The Alpha Killed My Husband

2| Armaan Bhaijaan

Sarvayoni's:

Armaan Abas Khan is the most popular character in The Appy Lane.

Friendly and respected that I or anyone else had barely heard him addressed otherwise but with his first name followed by an endearing suffix that varies from person to person.

The younger ones would call him Armaan Bhaijaan (brother). The elderly people would address him, Armaan Beta (son), and people his age would often be heard calling him with different endearments. All in all, he is regarded and appreciated for his refreshing tea and the accompanying gossip.

Because Armaan Bhaijaan is an omniscient...

His popularity amongst the hardworking laborers isn't earned in a day or two. It has taken him exactly twenty years to establish himself in Appy Lane. Twenty years, plus a tea stall and a healthy number of connections with the sahibs (officers of the port), Ayesha (Madam of the Tawaivada: the most influential brothel of Cape Comorin), and the newspaper delivery boy (who delivers newspapers early in the morning and in the afternoon and serves as a helper in the Alpha Mansion rest of the time).

Armaan Bhaijaan was eleven when he was brought to Cape Comorin as a slave. His father had died at the early age of twenty-nine defending the Alpha King Atharva and his mother was pregnant with a fifth were-woman. Being the eldest in the house, he had little choice but to crush his dreams underneath the overbearing burden of responsibilities.

During the early years of miserable poverty and struggle, he used to perform odd jobs at various places— a sweeper in Tawaivada, where he was later promoted to be a janitor. A shoeshiner when the Tawaivada was raided and temporarily closed on the grounds of minor s*x s*****y. A car cleaner for a rich vampire from the Middle East. A fetcher when the said vampire was arrested in a smuggling case, and Begger when he could not find anything else to do.

It was all until the day he had decided he had had enough of begging from door to door and rented the same tea stall that he owns today. He started his business with the help of Madam Ayesha, whose sister later tied the knot with Armaan Bhaijaan and became family.

In the next ten years that followed, Armaan Bhaijaan has it all—a house, a mate, and pups.

Bhaijaan's influential customers knock in the morning after spending a pleasurable night at Tawaivada and fill him up with 'insider news'. They'd be generous in leaving handsome tips in exchange for getting to know 'what's hot in the brothel, who had spent the night with whom, and who is the freshly brought virgin exclusively for the sahibs.

Armaan Bhaijaan, being an excessively talkative person, would vomit all the details in a snap without regrets. His ways could be unethical, but it is his way and he has earned it.

He has become an inspiration for every new slave wolf that is thrown into the miseries of Appy Lane. He also became a messiah by lending money to the needy at moderate rates. Presently, a man in his late forties, Armaan isn't only famous but admired amongst his peers for his generosity.

The man is a gem for a person in the heart. His aura is so divine that I often forget that he is a werewolf (therefore an enemy) and not a serpent who crawls. A year back when I'd stumbled my way into the Lane, Armaan was the man who introduced me to Mad-Manish and asked him to take me for a job.

'He is lewd but pays honestly. Don't fall into his trap or you will end up in a hospital bed undergoing parturition.' He had warned us. He helped me then. I am sure he will help me now.

'You think it will work?' Avika asks, eyeing the crowded tea stall unassuredly. Her eyes narrow at Armaan Bhaijaan's guffawing face before it averts to me.

'It will have to. We will have to make it work. She will be attending the event tomorrow. Tonight, there is a party. It is our chance. We will have to wait for another six months if we miss it. We have to convince Armaan Bhaijaan.' I speak through my teeth, looking around my surroundings.

The Appy Lane is overcrowded with sweat and blood-reeking slaves and laborers—living their lives away in pathetic poverty. Their faces are sad and their stomachs are empty. Many of them could not secure work for the day—they are ashamed to show their faces to their mates and pups.

Their soul is singing lullabies of helplessness. No one is there to listen to their endless sorrows. They are vulnerable, tortured, tormented, and forced into a life they do not deserve.

I, Queen Sarvayoni, am one of them. I can read the pain in their eyes, and listen to the upset tunes of their hearts. I have lived amongst them, with them, like them—I understand the curse poverty is.

I understand them—they are like my own people, which is why I no longer despise their whole race but a specific leader who is responsible for all of it.

Many of them are pups, underage and innocent. They have lost their protectors in wars or other equivalently terrifying incidents. The state is responsible for their orphan status but they do not care. The state is responsible for compelling them into p**********n, s*****y, begging, and criminal records.

They are unguided, uncared for. That filthy Alpha does not have any head in it. Why would he? He might be sleeping away in the warmth of his luxurious chamber. His food shall be served before he wakes up. A fresh pair of clothes will confine his delicate body.

