SWEETY'S SPIRIT part 1 : anu vs daya

The bus rattled down the Vizag highway, morning sun slipping through dusty windows. Anu Shetty sat near the window seat, police uniform neat ga ironed, joining letter in her hand. A tight, long jada rested down her back, swaying with every bump, reaching almost to her nadumu. Green bangles on her wrist, little gold earrings and a simple chain on her neck — traditional pilla in khaki. She looked nervous but there was also a quiet hope in her. This was her first posting as constable. Innocent face, soft voice, calm breathing — to strangers she looked like a shy village ammayi in uniform. Inside, she kept whispering to herself, “Just do your duty Sweety… everything will be fine. chaalu”

The police station smelled of beedi, sweat, and dust when she stepped in. Constables were lounging with files, a few people murmuring about lancham and local cases. But the main whispers circled around one name — Inspector Daya. “Boss is coming ra,” someone smirked, “chill ra pocket money will start.” He entered like he owned the place — dark glasses, sleeves rolled up, thick chain hanging, body language full of gudda balupu. Behind him trailed Vasu, his drunkard partner, carrying files with one hand and cigarettes in the other. Everyone knew — Daya never cared for law, only money and women. He was the king of this rotten station, and newcomers were just toys for him. 

Anu clutched her letter tighter in fear. By afternoon, she was called into his cabin. Daya leaned back in his chair, legs on the table, scanning her from head to toe. His eyes stopped at her braid. A sly smile curled. “Constable Anu shetty, aa long hair… what the fuck is this? Idi police station, temple kaadu. You’re not some village bride to roam with that long jada.” His voice dripped with mockery. “Next time I see you with jada, I’ll chop it off right here… keep it in bun, understand?” His words stung like knives, but she kept silent. She saluted and walked out, eyes moist but lips tight. That night, at home, she sat before the mirror, staring at her braid. Memories came back...

During training they had asked her to cut boy cut. She had cried, begged, and finally escaped with just trimming the ends. She whispered to herself, “Even now, maybe I can adjust… it’s not such a big issue.” But somewhere deep inside, anger was slowly waking up. Sweety sat before her small dressing mirror at the PG, slowly braiding her thick black hair. This reminded her of amma who used to braid it tight before school. After amma died, nana took over that small duty until her farewell day in college. That braid wasn’t just hair, it was the connection with her parents. She oiled it every night, Now in the station, that same hair had become a weakness.

Daya’s eyes always followed her braid like a hungry dog looking at meat. She sensed the danger. One night she walked back alone from duty, From the corner, Vasu and his gang of six boys blocked the way with wicked grins. “Constable madam… station lo heroine laga untav… let shave a item dance now,” Vasu spat. Sweety froze, clutching her bag to her chest, steps turning shaky. One boy circled her, brushing her arm, “long braid aa? perfect for gundu.” Another hissed, “masth idea ra… lets make her gundu on road.” Vasu grabbed the end of her braid, swinging it in his fist like a rope. “Osey lanja… this hair is waste ” he jeered. Anu’s throat went dry, her eyes darting for escape but the lane was empty.

 Vasu yanked her braid, dragging her back with force. The gang pushed her file down, One boy tore her shirt and left her shirt mocking, “Ra ve sexy baby.”  Sweety’s lips trembled, she wanted to scream but fear locked her throat. Then suddenly — screeching tires, black jeep stopping just feet away. Headlights flashed, dust storm rising, the gang scattering back in shock. A strong hand reached out, gripping Sweety’s braid hard, yanking her inside the jeep. Sweety’s fingers pressed to the side of her scalp, the braid-pull still burning where someone had grabbed it in the jeep. When she looked up and saw Daya’s face in the jeep window, shock froze her — it was him who’d yanked her inside.

