In The Girl in Chains, the newest Simone Singh thriller from Devashish Sardana, a young woman pulls the trigger at a crowded political rally—but uncovering why may prove even more deadly than the crime itself.
***
‘Keep moving.’
Naina hears the words. Urgent and sharp. An order from Daayan.
She nods. A fresh stream of sweat trickles down from behind her ear to her neck, igniting a fleeting tingle as it dissolves into the warmth of her skin. She keeps moving her head up and down like a bobble head. She doesn’t want to displease, doesn’t want to disappoint Daayan. But her feet remain rooted to the ground. Stuck. Unmoving. She knows why she is here. Somewhat. But she also doesn’t. As if her mind is fractured, thoughts disjointed, like someone has scrambled her insides and left her with pieces that don’t fit.
A finger pokes her in the spine. ‘Keep moving.’
‘Okay, okay.’ She takes a breath. Deep and steady.
Then steps into the crowd.
The line snakes forward, bodies pressed together, restless, buzzing with energy. Up ahead, Delhi’s Ramlila Ground churns with movement. The crowd sways, alive with anticipation. Cheers and chants rise, bouncing off the colourful banners of the political party they are here to support for the upcoming Delhi State elections. Bright yellow. Bold blue. Everywhere. This is ‘Democracy Bachao,’ a political rally led by the sitting government in Delhi, with the Deputy Chief Minister, Manish Sengupta, set to address the gathering.
As she stands in the queue, the Delhi heat hits Naina like a wall, bodies pressing close, damp and restless. She feels it then. The weight. Not the crowd. Something else. Solid. Heavy. It’s there, hidden in the weave of her wig, snug against her scalp, carefully secured with hair pins and perfectly concealed.
The revolver. Loaded. Ready. Cold, like a secret with a trigger.
Her right hand had shaken when she first held the gun at home—cold metal, heavy with intent—but Daayan had steadied her. She didn’t know where the gun had come from. It wasn’t important. A trivial detail. What was important, Daayan had said, was the purpose she must fulfil with the revolver. Or else . . . he didn’t have to finish the sentence. She knew the consequences.
Now, standing in the searing heat, the gun pressing against her head, Naina shifts her weight from one foot to the other, uncertain and disoriented. She swallows back the sour taste of dread. ‘You sure about this?’ she whispers, her eyes darting across the faces of the crowd.
No response.
She doesn’t need one. She knows what Daayan wants. He brought her here for one purpose only. She feels sick thinking about it. Her heart pounds in her chest. Every nerve in her body buzzes with tension. She wants to turn around, walk away, but she can’t. Daayan won’t let her. He has been planning this for weeks; controlling and blackmailing her for even longer. She wants to turn around. Just once. Look at his face. But she doesn’t dare.
‘Move.’
‘Yes, yes. I’m moving,’ she says, her tone tinged with frustration, and moves along in the queue, closer to the entrance of Ramlila Ground.
She notices the tight security at the entrance—metal detectors and police personnel with stern eyes scanning the crowd. She gulps and unconsciously touches the wig on her head.
Daayan slaps her hand away.
‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbles as sudden pain erupts at the back of her hand.
At home, Daayan had told her not to attract attention to the wig. Keep it natural, he had said. ‘Blend in or bleed,’ he’d whispered. She feels anything but natural right now. She is out of place. And completely out of her depth.
‘Keep moving.’
Naina gulps and trudges towards the security gate. The line inches forward, and Naina’s gaze locks on the two metal detectors at the entrance. They stand like sentinels, humming faintly as people pass through. Beyond them, uniformed police methodically pat down attendees, their hands brisk and impersonal. Her stomach twists into a knot. Every step forward feels heavier than the last. She shifts her weight, her palms slick with sweat.
A woman ahead of her sets off the detector. The sharp beep pierces the air. Two constables close in, their eyes cold and unyielding. A brief scuffle, then they let her through. Naina’s breath quickens. What if that happens to her? What if they find it?
She feels Daayan’s presence, heavy and oppressive. She doesn’t dare turn, but she knows he’s there. Watching. Waiting.
Her turn.
The metal detector beeps—loud, jarring, unyielding. Her chest tightens as panic surges. Her heart thunders. Her vision blurs for a moment, her body frozen in place.
A woman constable steps forward, her expression unreadable. ‘Step aside, please,’ the constable says, motioning to a curtained area.
Naina trudges after her, her legs barely holding her up. Inside the small enclosure, the constable gestures for her to raise her arms. Naina obeys, the revolver’s weight pressing harder against her scalp.
The constable’s hands move swiftly, patting down her sides, her back, her legs. Naina clenches her fists, waiting for the inevitable. Waiting for the constable to touch the wig and find the weapon hidden there.
Nothing.
