The monsoon had declared war on Jaipur that year. It was a siege of weeping grey skies and relentless, percussive rain that drummed against the ancient stones of the Pink City, washing the dust from the domed chhatris and turning the bustling lanes of the bazaars into slick, treacherous streams. For Rihan Malik, the sky was a mirror. It reflected the perpetual storm brewing inside him, a tempest of gnawing fear and corrosive humiliation that had defined his first few agonizing months at the prestigious St. Xavier's College.
He was a creature of shadows and mumbled apologies, an afterthought in the vibrant tapestry of college life. His skinny frame, which seemed to fold in on itself, and his timid nature were a walking, breathing invitation to the predators who roamed the hallowed halls of the Bachelor of Computer Applications program. They were the confident, swaggering sons of Jaipur's elite, and he was the scholarship kid from a modest, quiet neighborhood, a ghost haunting the edges of their gilded world. His black hair was perpetually unkempt, a testament to a mind too harried to bother with a comb, and his brown eyes, which should have held the spark of youthful ambition, were dull with the permanent, hunted look of prey.
Today, the storm had finally broken. Not in the bruised sky above, but on his head.
A sharp, searing pain pulsed at his right temple, a rhythmic, agonizing throb that matched the heavy plink-plonk of raindrops on the tin roof of a forgotten park gazebo. He touched the spot gingerly, his fingers coming away sticky and shockingly crimson. One of his seniors, a hulking brute named Vikas Singh, whose family owned half the marble quarries in Rajasthan, had found it endlessly amusing to 'accidentally' trip him down a short flight of concrete stairs near the library. The ensuing laughter from Vikas and his sycophantic cronies—a chorus of cruel, barking sounds—had echoed in Rihan's ears, a far more painful wound than the gash that now bled freely onto his collar.
He had fled, as he always did. Scrabbling to his feet, ignoring the jeers and the pain, he had run without thinking. He didn't know where else to go but this small, neglected park tucked away at the very edge of the sprawling campus. It was a place of overgrown bougainvillea and crumbling benches, usually reserved for furtive couples seeking privacy or solitary thinkers seeking peace. Now, it was his sanctuary, his field hospital. The rain, which had moments ago felt like an oppressive weight, was now a welcome curtain, hiding him and his shame from the world.
He sat on the cold, damp bench, his head bowed, his shoulders slumped in defeat. He let the blood and the rain mingle on his cheek, tracing a pathetic, pinkish trail down his jaw. Each fat drop that fell from the sky felt like a tear from a heaven that could only pity him. He was so engrossed in the theatre of his own misery that he didn't notice the approaching footsteps. They were soft and measured, a stark, deliberate contrast to the thuggish stomps he was conditioned to avoid.
A shadow fell over him, and he flinched, instinctively curling into himself like a threatened millipede, a pathetic ball of nerves and pain. He braced for another blow, another taunt.
"What happened? Who did this to you?"
The voice was like a temple bell, clear and calm, cutting through the drumming rain and the frantic cacophony in his mind. It was a woman's voice, low and musical, yet it held an unmistakable note of authority. More than that, it was laced with something he hadn't heard directed at him in a very, very long time: genuine, unadulterated concern.
Rihan looked up, his vision blurred by the rain and the unshed tears that stung his eyes. Through the watery veil, a face slowly came into focus, and his breath caught in his throat. It was a face that belonged on the cover of a magazine, not in this dreary, rain-soaked park. Her skin was the colour of fresh cream, so fair that it seemed to glow with its own internal luminescence even in the gloom. It was framed by a cascade of jet-black hair, impeccably straight and streaked with subtle, shimmering highlights of mahogany that caught the dim light. But it was her eyes that held him captive. They were the same shade of calm, deep brown as his own, but where his were pools of fear, hers were full of a serene, unnerving strength.
He recognized her instantly. Of course, he did. Everyone did.
It was Ruhi Soni.
The College President. An untouchable figure of grace, intelligence, and undisputed power. She was a final-year Arts student, a legend in the making, known for her brilliant debating skills, her flawless academic record, and the quiet, dignified way she commanded respect from students and faculty alike. To a boy like Rihan, she was practically royalty, a goddess descended from the hallowed halls of the main building, far removed from the grubby, brutal reality of his existence.
And she was talking to him. Looking at him. Seeing him.
The shock rendered him mute. His mind, usually a frantic whirlwind of anxieties, was now a complete, thunderstruck blank. Why was she here? Of all people, why was she looking at him with such focused intensity? It didn't make sense.
She took his silence as an answer in itself. Her expression, already serious, softened with an emotion he couldn't quite decipher. It wasn't pity, not the condescending kind he was used to. It was something deeper. Empathy, perhaps? She knelt before him, her expensive, dark-wash jeans heedless of the wet, muddy ground. The scent of her perfume, a light, ethereal fragrance of jasmine and sandalwood, cut through the earthy smell of the rain-soaked soil.
