Meerabs Story Chapter 2 - 122125 - rev - Monday, Dec 8, 2025 at 12:10 PM

The nose of the car slipped under the concrete arch. The last streetlamp’s light fell away behind them. Inside, the world compressed. The ceiling dipped low, stained in patches. Sound changed—engine noise ricocheted off the walls, a hollow echo that swallowed outside life. A single, flickering tube light clung to the far end of the underpass, casting a pale, interrupted stripe on the damp floor ahead.

Water dripped somewhere to their left. The drops hit a shallow puddle out of sight, each splash sharp in the hollow space. The air thickened with the sour stench of stagnant water and old exhaust. Graffiti crawled across the walls—names, phone numbers, a fading slogan no one finished reading anymore.

Meerab shifted, the seatbelt cutting across her chest and under her belly.

“This place looks like a murder documentary,” she muttered. “Where the reenactment guy walks in slow motion.”

Sameer’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel.

“Two minutes and we’re out,” he replied. “Then you can insult real roads again.”

“Insult requires hope.”

He let that pass. His eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, then ahead again. The beam of their headlights carved a tunnel inside the tunnel, catching the glint of broken glass near the divider, an abandoned plastic bag, the twitch of a skinny dog slipping away into darkness.

A faint buzz reached them under the hum of their own engine. Low at first. A mosquito trapped in a jar.

Meerab pressed her palm against her lower back.

“Your city of lights has one bulb left,” she said. “I should sue K-Electric for emotional damage.”

The buzz grew into a thin, high whine. A motorbike engine. It bounced off the walls, directionless for a second, then steadied behind them.

Sameer glanced into the rearview again, longer this time.

“Bike coming,” he said. “Relax, I’ll give them space.”

“I am relaxed.” Her hand stayed on her back.

The whine swelled, closer, too fast for the narrow stretch. The white glare of a headlight flared in the mirror, cutting into their eyes. Sameer nudged the car slightly to the left, toward a strip of shadow near the wall.

“They can pass on the right,” he murmured.

Tires hissed over damp concrete. The motorbike didn’t slide past. The glare grew, filling the mirror, then spilling into the cabin. The sound of the engine rose, raw and strained, as if the bike rode on air.

Meerab twisted in her seat for a look. Two silhouettes loomed in the harsh beam. The one in front hunched over the handlebar. The pillion leaned forward, elbows wide, something dark in his hand.

“Idiot wants to race,” she scoffed. “Great, a hero.”

The bike veered. Instead of slipping by, it cut across them. The headlight swung from the mirror to the windshield in a bleached white arc.

“Sameer—”

He stamped the brake.

The car lurched. Tires screamed against the wet strip. Meerab’s head snapped forward, then back into the seat. Her belly jolted under the seatbelt. A half-empty water bottle shot from the cup holder and slammed into the dash.

The bike skidded in front of them, sideways now, its rear tire fishtailing. The smell of burned rubber rushed in through the vents. Metal clanged as the front wheel clipped their bumper. The rider jammed his foot down to steady them, boot scraping sparks off the concrete.

For a frozen breath, everything held in place. Headlight, car, men, dripping water.

Then the pillion swung his arm up.

The pistol caught the flicker from the distant tube light. Dull black. Small. Crooked in his hand like a toy handled too hard.

Add flashbacks here.....

“Phone nikaal, jaldi!” His voice cracked the air, high, rough, cutting through the car’s closed windows.

Sameer’s hands lifted from the steering wheel. Fingers spread. Palms empty.

“Relax, bhai, relax,” his mouth shaped the words before sound caught up. He swallowed, Adam’s apple dragging against his throat. “Jo chahiye le lo. Araam se.”

The rider kept the engine alive with short, hard twists of the throttle. The bike growled and trembled. Exhaust coughed in thick puffs. The headlight drilled into their faces, washing out detail, leaving only stark lines of noses, cheekbones, teeth.

The pillion hopped off, legs thin in faded jeans, flip-flops slapping the wet floor. He moved with a twitch at every joint, like electricity ran under his skin. A torn Manchester United jersey clung to his narrow frame. His hair clumped in oily spikes. Wisps of a patchy beard framed his mouth.

He strode to Sameer’s window and slammed the pistol barrel against the glass.

“Window down!” he barked. “Chal, jaldi kar!”

Meerab’s fingers dug into the fabric of her shalwar. Moisture beaded along her upper lip. The AC hummed on, blowing stale cold air into their faces while sweat gathered at the back of her neck.

Sameer’s voice came out thin.

