She mouthed, "I love you."

She, Shonali Mukherjee, acclaimed journalist for The Times of India had just fucked a terrorist. She scrubbed hard and cried harder. A terrorist, she thought to herself feeling disgusted by the second. She sat under the shower clutching herself tightly, feeling like a whore. Sobbing. Thinking…

…It was her duty as a renowned journalist and as an undercover agent for the Research and Analysis Wing of India (RAW) to expose heinous criminals. It was her duty to give up her dignity for her country’s protection. It was her duty to turn in one of the most dangerous terrorists of Kashmir - Emran Ali, with sufficient proof. So, she had to play a pretentious game of love - carefully - since a single flaw could put her life in extreme peril. She hugged herself tighter and closed her eyes. She had planned every step cautiously, starting from their very first meeting when she had purposefully stepped in his way, lost and in need of help. She had run unto his protective stature, shivering amidst the fires, in one of the most dangerous areas of Kashmir. What else could he have done with her petite frame shaking uncontrollably against him? After all, he was human. He took her into shelter - a cozy cottage by a stream - in the middle of nowhere. She had been there for a week, delaying her stay and trying to work her magic on him. The situation was romantic. Almost. Shonali scoffed in spite of herself. Her thoughts were interrupted by a sudden knock on the bathroom door.

“Shonali,” he called.

Her eyes flew open. Had she taken too long?

“Emran?” She sputtered.

He chuckled, “You have been in there for more than an hour now.”

“I will be with you in a minute.”

She wrapped a towel around herself and walked towards the bathroom mirror. Her movements were slow but steady. She put on a fresh front-buttoned shirt and regular jeans, rolled up the sleeves, clipped a recording device within its folds and walked into the bedroom with a smile pasted on her face. Emran stood still, near the windows looking out at the stream. She inched closer. He turned to look at her; his green eyes burned into her dark ones, throwing her back by a step. His gaze was warm; his eyes moved gracefully, tracing her face – her mouth, her nose, her eyes. His eyes stopped on hers again. This time, they darkened and flickered uncertainly.

“That was one quick shower,” he laughed, his intensity quickly changing into mere lightheartedness. She hit his chest playfully, suddenly at ease.

"Lunch?" he asked. She nodded. Emran took her hand and led her into the open kitchen. He had prepared lunch for them.

Shonali smiled, "Where do you get the grocery from? There is nothing around here."

"No questions to be asked," he answered.

"Emran."

"Shonali?"

"I love you."

Silence. She shifted uncomfortably. According to her plan, everything had been going well. Till now. She tried again, softer this time, "I love you."

"Who are you?" he challenged.

She looked him in the eye and answered, "Shonali Mukherjee. Journalist. Our meeting was not entirely a coincidence," her eyes twinkled, "Who are you?"

"So, you are not the photographer you claimed to be," he stated, not answering her question.

"It certainly is my passion."

"Right."

"Who are you?" She asked again.

"Emran Ali. Terrorist. The man who loves you."

Silence. She observed the seriousness in his eyes – he held her gaze, never blinking. He was not lying, she realized. She broke into happy laughter and he joined her; they ended up on the sofa with their half eaten lunches, laughing and hugging. He held her close, "So, you do not mind?"

"Mind what?"

"Being in love with a terrorist?"

"Can I help it?"

"So, you do mind."

"No comments. But I do believe that you will quit your activities some day."

"You have no clue how many times I have tried," Emran muttered.

"I am listening…"

Shonali did. She listened once again - to the recording - late at night whilst Emran slept soundly. She did not know how to react to the story of his life - whether to pity him or not. Emran was orphaned at a very young age. Since then, he lived by himself sustaining on small thefts. He was caught stealing bread from a local terrorist camp once and that led him to his fate – he was forced into terrorism.

Shonali found herself feeling sorry for Emran. Irritated, she shook her head and laughed. Why did she pity him? Her work was done. He had foolishly given her a detailed account of his life and work – past and present. That was all the proof that she needed to turn him in. No more dirty work. She had to escape before dawn. She did – she took her knapsack and flew into the night. She was a free bird; she chirped softly. Her spirits rose and her head felt light. She felt like she was soaring above the sky.

She reached the main city after five hours of running, trekking and hitchhiking. It was almost breakfast time. Shonali grabbed a cup of tea from a local stall and headed for a phone booth. She was euphoric; her mission had almost reached an end. She made two phone calls. The second one was to Emran, "Hello. Emran?"

"Yes."

"How are you?"

"Finer than you could ever imagine."

Shonali slapped her forehead. Bad question. "Emran, I need to tell you something."

"What?" He snapped, "Is there much left to say?"

"I am pregnant," She blurted out.

"Wh-what?" After a prolonged pause, Emran started laughing, "That is good news Shonali. I am going to become Daddy."

Silence. Emran spoke again, "Shonali? Are you there? I know what you are thinking about. Please come back. I will change. I want this baby more than anything. I am so happy. Hello? Shon…"

She interrupted, "Meet me. Main City Square. Midnight. I will wait," and saying that, she hung up.

It was a busy day for both Shonali and Emran. Both had specific things to deal with. Time flew by. Soon, it was dark. The clock struck twelve and Shonali stood in the middle of the Main City Square courtyard, waiting for Emran.

"Emran," she called out desperately. Her voice echoed. She called out his name again and again for almost an hour. Then, she spotted him staggering towards her. She looked at him in horror. His shirt was drenched in blood, his face was wounded badly and his arm was still bleeding. He looked into her eyes and touched her face gently. She looked into his eyes with sorrow, as his gaze distorted from calmness to confusion. The sudden lights around the Main City Square blinded him. A police inspector spoke through his microphone, "Emran Ali. You are under arrest."

Emran's green eyes reflected fright. He looked at Shonali. He mouthed, "Why?"

Shonali lowered her gaze. It took her pretence and one phone call to turn Emran in – the man she had spent a week with. She could feel him staring at her in silence. Suddenly, he burst out laughing. She looked at him in confusion as he dropped his rucksack. He staggered closer and whispered, "I understand."

He reached for something in his pocket – an envelope. He took it out and handed it to her, "Two tickets to Delhi, to start anew."

Shonali was shocked. Everything became crystal clear to her. He had left it – terrorism; for her, for them, for a baby that they were never going to have because it was a lie. He had risked his life for her. He had been beaten up, probably because he was trying to escape his life to be with her. She looked deep into his clear green eyes that were calm again – she saw herself laughing with him in the past. She saw her future with him – a future that she would never have. She saw differences – she was educated whereas he was not; she came from a reputed family whereas he did not have one; she was good, he was bad. The differences did not make sense anymore.

Shonali was in love with Emran. She fell in love with him the day she betrayed him.

The police came closer, handcuffed him and dragged him to the car. Shonali looked into his eyes for the last time. She mouthed, "I love you."