The Boy Who Never Existed
1988 Words
The rain returned the night Nirmal Kaur found the dead file.
Not ordinary rain.
The kind that made forests sound haunted.
Wind bent the sanctuary trees violently while distant thunder rolled across the border hills like buried anger waking beneath the earth. Inside the temporary ranger office near the sanctuary compound, dim emergency lights flickered above stacks of classified reports spread across Nirmal’s desk.
Everyone else had gone to sleep hours ago.
But Nirmal remained awake.
Because something about Joga Singh refused to make sense.
No fingerprints.
No educational records.
No citizenship history.
Nothing.
It was as if the country itself had erased him.
Or buried him.
Nirmal rubbed tired eyes before inserting another confiscated hard drive into the secured government terminal she had secretly hacked using old forest department access codes.
The screen blinked twice.
ACCESS RESTRICTED.
She typed another password.
Then another.
Finally—
A hidden archive opened.
Her heartbeat slowed instantly.
The folder title read:
SECTOR 17 INCIDENT
CLASSIFIED LEVEL BLACK
Nirmal frowned.
Sector 17.
The abandoned forest zone near the border where dozens of wildlife disappearances occurred years ago.
Most officers avoided mentioning it now.
She opened the first file.
What appeared on the screen made her blood run cold.
CASUALTY REPORT — MASS FOREST FIRE
OFFICIAL DEATH COUNT: 43
UNIDENTIFIED CHILD VICTIM: JOGA SINGH
Nirmal froze.
The photograph attached underneath showed a thin twelve-year-old boy standing beside an older village woman near a forest river.
Sharp eyes.
Dark hair.
The same face.
Joga.
A child version of him.
Officially dead.
Nirmal whispered slowly, “Waheguru…”
Thunder cracked outside the building.
She opened more files rapidly.
Burned villages.
Destroyed ranger camps.
Missing witnesses.
Confiscated ivory transport logs.
Every report connected to illegal poaching operations hidden beneath fake wildfire explanations.
Then she found the final classified document.
ACCESS AUTHORIZED ONLY FOR MINISTERIAL CLEARANCE
Nirmal opened it anyway.
Photographs appeared one after another.
Dead elephants.
Tiger carcasses.
Burned homes.
Bullet-ridden villagers.
Children missing.
And at the bottom:
SURVIVORS MUST NOT REMAIN.
Nirmal sat back in horror.
This wasn’t poaching.
It was a m******e.
And someone powerful had erased it from history.
Including the boy who survived it.
Including Joga Singh.
Miles away, deep inside the sanctuary forest, Joga walked silently through darkness with a flashlight hanging loosely from one hand.
Bhaag followed closely behind him.
“This path doesn’t even exist on official maps,” she whispered.
“That’s why poachers use it.”
Rainwater dripped from tree branches overhead while insects echoed loudly through the night jungle around them. The deeper they moved into the forest, the more Bhaag realized how naturally Joga belonged there.
He moved without hesitation.
Without fear.
As if the forest itself whispered directions only he understood.
“Slow down,” she muttered quietly while climbing over roots.
Joga stopped immediately.
She nearly walked directly into him.
For one brief second, her hand pressed against his chest to steady herself.
Warm.
Solid.
Too close.
The moment lasted only a heartbeat.
But something dangerous moved through her chest anyway.
Joga stepped back carefully.
“Careful,” he said softly.
Bhaag hated how calm his voice remained while her own heartbeat suddenly felt uneven.
“You walk like a ghost,” she whispered.
“I learned young that forests punish noise.”
The flashlight beam moved across claw marks carved into a nearby tree trunk.
Fresh.
Joga crouched immediately.
His expression sharpened.
“Tiger passed through here recently.”
“How can you tell?”
He touched the bark lightly.
“Territory warning.”
Bhaag stared at him again.
“How do you know all this?”
Joga remained silent.
The silence itself had become part of him now.
Like scars.
Like rain.
Like loneliness.
Bhaag looked away first.
Because lately silence around him had started affecting her strangely.
Not comfortably.
Not safely.
