a boy watched the gathering of the villagers.
His presence was hidden among the shadows, a stark contrast to the scene of grief unfolding before him.
This boy was none other than Srikanth Thakre, his heart pounding with fury.
As he observed the villagers, Srikanth's body trembled with suppressed rage.
The healing he had undergone had only activated after his mother's death, leaving him powerless to save her in her final moments.
He cursed silently, bitterly blaming his own helplessness for her suffering.
Years of losing people had taught him to control his emotions, but he could not suppress the anger that burned in his eyes.
His gaze remained fixed on the scene, the sight of his mother's mutilated body igniting a fierce, unrelenting fury within him.
He watched silently as his mother's body was consumed by flames, the fire reflecting in his eyes.
Once the villagers had departed, he approached the smoldering remains of his mother, Renuka Bai Thakre.
Tears streamed down his face as he carefully gathered a fistful of ashes in his hands.
This was the second mother he had lost, and the weight of it bore heavily on him.
His mind drifted back to his own mother, whose death he had missed.
He had received the news too late, while he was on a mission overseas, unable to be by her side in her final moments.
The grief for Renuka Bai Thakre mirrored his own, as he now mourned her as he would his own mother.
The memories of his past pain blended with his current anguish, intensifying his resolve.
He clenched the ashes tightly, pressing them to his forehead.
Tears continued to fall freely, mingling with the remnants of his mother's body. In the quiet solitude, he made a solemn vow.
Through his grief and anger, Srikanth swore to uproot the British and exact vengeance upon those who had perpetrated such atrocities.
His heart was set on retribution, driven by the loss and suffering that had become his life's reality.
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