Fiction Kundan was returning home after his monthly entertainment of a night show in the city. It was past midnight and the heavy downpour had put out the street lamps on the village road. But Kundan knew the road like the back of his palm and so neither the pitch darkness nor the battering rain slowed him down. He was about to leave the road and enter the mud path through his farm when he felt the touch of cold steel on his temple. “Keep your trap shut, else you won’t open it ever again,” said a voice which was horribly rough but perfect in pronunciation. In the flash of a lightening Kundan saw that the burly figure that was holding a pistol against his temple. The figure was wearing a western suit, complete with the blazer and a tie. His suit was drenched in the rain in spite of the enormous parasol he was holding with one hand. “I’m your boss from now on,” Kundan heard the steely voice. “You’ll obey my orders and be at my beck and call.” Kundan, not knowin
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