The Smuggler's Route
The salty sea breeze hit Vikram's face as the small trawler sliced through the moonlit waters of the Bay of Bengal. Aisha sat beside him, her fingers anxiously gripping the wooden railing as the boat rocked against the waves. Behind them, the dim glow of Kolkata was fading into the horizon.
Their escape had been too close. The library—gone. Every book, every piece of evidence, burned to the ground.
And now, their only lead lay ahead—on an island shrouded in myths, military secrecy, and ghosts of the past.
The Andaman Islands.
The smuggler who had agreed to take them across was a gruff, one-eyed fisherman named Yashwant. He had scars across his face—souvenirs from battles no one spoke of. He didn't ask questions.
"You're playing with dangerous waters," he muttered, adjusting the boat's controls. "The Andamans aren't just a vacation spot, you know? Government controls most of it. And the parts they don't control… well, let's just say, not everyone who goes in comes back."
Vikram exchanged a look with Aisha.
"Where exactly are we landing?" she asked.
Yashwant didn't answer immediately. He pulled out a weathered old map, tracing a calloused finger over the islands.
"Most people go to Port Blair. That's where the tourists and historians hang out. But you…" He tapped a spot deep in the Nicobar region, far from civilization.
"This here is Ross Island. British used it as their capital once. Abandoned now, but it's crawling with military presence."
Vikram leaned in. "And what's here?" He pointed to an unmarked island nearby.
Yashwant hesitated. "That's North Sentinel Island. You don't go there. No one does."
Aisha's voice was barely a whisper. "The Sentinelese…"
Vikram nodded grimly. The Sentinelese were one of the last uncontacted tribes on Earth. They killed anyone who tried to set foot on their land. Even the Indian government left them alone.
But something about the coordinates bothered him.
The location was close—too close—to that forbidden island.
Which meant…
Someone had been hiding there.
And that someone could be Arun Bose.
The Island of No Return
By sunrise, they had reached Ross Island. It looked like a forgotten kingdom, reclaimed by the jungle. Moss-covered ruins of old British mansions stood among the towering banyan trees. The air smelled of damp earth and something else—the past.
The moment Vikram and Aisha stepped onto the island, a low mechanical hum filled the air.
Drones.
Aisha stiffened. "They knew we were coming."
Vikram's eyes scanned the ruins. No guards. No military presence. Only the buzzing of surveillance drones circling above.
Then, a sound cut through the silence.
A radio transmission. Faint, distorted, but unmistakable.
"...Kilo-9… coordinates… shift to Point 37... priority target inbound…"
Vikram's blood ran cold. They were being watched.
Aisha grabbed his arm. "We need to move. Now."
They slipped into the dense undergrowth, keeping low as the drones circled. Every step forward felt like a step into a forgotten conspiracy.
Then, through the thick jungle, they saw it.
A massive iron door, embedded into the side of a crumbling British fortress.
Vikram's breath caught. A hidden bunker.
He turned to Aisha. "This is it."
She nodded. "We're about to walk into the lion's den."
Vikram pushed the door open.
The Ghost of Arun Bose
The air inside was stale, electric, and charged with secrets. Dim emergency lights flickered overhead. Old computer terminals lined the walls, their screens still glowing faintly.
Someone had been here recently.
Aisha moved to a dust-covered desk, flipping through ancient files and yellowed documents. Her fingers froze over a handwritten letter.
Vikram peered over her shoulder.
The letter was dated 1983.
"To the New India,
If you are reading this, you have uncovered what was meant to remain buried.
They told me that time erases everything. That history is written by those who survive.
But the truth? It lingers. It refuses to die.
They think I am a ghost.
Perhaps, in some ways, I am."
Signed,
Arun Bose.
Aisha's hand trembled. "He was alive in 1983. That means…"
Vikram finished the thought. "That means Bose didn't just survive 1945. He survived for decades."
His mind reeled. If Arun Bose was still alive in 1983, it meant that Subhas Chandra Bose's legacy didn't die in Taiwan.
It had continued, in the shadows. Unseen. Unchallenged. Unwritten.
But where was he now?
And then—a sound.
A faint click.
Vikram spun, heart hammering. A security system had just activated.
The air shifted. A hidden door at the end of the room slid open.
A man stepped out.
Old. Tall. Dressed in a faded military uniform.
But it was his eyes that made Vikram freeze.
They were sharp. Intelligent. And filled with secrets no one should know.
The man studied them in silence, then—he spoke.
"So… you finally found me."
Vikram's world spun.
Arun Bose was alive.
And now, he was standing right in front of them.