“Ok, ok. Relax. I’m—”

He groped for the window switch, thumb fumbling. The button clicked. The glass slid down in jerks. Damp air rushed into the car, heavy and sour. The gun barrel rode the descent, never leaving the space inches from his forehead.

The rider stayed on the bike, head turned to watch the tunnel’s mouth behind them. His helmet hung from the handlebar. His face remained in profile, nose hooked, lips clamped around a half-smoked cigarette, ember bright in the headlight beam.

“Mobile, paisay, sab nikaal,” the pillion snapped. “Drama nahi.”

Sameer nodded fast, chest rising in quick pulls.

“Yeh lo, wallet,” he blurted. “Bus, araam se. Aur kuch bhi chahiye, le lo.”

He yanked his wallet from his trouser pocket, fingers clumsy. Notes spilled out, some crumpled, some folded into sharp creases. He thrust the bundle toward the gunman.

The man snatched it, rifled with one hand. Notes fluttered like wounded birds between his fingers. He stuffed them into the waistband of his jeans without counting.

“Mobile!” He leaned closer, breath sour with paan and cheap cigarettes. Spit flecked Sameer’s cheek. “Jaldi kar, ya goli seedha dimaag pe.”

Sameer’s gaze flicked sideways, meeting Meerab’s for the first time since the bike cut them off. Her hand had already moved, sleeve dragging over the center console. Her phone lay plugged into the USB port, charging, screen dark. She yanked the cable. The cord slipped free with a small click.

The pillion’s eyes followed the motion.

“Wohi!” He jabbed the gun toward her, barrel now a black tunnel pointed across Sameer’s nose. “Baji, phone idhar. Chal, nikaal.”

Meerab wrapped her fingers around the phone. Her knuckles blanched. The case bit into her palm. She pulled it toward her thigh, tucking it under the fold of her kameez.

“It’s old,” she snapped. “Broken. I’ll give cash. You took his already.”

The gunman’s mouth twisted.

“Baji, please time nahi hai! Jaldi!” He pounded the roof with his free hand, rings clacking on metal. “Phone nikaalo, warna yahin khol doon ga pet tera.”

His glance dropped to her stomach, pressed against the seatbelt. A slow, mocking grin carved into his face.

“Bacha bhi niklay ga free.”

Sameer flinched.

“Bhai, please,” his voice pitched higher, scraping the edge of the word. “Pregnant hai. Phone le lo, but araam se. Goli ki zaroorat nahi.”

“Phone nahi diya toh zaroorat hai,” the man barked.

The rider twisted half around, shouting without taking the cigarette from his mouth.

"Jaldi khatam kar, koi aa gaya toh phans jainge!”

The bike engine coughed, idled rough. Its headlight threw harsh shadows up the stained ceiling. Water dripped faster now, the sound an impatient tick.

Meerab pressed the phone deeper against her thigh.

“This has nothing for you,” her tone sharpened. “Take the bag. It has gold, earrings. Take the whole bag.”

Her tote sat at her feet, slumped against the floor mat. The outline of a cloth pouch bulged from inside.

The gunman’s eyes darted down, then snapped back up.

“Purse bhi doon gi,” he spat. “Pehle phone.”

He stepped closer, hip pressed against the car door. The gun barrel poked through the gap of the half-lowered window, hovering between Sameer’s temple and Meerab’s face.

Sameer’s hands trembled now, not raised quite as high. One palm hovered over his chest, as if warding off a blow that hadn’t landed yet.

“Meerab, just give it,” the words came out rough, pushed. “Chalo.”

Her jaw locked. Her teeth ground together.

“There are pictures in here,” she shot back, not looking at him. “Doctor reports. Ultrasound. If this gets stolen, I can’t—”

The gunman jerked the pistol toward her belly, then back toward her face.

“Last time bol raha hoon.” His eyes brightened with something sharp, pupils pin-sized. “Phone nikaal, warna goli maar doon ga.”

Her throat moved. For a second, her fingers loosened over the phone. Then tightened again.

“No.”

It landed in the car like a dropped plate.

Sameer inhaled, shoulders rising.

The gunman’s eyebrows shot up, then slammed down. A short, humorless huff escaped his nose.

“Heroine banti hai,” he muttered.

He grabbed the top of the window frame with his left hand and hauled himself higher, half climbing into the gap. The pistol swung inward, now closer to her than him.

Sameer surged forward against his seatbelt.

“Bhai, bas, bas,” he pressed, words tripping. “Take it easy. Take everything. Don’t point it like that, please.”

