The Price of Peace

The ceiling fan creaked like a crow trapped in an endless loop. Jeevan sat beneath it, his back slightly hunched, the pale shirt on his back soaked through with sweat. A file lay open on his lap, though he hadn’t turned a page in twenty minutes. He stared at the same line over and over again, but the words refused to enter his mind. Outside, the sun slanted low through the rusted window grill, casting long shadows on the cracked floor tiles.

The smell of fried onions drifted in from the kitchen.

In the next room, Chintu and Chinni were fighting again. Something about crayons. Their voices rose and fell like a distant siren. He thought of intervening, but before he could move, Soumya’s voice rang out.

“Your salary came today, didn’t it?”

He didn’t answer immediately. He knew the tone. It had become a ritual. On the first day of every month.

Soumya stood in the doorway, wiping her hands on the end of her saree. Her eyes were already narrowed, even before he replied.

“Yes,” he said, softly.

“And?”

“I withdrew some for the school fees, groceries, flat rent, and electricity. The rest is in the account.”

She scoffed. Loud enough for the children to fall silent in the other room.

“In the account? What good is that? It’s not going to grow by sitting there, is it?”

He didn’t respond.

Soumya crossed the room, picked up a steel tumbler from the table, and slammed it in the sink with a sharp clang. “I should’ve listened to my mother. She said you’d never make anything of yourself.”

He looked up now. His eyes weren’t angry. Just tired. “I’m not Ramesh Babu.”

She turned abruptly. “No, you’re not. And you never will be.”

* * *

That night, Jeevan lay awake long after the others had fallen asleep. The ceiling fan clicked with every rotation, a small crack in one of the blades making the sound slightly uneven. Chinni’s little hand rested on his arm, her breath warm and steady. Chintu had taken the mattress on the floor, curled up like a kitten.

Soumya had turned her back to him. Her breathing was calm, but he knew she wasn’t asleep. Not fully.

He stared at the ceiling and tried to remember when all this had started. Not the arguments. Not the unfair comparisons. But the loss. The quiet shrinking of something between them.

They hadn’t married through family connections. They had met at university. She had been sharp, witty, and impossibly confident. She had laughed in debates and challenged professors without flinching. He had admired her even before he’d spoken to her.

They had married against advice. Hers, mainly. Her family had warned her—a government job might sound stable, but it wouldn’t get her anywhere. Ramesh Babu, her elder brother, had made sure to voice his disapproval. He had sneered at Jeevan’s salary figures and spoken loudly about opportunities in business.

But she had chosen him anyway.

Now, years later, she seemed to carry that choice like a burden.

* * *

On Sunday morning, Ramesh Babu arrived. He came without warning, like a thunderstorm. The usual gold chain hung around his neck, glinting even in the dull light of the flat. His sunglasses remained on until he reached the teapoy.

“Bava!” he said, patting Jeevan’s hand. “Still wearing the same watch?”

Jeevan offered a weak smile.

“You must join me,” Ramesh Babu said, plopping down on the settee. “There’s money to be made. Real money. You won’t get anywhere sitting with dusty files.”

Soumya came in with tea. She had made rava kesari, too. Jeevan hadn’t seen that in six months. Did she know that Ramesh Babu would visit them? Was it planned? he wondered.

“You’re wasting your time in that job,” Ramesh Babu continued. “Come on board for one project. One. You’ll earn more in a month than you do in a year.”

Jeevan stirred his tea slowly. “And what do I have to do?”

“Nothing. Just help push a few papers. Say yes to some things. Say nothing to others. That’s all.”

Soumya laughed, a laugh too bright for the room. “At least listen to him, Jeev. He’s trying to help.”

Ramesh Babu leaned back, his belly pushing against his shirt buttons. “I’m not saying rob a bank. Just stop being so ... honest.”

Jeevan looked at him. “And sleep how many hours a night after that?”

Ramesh Babu winked. “Sleep is for the broke.”

