Devil in Disguise 🎭

You think the devil has horns?  

He doesn’t. He has a face like yours. Like mine.

It has been seven days since we left home. Seven days since I lied to Ma. Told her this was just a vacation, just a chance to breathe, just a chance to get away from the city choking me alive. She didn’t believe me — Ma never does — but she lets me go anyway. She always lets me go. She has this look in her eye, like she knows I am not just going to the next town over.

Because I left with a reason.
We left with a reason.
Something bigger than us. Something based entirely on assumptions.

But reasons bleed out like everything else.

Yesterday, whatever we were running for — running toward — died in the gutter with the rest of the world.

Because yesterday the radio announces Partition.

And that is the end of everything.

Overnight, the world turned feral. Neighbors turned into marauders with the easy shrug of a shoulder. Shopkeepers who used to smile at me started looking at me like I am meat. The jalebi-wala who slipped me extra sweets now weighed me with his eyes like a predator relishing his favorite meal.

The streets stopped being streets.

They became veins, gushing blood, slick with smoke and screams and all the terrible noises that come when a country is sawed in half and everyone decides they like the sound.

I have been running ever since. Running for home. Running for life. Running from the faces of the dead — my dead — who wait for me behind my eyelids every time I blink too long.

The revolver in my hand feels heavier with every mile. It is drunk on sweat, fear, and guilt, and it keeps begging me to feed it again.

The road ahead cracks under my boots like the skin of a dying man. The horizon burns. The sky smells of ash and meat.

That is when I see them.

Five boys. Wolves in the bodies of children. No older than fourteen, but their grins are grown men’s grins, wide and hungry. They're stomping a man into the dirt, laughing like they are at a carnival, laughing with that terrible, high-pitched joy that only blood can buy.

I don’t think. I raise the revolver, point at the open sky, and pull the trigger.

The gunshot tears the eve in half.

The wolves scatter, vanishing into the alleys, their crazy laughter trailing like smoke.

The man doesn’t move. Doesn’t even flinch. He just lies there, bleeding quietly into the dirt, breathing like the air hurts him. His suit is ruined, and his blood paints the road, but his face… his face is wrong.

He’s too perfect for this ruin of a world.

Sculpted. Charming. Like he stepped out of a photograph and fell face-first into hell.

His eyes are open. Wide, searching. Blind.

“Thank you,” he manages to choke out.

And the word sounds obscene.

Like something from a world that doesn’t exist anymore.

I don’t answer him. I step over him, into a half-ruined shop, and dig through the debris until I find something to eat. I find an energy bar. I tear it open with my teeth, scrambling for anything scavengeable. While I chew, I keep an eye on him.

He bumps into a table, slides his hands along its edge. Searching. Scrambling. Takes slow steps like every step might be his last. He’s trying to get to me.

“I need to get to Calcutta,” he says. His voice is smooth, cultured, cracked at the edges like old porcelain. “But everyone’s gone mad. No one will help me. Please. I don’t know where to go.”

“I don’t travel with strangers,” I say without looking at him.

“No offense,” I add, “but you’re a man. That’s reason enough.”

He goes quiet. I hear him swallow. Then, almost broken, he says, “I won’t make it alone.”

“I don’t give a damn,” I retort.

“If you really don’t, then why would you save me from them?”

That’s when I turn, pressing the revolver to his chest so hard I feel his ribs flex.

“Another word,” I tell him, “and it won’t take me long to shove this barrel into your mouth and pull the trigger.”

He goes still. Silent. Turns and shuffles away. Knocks over a shelf on the way out. Sighs like a man giving up the last bit of hope he had.

I should’ve let him go.

But something in me doesn’t.

“Two minutes,” I call after him. “If you’re coming... If you talk again, you’re gone.”

He comes back five minutes later.

And he’s different.

His suit is spotless now. His hair combed. His face washed until it glows. And he’s smiling — this soft, warm, disarming smile like the world hasn’t just been torn open and left to rot.

In his arms — of all things — is a teddy bear. A FREAKING TEDDY BEAR.

“You serious?” I ask.

He shrugs. “He was sitting alone on a shelf. Didn’t want to leave him behind.” He adds, “Moreover, I promised a little something for someone when I must return home.”

