Aarti did not notice the exact moment her curiosity turned into dependence.
It began slowly, in fragments that seemed too small to matter at first. A glance that lingered a second longer than necessary. A question she did not ask aloud but still expected an answer to. A strange discomfort whenever Dharamvir was not within her line of sight.
After the incident at Mehra Renewables, she had expected him to disappear completely. Someone like him—if the media was right—should not have remained visible for long. Yet reports began surfacing again, not of destruction this time, but of help.
Unverified videos appeared from remote villages near wind-energy corridors. A man repairing broken turbine cables during storms. A man pulling injured workers out of collapsed construction zones. A man arguing with contractors who refused to pay daily-wage laborers.
Always the same figure.
Always unclear.
But Aarti recognized him.
Dharamvir Singh.
She told herself she was only investigating. That this was still about truth, about her mother, about the buried wind-farm history her father refused to acknowledge.
But truth did not explain why she kept following every trace of him.
The first time she saw him in person after the turbine incident, it was at a displaced workers’ settlement on the outskirts of Gujarat.
Children ran between makeshift tents. Injured laborers sat under tarpaulin sheets waiting for medical aid that never seemed to arrive on time. Corporate trucks passed nearby without stopping.
And in the middle of it all, Dharamvir stood silently, tightening a bolt on a damaged turbine generator brought from a nearby site.
He did not look like someone who belonged anywhere.
And yet he looked like someone who belonged everywhere suffering existed.
A child tugged at his sleeve, asking for water. Without hesitation, he handed over his bottle.
Another worker complained about unpaid wages. Dharamvir listened without interrupting, then walked straight toward the contractor’s vehicle parked nearby.
Within minutes, the payment issue was resolved.
No threats.
No speeches.
Only presence.
Aarti watched from a distance, unnoticed behind a half-collapsed storage structure.
Something shifted inside her that day.
Not admiration.
Not fear.
Something quieter.
Something heavier.
Dependence.
Days later, sabotage began again.
A convoy transporting turbine components along a desert highway was attacked in what authorities called a “mechanical accident.” But Aarti was there. She had accompanied the inspection team against her better judgment.
The explosion came from the second truck.
A sudden flash of fire, followed by a violent chain reaction.
People shouted.
Metal twisted.
Sand filled the air like a storm of its own.
And before Aarti could process what was happening, someone grabbed her wrist and pulled her behind a concrete barrier.
Dharamvir.
He did not speak.
He only pushed her down as another blast tore through the convoy’s rear section.
His body shielded hers instinctively.
For a few seconds, everything was noise and heat and collapsing sound.
Then silence returned in waves.
When Aarti finally looked up, Dharamvir was already moving.
He pulled injured workers out of burning wreckage without hesitation, ignoring danger completely. His movements were precise but not calm—controlled urgency, as if he already knew where each second would break.
Aarti stood frozen.
Not because of the fire.
But because of him.
Because every time she thought she understood his distance, he contradicted it with action.
He never explained himself.
He never stayed after.
And yet he always ensured she was safe before anyone else.
Mehak noticed it before Aarti did.
Mehak, the investigative journalist who had begun tracking Dharamvir’s appearances across industrial zones, arrived at the site hours later. Her presence was sharp, observant, intrusive in a way that made people uncomfortable.
She watched Aarti watching him.
And she smiled faintly.
“You don’t look like someone who is just researching him anymore,” Mehak said quietly.
Aarti did not respond.
But silence answered for her.
Mehak’s gaze shifted toward Dharamvir.
“He doesn’t belong to anyone,” she added. “Not even to himself.”
Aarti felt something tighten inside her chest at those words.
Because part of her feared they were true.
And part of her hated that they might be.
That night, Aarti followed him.
Not officially.
Not with intention that she would admit later.
She simply could not stop herself.
Dharamvir had returned to an abandoned inspection facility near the desert wind corridor. Rain had begun falling unexpectedly—rare for that region, heavy and sharp, as if the sky itself had chosen to intervene.
He stood outside the structure for a long time, unmoving, as the rain soaked through his clothes.
Aarti watched from behind a broken concrete wall.
For the first time, he looked tired.
Not physically.
But internally.
As if something inside him was carrying weight no one else could see.
When lightning flashed across the sky, she saw it clearly.
Scars.
Severe burn marks across his chest and shoulder line, partially visible through the soaked fabric of his kurta.
Her breath stopped.
Not because of injury.
But because of recognition.
Her mind connected fragments she had never allowed to align.
Burn scars.
Wind turbine explosion.
Abandoned Rajasthan site.
Fifteen years ago.
The survivor.
The child who was believed to have died.
Her pulse quickened violently.
“No…” she whispered under her breath.
But the truth was already forming.
Dharamvir slowly turned his head slightly—as if he had sensed her presence without seeing her.
Aarti stepped forward without thinking.
Rain hit her face hard as she moved into the open space.
He did not react.
Not immediately.
Only watched her approach.
The distance between them felt smaller than it was.
Too small for truth to hide inside.
Aarti’s voice trembled.
“You… were there before, weren’t you?”
Silence.
Only rain answered.
Her breathing became uneven.
“The windmill… the fire… fifteen years ago…”
Dharamvir’s expression did not change.
But something in his eyes shifted.
Not denial.
Not confirmation.
Something deeper.
Like a memory being pressed against an old wound.
Aarti stepped closer, her voice breaking slightly now.
“You’re the survivor… everyone said died.”
Still no answer.
Only the sound of rain hitting metal somewhere behind him.
Her hands shook.
Her voice lowered into something almost helpless.
“Who are you really?”
For the first time, Dharamvir looked away.
Not from fear.
From restraint.
He turned slowly, walking past her without speaking.
Into the heavy rain.
Each step was steady.
Each step carried silence with it.
Aarti did not follow immediately.
She simply stood there, rain soaking through her clothes, watching him disappear into the storm.
And for the first time in her life, silence did not feel empty.
It felt like a question that had learned how to walk away.
ns216.73.217.22da2
and then Add to home screen.