* * *

That night, Jeevan sat alone on the balcony. A warm wind blew from the east, carrying the smell of burning plastic from a nearby trash pile. He watched a dog limp across the alley, its ribs visible through its fur.

Soumya joined him and stood across from him, arms akimbo.

“He’s right,” she said. “You’re not trying hard enough.”

His jaw tightened.

“You think your job gives you dignity. But what’s dignity worth if we can’t even buy a washing machine or a smart TV?”

He didn’t answer.

She turned and walked back inside. Her words remained behind, like smoke.

* * *

He had sat on the balcony long after Soumya had gone in. The wind had picked up slightly, stirring the pages of a discarded newspaper near the railing. His chest felt hollow, like something had been scooped out and not replaced.

He wasn’t angry—not in the way that makes a man slam doors or break glasses. It was a quieter thing. A tightness that wouldn’t go. He felt like a man standing under a leaking roof, holding a bent bucket, while someone else passed by under an umbrella made of gold.

Part of him wanted to scream, to shout that he was not a failure, that working with honesty was not the same as being small. But what did it matter if no one believed it? Not even the woman who had once stood beside him against her whole family.

He knew his helplessness didn’t stem from lack of effort. It came from watching decency shrink in a room where money spoke louder.

It was then that the idea took shape—not as revenge, not as anger, but as something that had long simmered and finally boiled over. He would buy his peace not with silence, not with money, but with truth.

* * *

He began to collect things.

Emails that Ramesh Babu had forwarded without thinking. Screenshots from social media—photos of bundles of cash, large dinners, foreign trips. Videos from weddings where Ramesh Babu had boasted too loudly about ‘managing’ inspectors.

He saved WhatsApp messages. He looked up property records. He checked land registrations in Ramesh Babu’s name and in the names of others—the benamidars—who weren’t even on the family tree.

He found a recording from a phone call—one where Ramesh Babu had joked about how “the tax guys are all taken care of.”

He stored everything on a pen drive. He wrote a long, careful letter. He attached documents. Photos. Bank statements. Property lists. Screenshots of social media posts.

He mailed the envelope to the Income Tax Department’s confidential desk at Aayakar Bhavan in Hyderabad. No name, no return address—just the truth.

Then he waited.

* * *

The raid came on a Tuesday.

Jeevan had just returned from the office. He had loosened his shoes when the doorbell rang.

Six officers stood outside. No fuss. No drama.

“Are you related to Mr Ramesh Babu?” one asked.

Soumya appeared behind him. Her face turned white.

“Yes,” Jeevan said.

“We’re conducting a search. Standard procedure. We’re also visiting the homes of Mr Babu’s associates and relatives.”

They entered. Quiet. Efficient.

They opened cupboards. Searched drawers. Soumya tried to protest.

“That’s my jewellery! My parents gave it to me when I got married!”

“Do you have receipts, ma’am?”

“They’re old gifts!”

“Without proof, we must log them.”

They took her bangles. Her necklace. Her earrings. Even the diamond nose pin she had tucked away in a small leather box.

They gave her a receipt. She sat down on the floor, stunned.

Jeevan watched in silence.

* * *

The newspapers had the story the next day. Local Businessman Raided for Tax Evasion. There was a photo. Ramesh Babu in a white shirt, walking out of a building, covering his face.

Soumya didn’t speak for three days. She sat in the same chair, holding her phone. Her mother called. Her voice cracked. Her father didn’t.

On the fourth night, she cooked dinner. Rice and dal. No salt. No oil.

Jeevan ate without complaint.

She watched him eat. Her arms were folded, though she didn’t seem to know it.

“Did you know this would happen?” Her voice wasn’t sharp. It was low and tired, the way someone speaks after a long illness.

He set his spoon down. “What do you think?”

She shook her head. “Don’t answer that.”

He waited. The fan turned above them with its usual complaint. Outside, a dog barked and fell silent again.