The driver’s behind them blared for a moment in the distance, muffled and far, a reminder that other cars existed somewhere beyond the tunnel’s curve.

The gunman lunged.

His left arm shot through the window, past Sameer’s shoulder, hand open, reaching across the gear console toward her lap.

Meerab twisted away, back pressed hard into the seat. Her belly turned with her, heavy, cumbersome. Pain sparked along her lower spine. She yanked the phone closer to her hip, elbow jamming into the door.

His fingers brushed her kameez, grabbed fabric, slid off.

“Phone idhar de!” he barked. “Kya samjhi apne aap ko?”

The pistol clinked against the steering wheel as his body shifted. Metal scraped plastic. His wrist flexed, grip loosening for a heartbeat as he overextended.

Sameer’s shoulder shoved into his chest.

“Bas!” It burst out of him, louder than anything yet. “Hath peeche kar, yaar. Pregnant hai, dikh nahi raha? Jo lena hai le—”

He reached up, palm open, toward the gunman’s forearm. The gesture came from habit, not thought—disarming a quarrel, not a weapon. His fingers wrapped around the man’s wrist, gentle for that one stray moment.

The world shrank to that point of contact.

The gunman stiffened. His head snapped down, eyes wild, whites showing all around the dark.

“Haath hata!” he screamed.

His finger clenched.

The gun bucked with a flat, shattering crack. Inside the small car, it roared. The flash burned a white smear across their vision. The smell of cordite punched through the sour underpass air, metallic and sharp, mixing with the tang of hot plastic from the steering wheel.

Sameer jerked back as if the seat had kicked him. His hands flew open. For a second his face registered nothing, only blank surprise. Then the front of his light blue shirt bloomed darker, a spreading patch over his ribs, thick and slow, as if someone had pressed a dripping paintbrush against the fabric.

His head lolled toward Meerab. His mouth opened, no sound. Breath blew out in a ragged exhale that smelled faintly of the gutkha he was chewing.

The phone slid from her grip. It slipped along her thigh, bumped the buckle of the seatbelt, and dropped into the space between her seat and the door with a dull thud.

The gunman froze, eyes locked on the stain spreading under Sameer’s collar. His mouth parted.

“Shit,” he breathed, the word barely shaping.

The rider twisted around fully now, cigarette dropping from his lips, ember scattering tiny sparks on the damp concrete.

“Kya kia tu ne?” His voice broke high. “Pagal ho gaya hai? Chal, bhaag!”

Sameer’s head rolled forward. His forehead hit the steering wheel, horn blaring in a long, hysterical wail. His left arm hung useless at his side. Blood trickled down his wrist, over the veins, dripping off his fingers onto the floor mat. Each drop left a small, dark circle.

Meerab’s chest heaved. No sound left her throat. Her ears rang from the gunshot, everything distant and muted, the rider’s shouts, the bike’s frantic rev.

The pillion’s body shook awake. His gaze snapped away from Sameer. He lunged again, hand scrabbling blindly along the space by her thigh.

His fingers brushed cold glass. The phone.

He clenched it, yanked it free, cable trailing behind like a tail. The charger popped loose from the USB port, metal contacts flashing.

Got it,” he hissed, more to himself than anyone.

He stumbled back from the window, banging his elbow on the door frame. The pistol dangled from his other hand, still loose, muzzle pointing down now, leaving a small black crescent singe on the door panel where it had fired.

The rider kicked the stand up with his heel, breath coming in sharp bursts.

“Chal, chal, chalo!” he yelled, voice hoarse.

The pillion jumped onto the seat behind him, nearly dropping the phone in his haste. He shoved it under his jersey, against his sweat-slick stomach, and clutched the rider’s shoulders.

The bike screeched as the rider twisted the throttle to the limit. Tires spun on the damp patch, then caught. The engine howled. They shot forward, wobbling, then straightened, tearing toward the far end of the underpass, toward the lonely flickering tube light.

The roar of the bike faded, eaten by the concrete bucket of the tunnel.

The horn still blared under Sameer’s forehead, a flat, endless note. His weight pinned it down. Blood smeared across the steering wheel cover, streaking the textured grip. The smear glistened in the headlight beam that now pointed crooked at the underpass wall.

Meerab’s fingers clawed at the seatbelt buckle. Plastic bit under her nails. Her voice finally broke loose, torn and raw, but the shape of the sound drowned inside the car, swallowed by the horn and the ringing in her ears.

Outside, water kept dripping into the unseen puddle. The tube light at the end of the tunnel flickered, on and off, on and off, indifferent.