Akash Pal is a Man of Responsibilities
For the first time in weeks, he had something to do.
Akash Pal stood before the cracked mirror in his dimly lit apartment, his own reflection staring back at him—a ghost of the man he used to be. His eyes, hollow and bloodshot, bore the weight of sleepless nights, dark circles settling beneath them like bruises from an unseen war. His beard, rough and unkempt, shadowed his sharp jawline, a testament to the days he had let slip away in a haze of smoke and silence.
With a slow, mechanical motion, he splashed cold water on his face, the droplets sliding down his skin, washing away nothing but the dust of neglect. He ran a comb through his disheveled hair, the strands falling back into their usual chaos as if resisting order. A quick spray of cologne under his arms did little to mask the lingering scent of tobacco that clung to his clothes, to his very being.
The cigarette between his fingers burned steadily, its ember glowing with an eerie persistence, much like the fire raging in his chest. It had been days—weeks—since the betrayal, but the wound had not scabbed over. It festered, raw and unrelenting, fueled by the image of Chitrakshi Sen, draped in red, laughing with Kiaan Roy as if nothing had ever existed between them.
He took a deep drag, letting the smoke coil in his lungs before releasing it in a slow, heavy exhale. The bitterness curled on his tongue, but it was nothing compared to the taste of betrayal that had settled at the back of his throat.
Bipin Sen had given him a task, and though his mind resisted, his body moved on autopilot. He had to meet Gaurav Banerjee. He had to ensure the delivery of paper for Sen Publishers. Not for Chitrakshi. Not for Bipin Sen.
For himself.
Without another glance at his reflection, Akash grabbed his keys, the cigarette still burning between his fingers, and stepped out into the world—where the fire in his heart refused to die.
The factory loomed ahead like an aging giant, its walls stained with time and its air thick with the mingling scents of wood, ink, and damp paper. As Akash Pal stepped inside, the rhythmic hum of machines echoed around him, the scent of freshly processed pulp stinging his nostrils. The workers moved with mechanical precision, their hands stained with the raw essence of creation—tree bark, paper fibers, and sweat.
Gaurav Banerjee sat in a modest office near the heart of the factory, surrounded by stacks of yellowing invoices, sample paper rolls, and half-open ledgers. His salt-and-pepper hair was slicked back, his face worn yet sharp with the experience of years spent in this very trade. He looked up as Akash entered, his eyes narrowing slightly as he tried to place the young man before him.
Akash knew that look—the uncertainty, the vague flicker of recognition struggling to grasp something familiar. He let the moment stretch before finally breaking the silence.
“I’m Akash Pal,” he said, his voice steady, devoid of warmth.
Gaurav’s expression cleared as understanding settled in. A small smile tugged at the older man’s lips as he gestured toward the wooden chair across from him.
“Ah, Akash Pal,” he said, nodding. “Sit, sit. How is your father-in-law doing? Is he okay?”
Akash’s jaw tightened. He inhaled, his fingers instinctively seeking the cigarette in his pocket, though he resisted lighting it.
“He is not yet my father-in-law,” Akash corrected, his tone edged with something close to bitterness. “But he will be.”
The sharpness in his voice made Gaurav blink. The older man’s smile faltered, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. He hadn’t expected hostility—only pleasantries, business talk. But Akash wasn’t here for small talk.
Gaurav cleared his throat, attempting to shift the conversation. “Can I order some tea, coffee, or maybe a cold drink for you, sir?”
Akash leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk, his gaze unwavering.
“I didn’t come here for tea or coffee,” he said, his voice laced with impatience. “Bipin Sen-ji sent me to ask about the paper stock that hasn’t been delivered to Sen Publishers.”
Gaurav sighed, rubbing his temples before leaning back in his chair. “I sincerely apologize for the delay,” he said, his voice heavy with genuine regret. “Our paper-making machine broke down. We tried repairing it—three times, in fact. But all it gave us in return was a pile of bills, and it still refused to work. We had no choice but to invest in a new machine.”
He stood up, smoothing the wrinkles from his shirt as he gestured for Akash to follow.
“Come,” he said, placing a firm hand on Akash’s shoulder. “Let me show you.”
Reluctantly, Akash followed him through the maze of the factory. The air thickened with the scent of processed pulp and damp fibers. Piles of wooden logs lay stacked against the walls, their bark stripped away to reveal pale, raw cores, ready to be ground into pulp. Workers in sweat-stained uniforms heaved sacks of shredded fibers onto conveyor belts, while massive rollers pressed and stretched them into delicate, fragile sheets.