Every moment near him pulled her deeper into emotional territory she no longer fully controlled.
And that terrified her.
Hours earlier, Bhaag would have laughed if someone suggested she could fall in love with a man who barely spoke.
Now she wasn’t laughing anymore.
The realization had begun slowly.
Small things.
The way Joga carried injured animals more carefully than most humans carried children.
The way he stood silently during storms as if listening to something ancient inside the rain.
The way pain darkened his eyes whenever dead wildlife appeared near trafficking zones.
And worst of all—
The way he looked at lonely people.
As if he understood them completely.
That frightened her more than danger ever could.
Because Bhaag Kaur had spent years surrounded by fake affection.
Luxury parties.
Business alliances.
Media smiles.
Men who desired her surname more than her soul.
But Joga never tried impressing her.
Never chased her attention.
Never treated her like a billionaire heiress.
Sometimes he barely treated her like ordinary society existed at all.
And somehow that honesty pulled her toward him harder every day.
Which was exactly the problem.
Because she still knew almost nothing about him.
“Stop.”
Joga’s voice cut sharply through the darkness.
Bhaag froze instantly.
Joga lowered himself silently near the muddy ground.
Then pointed ahead.
Boot prints.
Fresh.
Three men at least.
Moving north.
Toward restricted sanctuary zones.
“Poachers?” Bhaag whispered.
Joga nodded once.
His expression changed immediately.
Harder.
Colder.
The softness that occasionally appeared around her vanished completely.
Now he looked dangerous again.
Like the boy beside the dying elephant.
Bhaag watched him carefully.
Hatred lived inside him.
Not wild hatred.
Controlled hatred.
The kind born from old wounds that never healed correctly.
Joga studied the tracks another moment before speaking quietly.
“They’re transporting something heavy.”
“How do you know?”
“The mud depth.”
He stood again.
“We move carefully now.”
Thunder rolled above them.
The jungle suddenly felt much darker.
Back inside the ranger office, Nirmal continued searching through the classified archive with rising horror.
A hidden audio recording finally loaded.
Static filled the speakers first.
Then screaming.
Gunshots.
Animals crying.
Men shouting orders.
The recording quality was terrible, but one sentence became horrifyingly clear:
“Burn everything before authorities arrive!”
Another voice answered:
“What about the villagers?”
A pause.
Then:
“No witnesses.”
Nirmal’s stomach tightened.
The audio continued.
Children crying.
More gunfire.
Then sudden chaos.
Someone yelling:
“The boy escaped into the forest!”
Static exploded afterward before the recording ended completely.
Nirmal sat frozen.
The boy escaped.
Joga.
Not dead.
Hidden.
Buried beneath fabricated records.
Her breathing slowed uneasily.
No wonder he trusted nobody.
No wonder silence followed him everywhere.
He had watched humanity become monsters long before adulthood.
And someone powerful still wanted the truth erased.
Nirmal quickly copied every classified file onto a hidden drive.
Because if these records disappeared again—
So would everyone investigating them.
The storm intensified near midnight.
Joga and Bhaag finally reached an abandoned watchtower hidden deep within the jungle ridge overlooking the border valley.
The structure looked ancient now.
Half collapsed.
Covered in vines.
“This place belonged to old forest patrol teams years ago,” Joga said quietly.
Bhaag stepped carefully inside while lightning illuminated the valley below.
The view stole her breath instantly.
Miles of untouched forest stretched endlessly beneath storm clouds.
Wild.
Beautiful.
Alive.
The wind pushed rain softly across her face.
For a moment neither spoke.
Then Bhaag noticed something carved into the wooden wall beside the tower entrance.
Symbols.
Circular markings.
Animal claws.
The same mysterious signs found near the dead elephant.
She turned sharply. “These symbols again.”
Joga’s eyes darkened slightly.
“Old warnings.”
“Warnings from who?”
He looked toward the forest instead of answering.
Bhaag stepped closer.
“You always do that.”
“What?”
“Avoid direct answers.”
“Some answers become dangerous once spoken aloud.”