I look at him. I look at me.

I look like death — soot and blood caked into every inch of my skin, my hair matted, my face streaked. I look like I clawed my way out of a grave.

Because I did.

“There I go,” I mutter. “Another bad decision.” I wonder what this is about to cost me.

We walk together.

He’s quiet most of the time. At night, I hear him whisper names under his breath, strange words, apologies. He touches his chest sometimes, like something burns there.

He feeds stray dogs even when he barely has enough for himself. He kneels when children cry, hums lullabies, croons to match their pleas, to comfort them, pats their backs until they stop shaking.

It makes me furious.

His gentleness feels like mockery.

I wasn’t always like this. I used to laugh. I used to believe the world wasn’t just knives and teeth.

Until Dhaka...

.........................…................. 

He keeps straightening his tie, dusting his cuffs, ruffling his hair, clutching that teddy bear like it’s his lifeline. Smiling at me with a softness I want to smash into the dirt.

“Try to act like a man,” I snap one night.

He tilts his head, thoughtful, not angry.

“It’s not my fault the world changed,” he says quietly. “I haven’t.”

I shake my head. “You better learn to fight back. Or you’ll end up like—”

The word gets stuck.

“Like her.”

.......................................... 

FLASH — my friend’s laughter. Loud. Free. The two of us planning how we’d find her father. She teased me about boys. I rolled my eyes. She called her father a hero.

“He left for a greater purpose. We’ll find him. Or he’ll find us. You’ll see,” she said with true admiration. “He said he’d get me a little something if I was a good girl till he returned.”

We were informed by an estranged friend that her father was seen with whatever was left of Bose's INA in Dhaka.

“Maybe that was his greater purpose,” she exclaimed.

But in Dhaka, we didn’t find him. Nor any INA.

We found death.

Boots on wood. Rough hands. Her screaming.

They tore her apart — skin, dignity, and life. They laughed the whole time. Like it was a game. She kept looking at me, maybe thinking I’d do something. Save her. She believed in me like she believed in her father.

They forced me to watch. They thought it was more fun, more thrilling.

Then they gave me a gun.

Told me to shoot them if I dared. Or shoot myself, if I was smart.

I was neither.

I tell him — this man walking beside me — that I did.

That I killed them. One by one. Clean shots.

He listens without a word. Then he says softly, “You’re brave… strong… kinder than you know.”

Brave?

I never was.

Strong?

Where can I find that?

Kind?

I had forgotten what that meant.

But the truth?

I didn’t shoot them.

I froze.

My hands shivered.

I dropped the gun.

I was too scared.

They laughed at me. Spat at me. Kicked me until I curled.

Then they left me alive because I was the faith as theirs.

That lie — that I killed them — is the only thing that keeps me walking.

................................... 

Dusk.

The sky bleeding red.

The perfect hour to cross the border unseen.

“So, where are you from?” the man asks me.

I chose silence.

He exhales. “Ah! Never mind, don’t worry about it. I just thought... We’re going our separate ways after reaching the border, so I thought I would just get to know the person who helped me out of pandemonium.” He chuckles. “But yeah, you can never be too careful, right?” He smiles.

I think about it for a moment. He’s right. He’s almost close to being a good friend. And moreover, what’s the worst a blind man can do?

“We won’t necessarily have to split up, you know. I’m heading for Calcutta as well,” I say. “Well, not exactly Calcutta — a town called Barrackpore, near Calcutta.”

He looks overjoyed. “That’s exactly where I’m from too.”

I was genuinely a little surprised.

“Always a mystery how life works,” he says in wonder.

“Indeed,” I say, equally amused.

His expression slowly turns serious. “Wait… Where exactly in Barrackpore?” he asks.

“Uhm… Near St. Barth—”

That’s when we hear it — screaming from a house with a shattered roof. Wood breaking. Pots smashing. A woman crying out.

I freeze.

“Near St. Bartholomew’s Cathedral?” he asks, his expression grim.

I nod and shush him.

The man tilts his head, listening to the commotion.

“What if the good men in there are like you?” I whisper.

“Like me?”

“Like you. Useless. Ahem… I mean… Umm... helpless… Sorry.”

He smiles — sad, small.

“Then I hope the women in there are like you.”

