That night, the plan unraveled. Shankar, the carriage driver, wasn’t just a bystander. He’d seen everything—the swap, the theft, the scooter chase. Worse, he recognized the pouch. Years ago, he’d driven Kapoor’s father, a smuggler who’d hidden his fortune in that very carriage, only to die before reclaiming it. Shankar had spent decades searching Victoria No. 203, believing the diamonds were still stashed in its rotting frame. Now, he knew Rohan and Tara had them

The night was thick with Mumbai’s humid embrace, the kind that clung to your skin like a guilty secret. At the bustling Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus, a vintage horse-drawn carriage, Victoria No. 203, stood as a relic amid the chaos of taxis and rickshaws. Tourists loved it for selfies, but tonight, it carried a darker purpose.

Rohan Malhotra, a small-time crook with a gambler’s grin, leaned against the carriage, puffing a cigarette. His partner, Tara, a sharp-tongued ex-con with a knack for picking locks, adjusted her dupatta, her eyes scanning the crowd. They’d been hired for a simple job: steal a velvet pouch from a businessman’s briefcase during his late-night ride in the Victoria. The payout? Fifty lakhs. The catch? They didn’t know what was inside the pouch—or who they were stealing from.

The businessman, Mr. Kapoor, climbed aboard at 11:45 p.m., his pinstripe suit reeking of old money. His briefcase sat snugly beside him as the carriage jolted forward, hooves clacking against the asphalt. Rohan tipped his cap to the driver—a grizzled old man named Shankar—before slipping into the shadows. Tara followed, her nimble fingers already itching for action.

Halfway through the ride, near the deserted stretch of Marine Drive, Tara struck. She’d swapped places with a tourist earlier, posing as a passenger. As the sea breeze masked her movements, she slid a slim blade into the briefcase’s lock. Click. The pouch was hers—soft, heavy, and warm to the touch. She tossed it to Rohan, who’d been trailing on a stolen scooter, and they vanished into the night.

Back at their cramped hideout in Dharavi, they tore open the pouch. Diamonds. Dozens of them, glinting like captured stars. Tara’s breath caught. “We’re rich,” she whispered. Rohan’s grin faltered. “Or dead,” he muttered, noticing a tiny engraving on one stone: K.V.—Kapoor’s initials. This wasn’t just a heist. They’d robbed a kingpin.

By morning, the city buzzed with whispers. Kapoor’s men were tearing apart Mumbai’s underworld, hunting the thieves. Rohan and Tara knew they had hours, maybe less, before the net tightened. Their only hope was to offload the diamonds fast. Enter Vikram, a shady jeweler with a glass eye and a reputation for fencing hot goods. He met them in a dingy Colaba bar, his fingers twitching as he inspected the haul. “Ten crores,” Vikram rasped. “But I need time to move them.” Rohan hesitated. Time was a luxury they didn’t have. Tara, ever the pragmatist, agreed, but with a condition: “Half upfront, or we walk.” Vikram smirked, sliding a wad of cash across the table. Deal done.

That night, the plan unraveled. Shankar, the carriage driver, wasn’t just a bystander. He’d seen everything—the swap, the theft, the scooter chase. Worse, he recognized the pouch. Years ago, he’d driven Kapoor’s father, a smuggler who’d hidden his fortune in that very carriage, only to die before reclaiming it. Shankar had spent decades searching Victoria No. 203, believing the diamonds were still stashed in its rotting frame. Now, he knew Rohan and Tara had them. 

At 2 a.m., Shankar cornered them in their hideout, a rusty revolver trembling in his hand. “Those stones are mine,” he growled. “I’ve waited thirty years.” Rohan tried to talk him down, but Tara lunged, knocking the gun loose. It fired, shattering a window. The noise drew Kapoor’s goons, who’d been closing in, guided by a tracker hidden in the pouch.

Chaos erupted. Bullets tore through the walls as Rohan and Tara bolted, diamonds in hand. Shankar, caught in the crossfire, crumpled, his dream dying with him. The duo raced through Mumbai’s alleys, the city a  alive with sirens and shadows. They ditched the scooter near the Gateway of India, blending into a crowd of late-night revelers.

But Kapoor wasn’t done. He’d planted a decoy pouch, letting them think they’d won. The real diamonds were still with him, and now he had their scent. As dawn broke, Rohan and Tara sat on a fishing boat, counting their cash from Vikram, unaware the jeweler had sold them out. A speedboat roared toward them, Kapoor’s silhouette at the helm. “Think we’re safe?” Tara asked, gripping the pouch. Rohan lit a cigarette, exhaling smoke into the sunrise. “Not a chance.” The boat closed in, and the game wasn’t over yet.