He watched her with that half-smile as if he’d done her a favour and a wrong at the same time. “You coming home safe, Anu? Next time keep that long thing in a bun — it’s trouble,” he mocked, voice low and dark. She kept her hand on the sore spot and whispered, gathering courage, “Sir… please don’t follow me. Don’t come to my PG. Don’t do anything.” His lips curled like an insult; he stepped out, looked at her with a look that hated being ordered, and in sudden anger he kicked the tyre, muttering, then climbed back in and drove off with a last stare that made her skin crawl. She closed the door of her room and sat shaking, pain and shame tangled together,

A small ember of anger lit in her chest, but she buried it under a polite silence — for now. A week later, Daya walked into the station hall just as the evening briefing was ending — his eyes snagged at Anu’s braid swinging loose. He cut across the room, called out to her and made the whole station look up. “Remove your cap, miss Anu,” he barked, and her heart pounded as she obeyed, hands trembling. The constables — men and women — circled like vultures; some leaned forward, hungry for spectacle. Daya paced in front of her, voice loud and cruel: “Do you think you’re some movie heroine? This is police work.” He jabbed a finger at the braid and spat, 

“You keep clinging to that long jada, I’ll send you back to training — they’ll cut it and teach you to behave.” Sweety’s cheeks burned, she answered quietly, “Sir, I will keep it in bun next time… I’m sorry.” His anger only grew at her softness; he wanted the public lesson, not the apology. The hall hummed with whispers and low laughter while she stood small and exposed. Daya grabbed a pair of scissors from the table, holding them up like a showpiece while his hand tightened on her braid. He pulled hard, hair sliding between his fingers, and the braid loosened, slipping over her shoulder in a dark fall. “Now everybody watch — I’ll cut this and show you who i am and what punishment is,”

He growled, scissors glinting. Sweety’s voice broke loud and fragile, a small, fierce cry: “Please sir — stop! Don’t do this!” He slapped her once, hard enough to make her wobble; her uniform blouse shifted, a button popping loose, collar askew. In the tussle his own shirt sleeve came undone at the cuff, collar rumpled, his chest exposed in a messy way — the whole scene ugly and real. Some boys laughed and whooped; a few of the women looked away, hands over their mouths, ashamed. Scissors hovered, Daya’s face full of hunger... then a sharp, commanding voice cut through the room. “drop those scissors. now.” The woman strode in, eyes furious, and Daya froze as everyone turned toward her.

Shruti’s voice echoed sharp in the hall. “Constable Daya! Is this how you behave in uniform?” Daya froze, eyes wide, sweat forming on his forehead. He quickly tucked his shirt in, adjusted his belt, But his anger still burned as he glanced at Anu like she had ruined his pride. Shruti didn’t stop—“You think police station is your adda? You think humiliating aada pilla is your duty?” The more she spoke, the more Daya’s head bent. deep inside, he cursed himself for missing the chance to snip off her braid. Anu, still sobbing, lifted her tear-filled eyes towards Shruti. In that moment, shruti’s judgment was final—“Daya, you are suspended for 20 days.” The hall went silent.

Shruti then turned to Anu. “From today, you will serve as Sub-Inspector here.” The weight of those words shook Anu. Her innocence cracked, and for the first time, she felt a spark of strength. She whispered to herself, “I will not stay weak anymore. I will fight.” Later, Shruti called Anu into her cabin. “Anu, listen carefully. There is a smuggler gang in Andhra forests. Soon, I will be transferred to Chittoor for an operation—Operation Flower.” She slid a visiting card across the table. “This is my husband, Krishna Manohar IPS. Meet him when you get the chance. He will guide you.” Shruti looked at Anu, eyes steady, voice calm. “Don’t doubt yourself. You are stronger than you think.” 

Anu nodded, wiping her tears, feeling a new fire inside. One week into her new post, Sweety had changed. She was not the shy constable with the long jada dragging behind. She stood like a wall in the station, her tone sharp, her steps heavy. Constables who once mocked her braid now stood up when she entered. Files were cleared faster, complaints were written properly, even senior officers noticed the discipline. Some called her strict, some whispered but no one dared laugh now. She spoke less, worked more, and every line she said carried weight. Sweety felt it. For the first time, she was breathing like a Sub-Inspector. The uniform had started to fit her skin.

The change was not magic. It came after meeting Krishna Manohar IPS. He was not like the book cops she imagined. He spoke blunt, cut words like a knife. “You want to fight rowdies? First stop behaving like weak ammyi,” he told her on day one. His presence was fire, his stare like a bullet. He never praised, never softened. “Discipline is weapon. Gun without bullet is waste.” His philosophy was simple — a cop is not human, a cop is a weapon. He told her to cut her jada soon, said long jutta was for softness, not for battle. Every line hit her like a slap, but she absorbed it. He was not mentoring her, he was molding her. Weekends were tougher. Krishna’s personal gym became her ground. 