I smile. For the first time in a long, long time.

I pull him into a dark corner.

“Stay here,” I whisper.

He nods.

I take three steps forward.

“Wait… What was your friend’s name?” he asks with a dismal look.

“Not now. I —”

“Please…” His eyes plead. “Her name…”

“Amara... Her name was Amara. What’s—”

He leaves my hand, which drops. His face sinks.

The door explodes open.

A man drags a woman out by the hair, throws her into the dirt. Behind him, their leader strolls out, grinning.

They kick her. Laugh.

I see them.

I scream and charge.

I try to punch the leader. 

The leader catches my wrist, twists it until my arm feels like it’s on fire.

“Ooohh.. who have we got here?” he whispers in amusement.

His men spill out of the house, dragging an old man, two girls, a boy.

They laugh, point at me, licking their teeth like I’m next.

I go for my revolver.

One of them wrenches it away and shoves me down.

The leader crouches over me, smiling like he’s about to carve me open.

“Should’ve killed you with your friend,” he sneers.

And then —

Something moves.

Fast. Silent.

A whisper of motion, a streak of shadow.

The man who had thrown the woman down stands for a moment, blinking — his throat opened in a red smile. Blood sprays hot and steaming into the dirt.

The figure is already moving.

Two strides. A flash of steel.

The man holding the children drops, his wrists sliced clean, his brain, through the eye socket pierced by the same merciless blade.

The gunman who had my revolver barely turns before his arm is twisted behind him with a crack. His shriek cuts short as the shadow takes the gun and fires — one clean shot to the head of the thug tormenting the old man.

Another shot, point-blank, tears through the neck of the man who stole my pistol.

And then the figure turns.

To me.

To the leader holding me down.

And steps into the light.

The blind man.

Only he’s not blind.

He never was.

His eyes are sharp now. Unblinking. Blazing with rage.

The old man falls to his knees, trembling as if before a god.

“The Ghost Commander,” he whispers, voice breaking. “The Annihilator.”

And I remember.

The stories. The legend. The legacy.

The man who killed in the shadows for Azad Hind.

The one who carried out INA’s darkest missions. The one many believed was the true architect of the INA while Bose was its face.

Subhas Chandra Bose’s most trusted friend.

The one who disappeared after spilling the wrong blood.

The man we came looking for.

Her father.

The man who killed thousands to save millions.
And still could not save the person who mattered most.

He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t speak.

Shifts his wrist.

Pulls the trigger.

He shoots the leader in all his limbs.

The leader shrieks in pain and drops like a ragdoll.

He hands me the gun.

“Finish it,” he whispers in pain. Looks into my eyes. “It must be you.”

And walks into the street.

The night swallows him.

I turn toward the leader, now lying helpless on the ground. I raise the gun. It feels heavy. I take a deep breath, steady my aim on his forehead, squeeze the trigger, and close my eyes just for a moment.

I hear his skull crack, the bullet forcing its way toward his brain. A squelching sound, then a pop. The bullet leaves through the back of his head, blood dripping, pieces of his brain sticking to it.

Somehow it comforts my soul. My fears vanish. I am ready.

Again! This time I aim faster.

Another bullet disturbs a man even in death. Never mind. He deserves it. The journey of the bullet sounds satisfying.

The twisting agony in my stomach leaves me. I feel something crack open inside me — not guilt. Release.

Another one! This time I don’t close my eyes, nor do my hands shiver.

“That one was for my best friend, you motherfucker.”

And the world goes quiet again.

But not clean.

Never clean.

“I believe it was yours,” I smirk and say as I toss the gun onto the dead leader’s chest.

I look at the old man and the family huddled behind him.

I bend down, pick the gun up again, and hand the revolver by the barrel to the old man.

“He wouldn’t need it anymore. Take care,” I say to the family.

I pick up his teddy bear from where it fell, dust it off, and jog into the night, wondering if I could ever see him again.

You think The Devil has horns? So did I.

He necessarily doesn’t.

He has a face like yours. Like mine. He wears a suit and tie, a disarming smile.

He’s The Devil in disguise.

 

A Short Story written by

- Sarwesh 

 

Source of supporting Inspiration credit: Devil in Disguise song by Marino 

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