The air in the bar was thick with cigarette smoke and the scent of spilled alcohol. Faint, yellow lights buzzed above, casting strange shadows across the faces of the five men seated at the corner table. Outside, the city of Delhi was a chaotic maze of honking cars, potholes, and people rushing to somewhere important. But here, in this tiny hole-in-the-wall pub, there was a strange sense of stillness.
Rudra stared into his glass, watching the amber liquid swirl, almost mesmerized. The weight of thirty years of industry, of failure, of lost dreams seemed to settle in his chest, suffocating him with every breath. He wasn't an alcoholic, not yet. But tonight, the drink seemed to dull the edges of his frustration, if only for a few moments.
"Still brooding, huh?" Vikram's voice broke the silence. He was leaning back in his chair, one eyebrow cocked in that way of his—always the logical one, always the one with a plan. He'd been a financial consultant for years now, yet nothing seemed to give him peace.
Rudra's lips curled into a humorless smile. "What do you want me to say, Vikram? That I've got everything together? That I've got a perfect career, perfect life? Because I don't. Thirty years in the industry, and I'm still nobody." He took another gulp of his drink, the burn doing little to numb the ache inside.
"You could've done something more, you know," said Keshav, the youngest of them, but his words carried weight. Keshav had always been the bright one, a tech enthusiast with a sharp mind and an even sharper tongue. He'd done well for himself, breaking into the startup world early. But tonight, even Keshav seemed subdued, his usual energy drained by the grim reality of the country they lived in.
"More?" Rudra laughed bitterly. "Like what? How much more can I do when this damn country is falling apart? The roads are filled with potholes, the power goes out every few hours, and the politicians—don't even get me started on them. The system is designed to keep us stuck, keep us crawling like insects." His fist slammed onto the table, sending the empty glasses rattling. "Every day is the same damn mess. And I'm tired of pretending I don't see it."
The others sat in silence, the weight of his words sinking in. They had all felt it—the stagnation, the hopelessness—but Rudra's frustration cut deeper than most. He wasn't just upset; he was broken. And in that brokenness, his anger burned like a fever.
Keshav's voice was quieter this time, but no less sharp. "It's the same everywhere, Rudra. Look at the roads here. Half of them are barely passable. The government doesn't care about the people. They're too busy making backroom deals to fix anything. We're stuck in a loop."
"Exactly!" Rudra said, his eyes narrowing. "I've been in Delhi for ten years, and it's the same damn thing every time I step out. Potholes everywhere, traffic jams, water shortages, corrupt officials, and a government that promises change but delivers nothing Distributing all my income tax money as freebies. And the worst part? We're all just supposed to take it. No one's allowed to question. No one's allowed to speak out. They'll find a way to shut you down. You know what happened to that guy in Bangalore? He was silenced. And for what? For wanting a better life for his people?"
His words hung in the air, heavy and dark. The others shifted uncomfortably, their own frustrations mirroring his, but none daring to voice them aloud.
"Don't go down that road, Rudra," Vikram warned. "You know what happened during the last elections. It's not safe to speak against the government."
"Safe?" Rudra scoffed. "What's safe about this life? A life where we can't even trust our own leaders? A life where everything is controlled, manipulated? Hell, they've got a whole army of spies in the streets watching us. We're living under a dictatorship, Vikram. And the worst part is, we're all too scared to do anything about it. No one even bothers to protest anymore. We've become complacent."
The words stung, and for a moment, there was only the soft hum of the bar, the clinking of glasses.
"We can't just sit here and do nothing," Keshav said finally, his voice determined but weary. "We've got to make a change. We've got to do something."
Rudra chuckled, but the sound was dark, like the edge of a razor. "And what exactly can we do, Keshav? We're nothing. We're just cogs in the machine, pretending we have power. Look at us. We're not changing anything. We can barely change our own lives, let alone the system."
He took another sip of his drink, the liquid cold against his throat, but even that couldn't ease the fire in his chest. He wasn't just frustrated with India. He was angry at himself for not being able to make a difference.
Outside the bar, the night was alive with the sounds of Delhi—horns honking, people shouting, the murmur of a city that never slept. Rudra's mind raced with all the problems he couldn't solve, the world he couldn't fix. His marriage had fallen apart, his career had stalled, and now even his country seemed to be crumbling around him. What was the point of it all?
His thoughts were interrupted when Arvind—silent until now—spoke up. "We could always try to make a difference from the inside, you know."
Rudra's gaze snapped toward him. "What do you mean?"
"I mean," Arvind said slowly, "we've got the brains, the education, the connections. Maybe it's time we used them. Maybe it's time we played the game the way it's meant to be played."
Rudra frowned. "You mean… corrupt the system from the inside?" His voice was thick with disdain.
Arvind shrugged, his expression unreadable. "No. Not corrupt. Just… influence it. We've got to understand how it works before we can change anything."
For a moment, Rudra thought about what Arvind had said. It made sense, in a way. If they couldn't fight the system, maybe the only option was to become a part of it. But the thought left a bitter taste in his mouth.
"Enough talk," Vikram said, standing up. "Let's get out of here. The city's only getting worse."
Rudra stood, his mind a blur of frustration and anger. They all stumbled out of the bar, laughing drunkenly, trying to shake off the heaviness of the conversation. But the weight of it hung over him, pulling him down with every step. He wasn't drunk—not yet—but the reality of his life was sinking in deeper than the alcohol ever could.
The night was colder now, the streets darker. As they piled into the car, Rudra's mind wandered, thoughts jumbled, eyes unfocused on the road ahead.
And then, in an instant, everything changed.
The screech of tires. A flash of blinding light. A crash.
Metal shrieked as the car twisted, and everything went black.