“That doesn’t mean I stop asking.”
Finally Joga met her gaze.
Lightning flashed behind him.
And for one suspended second, he looked less like a man and more like part of the storm itself.
“You should stop following me into dangerous places,” he said quietly.
“Why?”
“Because eventually danger follows me back.”
The words carried genuine fear beneath them.
Not for himself.
For her.
Bhaag’s chest tightened unexpectedly.
“You think I scare easily?”
“No.”
“Then stop deciding what I can survive.”
Silence filled the tower again.
Heavy.
Emotional.
Too close.
Rain hammered the roof harder.
Then suddenly—
Gunshots echoed somewhere below the valley.
Both reacted instantly.
Joga grabbed Bhaag’s wrist and pulled her down behind the broken tower wall.
More shots followed.
Distant shouting.
Flashlights moving through trees.
Poachers.
Searching nearby.
Bhaag’s breathing quickened.
Joga’s hand still held her wrist firmly.
Warm.
Protective.
Dangerously comforting.
“Stay quiet,” he whispered.
The flashlight beams moved closer beneath the tower ridge.
Bhaag could hear men speaking.
“…tracks disappeared here…”
“…check upper ridge…”
“…boss said kill witnesses…”
Her pulse raced harder.
Joga slowly released her wrist only after the voices moved farther away.
But the warmth remained burned into her skin anyway.
And she hated how much she wanted him to touch her again.
Hours later, near dawn, the storm finally weakened.
The jungle became quieter.
Mist drifted slowly through trees silvered by early morning light.
Joga sat outside the abandoned tower cleaning mud from a hunting knife recovered near the poacher tracks.
Bhaag watched him silently from nearby rocks.
He looked exhausted.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
Like someone carrying memories too heavy for ordinary life.
She moved closer carefully.
“You never sleep much, do you?”
“No.”
“Nightmares?”
Joga’s hand stopped moving briefly.
Only briefly.
Then continued again.
“I remember things.”
The answer hurt her more than she expected.
Bhaag lowered herself beside him slowly.
Closer than before.
Neither spoke for several moments.
Then quietly she asked:
“What happened to you?”
Joga stared toward the forest horizon.
And suddenly—
Flashbacks shattered through his mind like broken glass.
Fire consuming village homes.
Elephants screaming.
Blood across wet earth.
Masked men shooting fleeing animals.
Children crying beneath smoke-filled skies.
A younger Joga hiding beneath overturned wooden carts while flames reflected in terrified eyes.
His mother pushing him toward the forest while shouting through tears:
“Run!”
Gunshots afterward.
Silence afterward.
Burned bodies afterward.
Joga closed his eyes tightly.
Bhaag noticed immediately.
Pain crossed his face so briefly most people would have missed it.
But she saw it.
Because she had learned loneliness teaches people how to recognize hidden suffering.
Carefully—
Very carefully—
She touched his hand.
Joga froze instantly.
The world itself seemed to stop breathing.
Bhaag almost pulled away.
But didn’t.
Neither did he.
For several silent seconds, they remained like that beneath the fading storm.
Two lonely people touching grief without words.
Then distant footsteps echoed nearby.
Joga stood immediately.
Alert again.
Danger returning instantly to his eyes.
An old man wearing worn saffron robes slowly emerged from the mist-covered trees carrying prayer beads in weathered hands.
A monk.
Or something close to one.
Long white beard.
Bare feet.
Ancient eyes.
The old man stopped the moment he saw Joga.
His expression changed completely.
Shock.
Recognition.
Almost reverence.
Rainwater dripped softly from surrounding leaves while silence settled across the ridge.
The monk stepped closer slowly.
Then whispered:
“Impossible…”
Joga’s face hardened cautiously.
“You know me?”
The old monk stared at him for a long moment before speaking words that made Bhaag’s blood turn cold.
“No,” the monk said softly.
“I know the story.”
Thunder rumbled far away beyond the mountains.
Wind moved gently through the trees.
And the old monk lowered his head slightly before whispering:
“You are the child the forest protected.”
- Writer