Push-ups till her arms shook, running till breath tore, weapons drill till her palms bled. Theory at night, rules, loopholes, strategy. As he trained her, his past floated around like smoke. Krishna Manohar IPS was famously known as “Pokiri,” in his undercover operation, He had killed Ali Bhai with his own hand, brother of MLA Jogendra... survived both police mens and rowdy gangs. Sweety listened, silent, absorbing the weight of that history. She knew that he will have immense knowledge loopholes and strategies which will help her in future... Every bruise on her body, every scar in training, carved one vow deeper. Within one month, Daya would be gone. Dead she promised to herself.

One afternoon, Anu made a sudden call to Daya. His first thought was some petty complaint, but her voice was soft, sugar-sweet. She said she had learnt her mistake, that she wanted to get her jada cut, and she wanted him to do it with his own hands. Then she slipped in the line he could never resist — “we can go wilder tonight.” That was enough. Daya cut the call, threw on his flashy shirt and chain, and rushed out. By evening he picked her from the station, and when she asked to stop at a coffee shop to change from uniform, he nodded without a doubt. While Anu went inside to change, Daya pulled out his phone and rang Vasu. 

He told him the plan properly, asking him to bring the boys to the hotel he had already booked. His laugh was dirty, his mind already in the room. A waiter brought coffee, ordered in Anu’s name, and Daya gulped it down without thought. Then she walked back — red crop top, black jacket, blue jeans, and hair loose wavy moving in air romantically. Daya froze for a second, then gave a lusty plain kiss. On the drive, she asked for a stop. He smirked as she bought condoms from the medical shop and fresh jasmine strands. For him, the night was set. In the hotel, Daya entered first, blasting a sexy item song on full volume, bottle on the table, razor, foam, scissors, comb everything set for the night

He wanted wild drama. Anu walked in late, calm, holding her flowers. She leaned close, made him smell the jasmine behind her juttu. He pulled her down into the chair, grinning, and raised the razor. “Cut cheyyanu… I will shave you sweety,” he said. But his hand trembled. A sudden heat, sweat, and blur clouded his eyes. He staggered back, the music thumping louder than his heartbeat. Anu stood up, her voice colder than steel — “You won’t shave me, Daya. konni sepatlo nuvvu sastunnav” she lifted her leg and gave a sharp kick sending him on the floor,he had become very week as the poison started to show its effect. Daya screamed for Vasu and the boys, but no one answered from the walkway. 

He ran out, doors slamming behind him, but the corridor was empty, silent. The screen cut back one hour earlier. Anu was already moving through the narrow alley where Vasu waited. She came fast, sharp like a blade, no hesitation. A wooden stool cracked on a man’s skull, a bottle split open his face, and a knife sliced clean across a throat. One body dropped, another slammed into the wall, blood splashing across the stone. Vasu, tough man till now, cried like a scared child, “Anu.. sweety... vaddu…” But mercy never touched her. She grabbed him, slammed him down hard till his voice broke. By the time she walked out, silence followed. Only the echo of the fight stayed in that alley.

Back in the hotel room, Daya never heard any of it. The item song on TV blasted, drowning out the death outside. He was bent over, sweating, poison crawling inside him. He tried to stand, to call someone, but his body gave up. Anu walked in slow, face blank, like she had no soul left. On the table lay the G18. She picked it up, checked the magazine, racked the slide — one clean motion, click. The phone on his pocket screamed, ringing loud. Daya tried reaching for it, but fell face-down. Anu grabbed it instead, pressed speaker, A darker voice came, calm but dangerous. “Daya...,” he said, slow and sharp and anu replied “Daya is dead. who are you and what do you want” 

A rough voice barked back, angry: “Where are the lorry papers? I gave two lakhs! dont do mazaka...” then he cooled down and added: “Daya leda... sarey you give me the money back and the lorry papers too...” But the line shifted, calm but dangerous. anu was is confusion hwo is this man why did he bribe daya two lakhs and what is the lorry matter.... Then he spat one word, “Pushpa ikkada...Thaggedele,” like fire through the wire. then the call ending. That was the turning point. Daya was finished. Anu was the new Sub Inspector. But destiny was already pulling her south, straight to Chittoor, where a bigger shadow waited. Pushpa’s name was not just a warning, One battle had ended, but a fiercer war had just begun.