I want to chop his head and hang it in the middle of the square.

It is not about my vengeance any longer. It is about Appy Lane and its residents. It is about all other alike lanes where these poor creatures could not afford to eat a one-time meal even after a whole day's hard work.

I have to do it. You do not deserve to live, Rudra. You do not deserve to rule. My heart is crying. It is filled with venom and agony. I nod in determination and inches at the tea stall.

Tonight is an important night and only Armaan can help with this.

Avika follows closely behind. Her twinkling eyes are filled with fear and uncertainty.

Needless to say, she is terrified. Even though we have gone through the plan over and over again, our hearts are thumping like anything. Planning things on paper is one thing, bringing them to action and implementation is another. A single wrong move can reveal our concealed identity. It can ruin us and waste all the hardships we have been through the past three years.

I let out a heavy breath that I did not know I was holding as I stand at the stall's entrance. I could hear the conversation loud and clear.

'Did you listen to the assembly debate today?' Tea-man, Armaan asks his loyal-royal customers as he pours tea into a Kulhaad (ceramic cup) and offers it. Hope twinkles in his eyes. He is desperate to get more news on the subject so he could further use the facts in the tavern late at night when he'd boast about his 'knowing it all' business.

Armaan is the gossip queen of Appy Lane. You would want to know 'whose who'. You don't have to work hard. All you have to do is put a shimmering coin of ten rupees in Armaan's rugged palms, order a chai (tea) and deliberately start the topic. A man can talk nonstop for hours as long as one lends him ears.

I am awry of the statutes.

'Good evening, Bhaijaan!' I greeted him politely with a small sad smile. I did not have to make the effort to pull the expression. It comes naturally. Three years have been wasted on nothing. My grief can melt hearts.

Armaan Bhaijaan peeps from behind his desk and a slight smile graces his weather-beaten face. The man is ahead of the time—both in the sense of maturity and courage. His long beard is turning gray and his scalp is blading ever so slowly. His tan is enviously glittering, but the scar stretching over every other inch reminds us of privation since childhood.

'Ah, Komal. Neha. Come! Come! It was your salary day. Isn't it? You girls! Getting money a second and ready to spend it all another. You must save for bad times. I am not saying that you should not spend money on your desires. But save a little. Savings are harsh times, best friend. So, what would you like to have today? Today, I made this special ginger basil tea. It is invigorating. Only for fifteen rupees a cup. Gohar made the cookies in fresh butter. We bought it from the pot last night. Fresh and delicious. Want to try it? Abdul, go get two cups of today's special and some cookies.' Armaan Bhaijaan chirps like a toddler, saying it all in one breath.

He looks around at the crowd and is pleased with the math he has done in his head. Surely, the day is a good business. His mood reflects it all. It is not good for me. I wanted him to be upset and grief-ridden so he could relate to my fake sentiments. His happy mood only warns me of the extra drama I will have to put up with.

'Thank you, Bhaijaan.' Avika and I speak together, occupying the nearest vacant seat.

In a blink, Abdul, a young werewolf in his early twenties, hands us the tea and cookies. He smiles, bows at us, and leaves in a snap—perhaps to serve another order.

'Bhaijaan,' I pause, taking a sip of the tea. It is indeed invigorating, as Armaan had claimed, and it does not suit the mood I want to be in.

Armaan Bhaijaan pauses counting the coins and looks at me expectedly. I try to put my best grief-stricken face—moisture in the eyes, whimpering lips, and vulnerability written all over the face.

'My Lord! Are you okay, my child? What happened? Did that Manish do something? Did he—'

'Bhaijaan, can you take us to Tawaivada? Neha's grandmother met with an accident. A vampire attacked her last night. We need money.' I speak in a small voice, shifting my gaze to her lap. 'She is the only family left after her mother eloped. Neha cannot lose her.'

I pause for a second, letting Armaan absorb each word. His brows knitted together in concern and the joy had vanished. I dampen my eyes when he looks at me and sob.

'I can lend—'

'We have heard that a team is being sent to the Luna's welcoming party tonight. There will be rich sahibs. Ankita told us about her customers. They leave tips in thousands. We can earn it through the night. How else can we afford the surgery? It will be a huge amount. We won't be able to repay our whole life, Bhaijaan. Those sahibs can help us.'

On cue, Neha bursts into hysteric sobs. Almost immediately, Armaan Bhaijaan crumpled on his knees to soothe her. He cooed wishes and positivity in her ears as he promises to introduce us to Madame Ayesha right away.