Aatankwadi ki prem kahani nahi hoti.

"I will never be the first person you see when you open your eyes, but you will be the last person I see when I finally close my eyes."

He said.

The last voice message. The final recording left behind before the international terrorist was taken captive by the Turkish military forces. The last time all of India heard his voice, five years ago.

Five years had passed.

The terrorist's last voice.

Until, she heard a lound sound near her inside the Silivri Detention Complex, Turkey.

The noise she heard is a chain noise and it was so loud and too close like sharp metal grinding against the floor.

Then a thud.

Something or someone fell near her feet.

She flinched and her hand gripped her blind cane tight. The tip dragged across the floor, instinctively trying to locate the source of noise. Then she heard screaming, cussing and a loud turkish curse word she didn't need translation for. Chairs are scraping and boots are stomping.

She stayed frozen because she can't see what is going around her or the noise right next to her. A body, maybe? The weight of it hit the floor hard was too hard.

"Beloved journalist."
A male voice.

That voice is different from others. It wasn't Turkish. It was a clear, deep, gravel-edged voice like a man is nearly about to die without water but still trying hard to sound polite, highly respectful but has weight in his every word and the voice is like Indian male if she is not guessing wrong? Close. Too close. Like a Indian man in his early 30s, educated and polite.

"Beloved journalist?"

He said it again, softer, but with a kind of joy out of sick recognition.

She didn't know whether to scream or stand or speak. She just gripped her cane tighter and said nothing. She avoided the voice and turned her head to the opposite direction.

Who is he calling Journalist? She is not journalist, she is a research professor here.

"Beloved journalist, please look at me." He said and this time she frowned in irritation. So she turned her head to his voice direction and said harshly.

"Wrong person!" she said.

"Right person." he corrected.

What is wrong with this man? She don't know what rubbish he is spitting. She don't even know if this man is a guard? Officer? Cleaner? Or what? But she know one thing that he is very irritating man.

She clenched my teeth and asked, "Sorry but seriously I don't know you so please excuse me and for your kind information, I am not a journalist. I think you misstook me for someone else. There are many journalists in this visitor hall."

She feel he was about to say something but a harsh guard voice came closer to them and asked him something. The voice is formal but still harsh. "Who are you calling a journalist? Someone else? Behave properly."

She then feel the female officer's hand and she whispered, "Are you alright?" and she nodded then asked "Who is that man?" She went complete silence then said, "He is foreign captor here, international territorist, and government consider him a nation alert."

Her body froze.

The officer continues, "While he was taking to you, he was on his one knee, his right knee kneeling down infront of you but behind the glass and iron barrier, while he was calling you beloved journalist. Now all the military guards are circled around him but fearing to step closer because he has military revolver in his hand."

Now, she is shaking.

"Who are you calling for? Do you want to talk with someone or her? If so you can talk but don't act out. They are here with profession but they are civilians too. So who is that person you are calling? Is that someone from the Turkish journalist?" The guards asked him.

"I am addressing my beloved journalist, the one with the white beauty spot on herself." He paused, "The one who don't wish to look at my eyes. I am addressing her." He said.

She tapped her cane against the cold floor, moving slowly, carefully, toward the voice. She could clearly hear mutters, officers barking orders, and guards shouting warnings in both Turkish and English.

"I don't know you." She began, trying to keep my voice steady, "and I think you should understand that I'm not a journali-" He cut her off before she could finish.

"I mean no harm to you, but can you just hear my side, please? I have less time with me and they will cage me again, so please, beloved journalist, listen to me carefully."

"Why should I?"

"Beloved journalist, being an Indian, will you not help me?"

What did he say? Her breath caught.

"How do you know I am from India?" I frowned, gripping by cane hard.

"Kyunki mai Bharat se hun." he said, softly.

{ "Cause I am from India." }

There was a weight to his words, like he hadn't spoken his motherland's name in years. Before I could respond, he spoke again, "But besides that, I can also tell you are from India. You are wearing oxidised earings, long white skirt with Indian printed art on it and black leather jacket and black winter boots but still..." he paused, now his voice more gentle and soft like he is almost talking with a close friend, "We both know we are Indian, even if they don't believe us, beloved journalist."

"Can you stop this journalist nonsense?" She asked, frowning with irretating but half scared too. "I said I am not journalist so their is no need for me to hear a terrorist talk."

"It's heartbreaking that you called me a terrorist, but I understand you." His voice was painfully, like she stabbed him, like she was the last person he wished would never called him a terrorist. "If you had asked my name, I would've been honoured with great joy to tell you my name, beloved journalist-" he paused.

"And yes, you are not a journalist, but soon you will be one, beloved journalist." He said with such a sweet tone that made her question if this man is joking or what. He continues further, "Then I will like to claim you as my beloved journalist."

"Is he mentally unstable???" She asked to the guards or anyone present in the room but not to him.

He smiled and let out a soft laugh, "No, I am perfectly mentally stable but I have noticed that you have anger issues." He paused, his voice shifted to more vulnerable and desperation now, "Beloved journalist, if you please come here and sit infront of me I will like to tell you something very important while I meet your eyes properly."

"Excuse me? Are you even listening to yourself before speaking?" She asked, but at this point she is ready to leave this place before she is done with this man's talk.

"I do but I will repeat myself again if you didn't here me." He tilted his head and leaned forward to the glass, "Let's talk properly while meeting eachother's eyes, beloved journalist."

"I can't I am blind and I am not interested too." She said, straight and clear.

"I am blind too from my left, beloved journalist. And if you are not interested then I will stop." He said.

Blind? She paused.

"What? What are you even saying?" She questioned him and then he spoke, "If you come back here again, I will be honoured to answer your all questions. As many questions as you ask." He requested, his voice polite.

She barely had time to process what he was saying. Then noise around her was rising with boots pounding, Turkish shouts, metal rattling and then came the sound of chains which is loud and jarring.

They were dragging him. Restraining him.

And his final words came out like a broken prayer as he said,

"Bheek maang raha hoon, main ab ek faqir hoon. Na khud ka raha, na apne watan ka. Agar ho sake toh bas ek baar sun lena us awaaz ko jo itne arse se khamosh thi. Meri nazar dekho... tum hi toh ho meri aakhri nazar-e-ibaadat."

{ "I am begging, I am a beggar now no longer mine, no longer to my homeland's. If you can then listen just once to my voice that remained silent, just for once. See my sight... you are my only Sight of Devotion." }

She was speechless.

"Tell India, that its pilot did not betray it."

"Who are you?"

"Watch the news channel tonight, you will know who I am, beloved journalist."

They finally took him away.

This is a love story of an I̶n̶d̶i̶a̶n̶ f̶i̶g̶h̶t̶e̶r̶ p̶i̶l̶o̶t̶ International terrorist.