“I should’ve seen it coming,” she said. “All that show—cars, watches, parties. I thought he was careful. I thought ... he was smart. Maybe I pushed him. Maybe we all did. Maybe I—”

She stopped. Her fingers were pressed so tightly together the knuckles had gone white. She didn’t seem to notice.

“I should’ve stopped comparing you to him. I thought I was just being honest. But maybe I was cruel. I thought he was the one who had it all figured out.”

Jeevan didn’t speak. He looked at the table, then at her. There was nothing in his face—no triumph, no pity.

“I hate this world,” she said. “You follow rules, they laugh at you. You break them, they clap—until someone stronger decides it’s time to watch you burn.”

She rose and walked to the sink. She didn’t wash anything. She stood there as if the silence had length.

“I don’t know who I’m angry with,” she said. “Him. Myself. Everyone.”

Jeevan got up, pushed his chair in, and went to their room.

Soumya stayed behind. The tap still leaked. The fan still creaked. But something inside her had stopped moving.

* * *

Weeks passed.

She stopped bringing up Ramesh Babu. She stopped asking about Jeevan’s salary. The sharpness in her voice faded, replaced by something quieter.

Not love. Not yet. But a silence less cruel.

She began packing his lunch again. She washed his work shirts without being asked. She helped Chintu with his homework and stopped snapping when Chinni spilt milk.

Late one evening, Jeevan returned home to find her sewing a torn schoolbag. She didn’t look up when he entered, but she said, “The zip was loose.”

He just nodded.

* * *

It was a quiet Sunday morning. Jeevan was scanning the newspaper, eager to read about the DA instalments released yesterday. Chintu climbed up beside him, pushed the newspaper aside, and asked, “Dad, are we poor?”

Jeevan folded the newspaper and looked at him. “Why do you ask?”

“Because Mummy doesn’t wear her gold bangles anymore.”

Soumya was ironing clothes in the corner. Her hands froze.

Jeevan said, “Being poor means having no choices. We still have choices.”

Chintu nodded slowly. “Okay,” he said, as if he had learnt a big lesson about life.

He went back to his drawing.

Soumya didn’t say anything. But that night, she placed an extra roti on his plate and a boiled egg beside it. When the children fell asleep, she inched closer to him on the bed and clung to him like a child.

* * *

The months slipped by, quiet and uneventful.

The flat remained the same. The fan still creaked. The kitchen tap still leaked. But the air had changed.

Jeevan no longer walked in expecting a quarrel.

Ramesh Babu was still under investigation. Some of his properties had been sealed. His friends had distanced themselves. The newspaper stopped printing his name, but the damage had settled under the surface, like silt in a river.

Soumya never asked about it.

She went back to tying her hair in a bun, like she used to. She started reading again—old Telugu novels by Yaddanapudi, Arekapudi, and Hajara—their pages yellowed and dog-eared, yet evergreen. She began making rava kesari, kobbari louz, shrikhand, and other sweet dishes that Jeevan had always loved. She took to folding clothes with care, not resentment. She even dusted the photo frame on the wall—a wedding picture she hadn’t looked at in years. The change was slow, quiet but unmistakable. She was mostly silent, but that silence wasn’t empty—it carried the weight of thought.

It was like every other evening, except that the streetlights flickered on a little too early. Jeevan and Soumya sat in the balcony, drinking tea. Chintu and Chinni were playing hide-and-seek downstairs with other children. Soumya said, “You’re not like other men.” She sounded as if she had rehearsed the sentence many times.

He raised an eyebrow.

“Other men would’ve crumbled. Or shouted. Or left.”

He sipped his tea. “I thought about it.”

She smiled.

It wasn’t a big smile. But it stayed.

He smiled back instinctively, then quickly looked away. Peace at last—this time he smiled to himself—but it had come at a price. Those who had disrupted it paid the price, not he. That the guilty should pay the price was only fair.