"Who did this?" she asked again. Her voice was softer this time, but it had an unyielding edge of tempered steel.
Rihan shook his head, a gesture that sent a fresh, sickening wave of pain through his temple. He couldn't speak. To name his tormentors felt like a betrayal of the unspoken code of the victim: stay silent, make yourself smaller, and hope it goes away. To speak their names to her felt like blasphemy, like a peasant complaining about the king's guards to the queen herself. It would only bring more trouble.
He tried to turn his face away, to hide the pathetic, bloody evidence of his weakness, but she was faster. Her hand, cool and impossibly gentle, cupped his chin, turning his head back towards her. Her touch was electric, a jolt of warmth that shot through his entire being, chasing away some of the cold that had settled deep in his bones.
He saw the anger that flickered in her calm eyes as she examined the cut. It wasn't a raging, expressive fire, but the cold, hard glint of polished steel. She saw it all in that one, lingering look: the gash, the dried tear tracks on his other cheek, the pathetic tremble in his lower lip, the entire geography of his fear mapped onto his miserable face.
And then, she did something that shattered his world into a million glittering pieces.
She leaned in, wrapped her arms around his frail, trembling shoulders, and pulled him into a hug. It wasn't a fleeting, awkward gesture of comfort. It was a full, encompassing embrace, a shield against the world. He was stiff at first, his body a rigid knot of confusion and shock. A boy like him didn't get hugged; he got shoved. But then, something inside him, a dam of pent-up anguish and loneliness he didn't even know existed, broke.
A choked, ugly sob escaped his lips, and the sound of his own desperation horrified him. He found himself clinging to her, burying his face in the soft, rain-dampened fabric of her jacket. The scent of her perfume and the solid, reassuring warmth of her body became an anchor in the swirling vortex of his pain. He cried. He cried for the humiliation, for the loneliness, for the gnawing fear that was his constant companion. He cried until he was empty.
She just held him, one hand stroking his wet hair, her touch soothing the frantic, panicked rhythm of his heart. The rain beat a relentless tattoo on the gazebo roof around them, a wild and chaotic symphony, but in her arms, Rihan felt a profound, impossible silence. It was a pocket of peace, the eye of the storm, and he had never known anything like it.
After a long moment that could have been an eternity, she pulled back slightly, though her hands remained on his shoulders, a steadying, grounding presence. She looked directly into his eyes, her own gaze clear and resolute.
"From now on, you will always be with me," she said, her voice low and firm, each word a vow, a royal decree. "So that no one can ever hurt you again."
The declaration was so audacious, so absolute, that it left Rihan breathless. It was a fantasy he wouldn't have even dared to conjure in his most desperate, secret dreams. Him? With Ruhi Soni? The idea was ludicrous, a cosmic joke.
A nervous, half-hysterical laugh bubbled up from his chest. "Don't you think that'll be... like you've adopted me?" It was a weak, pathetic attempt at humour, a deflection from the overwhelming, terrifying intensity of the moment.
A small, enigmatic smile touched Ruhi's lips. It didn't quite reach her eyes, which remained locked on his with that unnerving seriousness. "You can think whatever you want," she replied, her voice as smooth as silk.
As she spoke, a jolt of memory, sharp and vivid, cut through Rihan's confusion. This wasn't the first time she had rescued him. He remembered his first day on campus, a trembling mess of anxiety, utterly lost in the sprawling, colonial-era labyrinth of the college. He'd been on the verge of a full-blown panic attack when a calm, musical voice had asked if he needed help and had personally guided him to his classroom. He remembered dropping his entire stack of new, expensive textbooks in a crowded hallway a few weeks later, the books scattering across the floor to the snickering amusement of other students. A gentle hand had helped him pick them up, while its owner glared at the snickering students until they fell silent and shuffled away. Each time, it had been her. Ruhi Soni.
He had never made the connection, had never dared to think she had even noticed him beyond those fleeting, anonymous moments of kindness. But she had. She had always been there, a guardian angel watching from the periphery of his miserable existence.
The realization washed over him, a wave of warmth that fought back the cold dread in his soul. The delight, the sheer, unadulterated relief, was so potent it was dizzying. For him, in that moment, she wasn't just the College President; she was an angelic soul, a devi, a beacon of impossible kindness in his bleak, grey world. And she had just declared him under her protection.
"Come," she said, standing up and pulling him gently to his feet. Her strength was surprising. "Let's get that head looked at."
As he stood, swaying slightly from the pain and emotional exhaustion, he leaned on her for support. For the first time, walking through the campus, he didn't feel like prey. With Ruhi Soni at his side, her arm linked firmly with his, he felt... safe.
And as they walked away from the lonely gazebo, Rihan Malik had no idea that he had just stepped out of the rain and into the eye of a far more dangerous, all-consuming storm.