Like Lightning From Heaven

Stillness was a weapon for an officer. And a shield. At various times, Devan deployed it to observe, to avoid being observed, to hide his fear, to project strength. The stillness here was different. There was the smell of nostalgia in the air.

Jasmine. Oh, there was the fear. Jaanvi was waiting for him at the old house. Normally smelling of death. Now jasmine too.

Even in prison, she kept jasmine in her hair. Or at least she did when the news interviewed her. The most prolific female serial killer in the history of India. She seemed almost proud of that. His hand went to his holster—no. He’d given the gun to his sister when he dropped off Navya that morning. The jailbreak had him jumpy.

And now he was unarmed. Devan followed the jasmine into the kitchen. Jaanvi had a sari on. She was making filter coffee, heating it on the gas stove and repeatedly pouring it from cup to cup to get it frothy like he liked. She glanced up at him and smiled. “Almost ready, come sit. I’ll make you some tiffin too. You want a cig in the meantime?”

He almost laughed at the nerve. “Why are you here?”

She pouted. “Not happy to see me?”

“Jaanvi Sharma, I’m placing you under arrest for—“

“I saw your sister today.”

“What?”

“She gave Navya some garbage to eat. She was such a terrible cook.”

Silence. Then a flash of understanding. “Was… “ Devan felt dizzy and slumped on the sofa. She glided over to him and handed him his coffee and a cigarette.

“I’m sorry, baby. But Navya's still there, safe and sound.” She grinned with pride and kissed him on the forehead. She frowned at the lack of response. “You’re mad at me?” She took a drag from his cigarette and began to kiss him. “I’ll make it better. But you take my sari off yourself.” Devan reached and pulled, cigarette long forgotten. 

Back in their old bedroom, her head was on his heaving chest. Asleep now. The jasmine in her hair tickled his nose and reminded him of that old forest where Navya played. Before Jaanvi burned it down. The flames flickering in her eyes, weeping at the beauty of death all around her. Leaving Devan to rescue their crying, soot-covered daughter.

Enough. Devan gingerly extricated himself from bed. He grabbed the cigarette from the living room, now on its last legs, and placed it in her hands. He turned on all the ranges on the gas stove. Once he got to the door, he lit a match and threw it to the kitchen, before running. 

Nothing happened at first, but Devan kept running. Eventually, a column of fire erupted, as if Agni himself had awoken from deep beneath the earth. Devan stopped, turned, and beheld it in worship. She'd been onto something. There was something, if not beautiful, then certainly striking about it. It was a cleansing fire.

Devan was still.