And then, there it was—the new machine.
It stood like a behemoth in the center of the production floor, its steel body gleaming under the industrial lights, the scent of fresh oil and machinery lingering in the air. Gaurav gestured toward it proudly.
“This beauty can process tons of paper using the finest wooden pulp,” he said, his voice brimming with the kind of admiration one reserved for something that had cost a fortune. “Now that it’s up and running, we’ll be able to meet the demand again. The paper stock for Sen Publishers will be delivered soon—I promise you that.”
Akash crossed his arms, surveying the factory, the ceaseless labor, the endless piles of raw material waiting to be transformed. His anger, though not extinguished, simmered beneath the surface.
“See that you do,” he muttered, his voice low.
Because right now, business was the only thing keeping him from thinking about the fire still burning inside him.
Akash Pal turned slightly, his eyes narrowing as he studied Gaurav Banerjee one last time. The factory’s dim industrial lights cast long shadows over the older man’s face, emphasizing the deep lines of experience etched into his skin. There was something in Gaurav’s expression—pride, perhaps, or the quiet dignity of a man who had spent decades building his business. But Akash wasn’t here for sentiment.
He took a slow drag from his cigarette, exhaled a thin stream of smoke, and let his voice drop into an unsettling calm.
“Let us know,” he said, his words deliberate, sharp as a blade, “if you’ve found a better business partner than Bipin Sen… ji.”
Gaurav’s brow furrowed.
Akash flicked the ash from his cigarette, his gaze unwavering. “Because if you have, we’ll have to find an alternative. The publishing business doesn’t stop for anyone. We’ll keep things running—with or without you. Hope I’m clear, Gaurav Banerjee-ji?”
A flicker of something passed through Gaurav’s eyes—discomfort, maybe, but also an understanding of the weight behind Akash’s words. He straightened slightly, the easy warmth from earlier replaced by a serious resolve.
His voice, when he spoke, was firm, unwavering.
“My first priority will always be Bipin Sen and Sen Publishers only. Only Bipin Sen Ji. Ok? Ok?”
Akash didn’t blink.
Gaurav stepped closer, his fingers gripping the edge of his desk as if to reinforce his point. “From today, for the next ten days, we will be making paper only for Bipin Sen and Sen Publishers. All other orders will be paused. No one else will get a single sheet until your stock is delivered. Ok, sir? Ok, sir?”
There was no hesitation in his tone, no room for doubt. It was a businessman’s promise—one forged from years of trust and, perhaps, a hint of fear.
Akash let the silence stretch between them, then nodded once, satisfied. Without another word, he turned on his heel and strode toward the exit, his cigarette still burning between his fingers.
The deal was set.
Now, all that was left was to wait—and see if Gaurav Banerjee kept his word.
As Akash Pal stepped out of the factory, the heavy scent of wood pulp and ink still clinging to his clothes, he pulled out his phone. The night air was thick with humidity, and the dim glow of streetlights barely cut through the shadows. He flicked the cigarette from his fingers, crushing the embers underfoot before dialing the number he knew by heart.
The call barely rang twice before Bipin Sen answered.
“Akash,” Bipin’s deep, authoritative voice came through the speaker. “What did he say?”
Akash took a breath, his jaw tightening. “Gaurav Banerjee assured me that Sen Publishers is his first priority. He admitted the delay was because their old paper-making machine was broken. He tried fixing it three times, but it kept failing. So, he bought a new one.”
Bipin was silent for a moment, processing the information.
Akash continued, his voice edged with impatience. “He says for the next ten days, his factory will produce paper for no one else—only Sen Publishers. All other orders are on hold until our stock is delivered.”
A slow exhale came through the line, followed by a deep chuckle.
“I knew you were the right person to get the job done, son,” Bipin said, his tone carrying a rare warmth. “That’s exactly what I wanted to hear.”
Akash’s grip on the phone tightened at the word son. He didn’t respond to it—didn’t let it settle too deeply in his mind. Not yet.
Instead, he said, “You’ll get your paper. No more delays.”
“Good,” Bipin said, his satisfaction evident. “Come home for dinner sometime. We should talk.”
Akash ended the call without a reply.
His job here was done. But his real work—the thing that had been consuming him like a slow-burning fire—was only just beginning.
