SWEETY'S SPIRIT part 2 : anu vs pushparaj

That night after the threatening call with Pushpa, Anu’s mind raced with bhayam and sankalpam. She looked at Daya’s shavam and carefully stuffed it into an old suitcase, dragging it through the silence of the night. This reminded her of the scene from Drishyam, the way Venkatesh’s character had outsmarted the police. She dug a deep pit in the middle of the station, throwed his shavam inside, covered it with layers of mud and placed a dead pandi above the grave, a trick to mislead anyone curious enough to dig later as part of investigation. With sweat dripping and nerves shaking, she returned home knowing she is no more the same anu she was few months back.

By morning, the burden of truth pressed harder on her chest. She went straight to Krishna Manohar’s house, her voice trembling yet filled with honesty. She revealed everything—how she killed Daya, the hidden suitcase, and most importantly, the name that hovered over the crime like a shadow: Pushpa. She spoke about the two lakh rupees meant to free a seized lorry. Krishna Manohar listened carefully understanding the seriousness. At that moment, Shruti stepped in, her calm presence adding weight to the discussion. She had heard of Pushpa’s growing dominance, and she confirmed that he was not any ordinary man but the ruthless smuggler who had raised building a great kingdom.

The room grew heavy with silence until Krishna Manohar finally broke it with gambheerata. He told Anu that within a week she would be transferred to Chittoor, where Pushpa was ruling. But he warned her—this wouldn’t be a simple chase. Patience, planning, and courage is must needed. Shruti, seated beside her husband, leaned closer to Anu and warned her of Pushpa’s terror. In the forests of Chittoor, Pushpa’s brand was already spreading like wildfire. His samrajyam was still rising, yet the fear it carried was enough to silence a village. The red sandalwood logs moved like ghosts in the night, cut by gangs who obeyed his every signal. 

The man walked barefoot in the mud, carrying his axe like a warrior. Even the sound of his voice carried weight — “Nee yabba… work fast” was enough to make everyone to work faster with fear. Politicians took their commission, locals gave him shelter, and police were like his puppets. Pushpa had a dream to become raju and was about to become one. Sweety, the newly transferred inspector of Chittoor , spent her first week in Chittoor in silence, just observing his moves his . She listened to rumors in her station , checked old files, questioned informers and secret agents, but found no such strong evidence or lead. 

Every time she reached, the trail went cold, as if someone erased it just before she touched. But anger built inside her, quiet and steady. On the seventh day she stood before the press with seized lorries behind her, declaring, “These belong to the smugglers. Illegal. They will be burnt.” Flames rose, the wood cracked, and cameras flashed. She kept her face sharp, calm, not a trace of doubt. It wasn’t just about burning logs — it was a message, a slap. A warning to Pushpa that a new ammyi had entered the forest. But Sweety miscalculated his silence. One afternoon, restless, she drove her jeep deep into the forest with just two constables. 

She believed catching him red-handed would end it all, a quick victory. But the adda wasn’t empty. Dozens of men with axes and blades stepped out, surrounding them. The fight broke loose raw, axes against lathis, mud flying under heavy boots. Constables fell first, cut down by blows meant to kill. Sweety fought hard, fearless, her stick cracking bones, her pistol firing into the air. But the numbers crushed her — a tide of men that would not break. She realized too late she had underestimated the jada of Pushpa’s empire. Pushpa entered like a storm. Without a word, he swung the axe straight into a constable’s neck — the head rolled, blood splashing on the mud. 

Sweety froze for a second, shocked, then rushed at him with full force. Punches, kicks, everything she knew, she threw at him. Pushpa took the hits, grinned, and hit back harder — his knee in her stomach, elbow across her face. Dust rose, blood mixed with sweat, the fight turning dirty and brutal. One of his men shouted, “Lanja police, boss!” and the others laughed, circling the fight. But Pushpa stayed locked on her, eyes wild, ready to break her down completely. Her shirt tore open at the shoulder as he dragged her in the dust, scratches burning across her arms. Her braid whipped through the air while she fought back, landing one clean punch on his jaw that made him stumble for a moment. 

The men went silent — but Pushpa only growled, more angry now. He caught her braid mid-air, yanked her whole body back like she was nothing. Rope came out, he tied her hands behind tight, boot pressing on her back to keep her down. She knelt, gasping for breath, the men screaming, “Shave the ammayi, boss!” Their filthy laughter filled the forest. Pushpa spat, pulling her braid tight in his fist. He lifted her whole body by the jada, her scalp burning as she screamed. Then with one swing of the axe, he chopped it off near her neck. The heavy braid dropped to the ground with a thud. Pushpa slapped her face, once, twice, spit on the side and cursed, “Your pride is cut, lanja… next time, I’ll strip everything.” 

He threw her down, her hair ragged and uneven, dust sticking to her tears. “You’re unmarried… gundu not needed. But if you had a husband, I’d cut his throat in front of you and shave you bald.” His men roared with laughter. Sweety crawled to her jeep, eyes red, pride shattered, and drove away in silence. Rain lashed outside as Sweety dashed into Krishna Manohar IPS’s house, drenched, clothes clinging, face pale from pain and humiliation. Krishna’s eyes flashed between anger and pity — how could someone so raw yet so determined survive the forest like that? Shruti silently approached with a first-aid box, cleaning the scratches and bruises, her hands steady, commanding. 

Krishna Manohar motioned for her to sit, opened his trimmer, and slowly went over the sides of her head, clipping away her battered braid. She felt every strand fall like a part of her old self, humiliation mixing with a fiery resolve. The top was cut shorter, a fierce, boyish police look emerging under his skilled hands. Her eyes burned, a spark lighting inside, cheeks wet from rain and sweat. Shruti whispered, “You need strength, ammayi, not pride.” Krishna’s voice cut through, sharp: “This is the face of a warrior now, not a scared girl.” She clenched her fists, biting back words. The trimmer hummed, the transformation complete, leaving her raw, hardened, ready. 

The next month passed in harsh training. Army drills, gun exercises, theoretical tactics — Krishna pushed her beyond pain and fatigue. Every dawn, she ran the muddy fields, swung weighted batons, practiced target shooting till her arms ached, sweat and blood mixing into the soil. Combat simulations, hand-to-hand fights, planning operations. Each session sharpened her mind and body. Sweat burned her eyes, her short hair sticking in spikes from effort. She learned to shoot like a storm, move like a predator, think like a hunter. Sparring with Krishna left bruises and cuts on both, each one a lesson in raw survival. She ate minimal, slept rough, muscles screaming in protest, but spirit forging steel.

Her long hair was gone, pride of the braid lost, but a dangerous aura replaced it. Night after night, she replayed Pushpa’s brutal act, letting anger temper her resolve. By month’s end, Sweety was unrecognizable — smaller in hair, bigger in terror, a ruthless force ready for action. She struck first at Keshava, Jaali Reddy, Mangalam Srinu — each death brutal but swift. Knives slashed, bullets tore through, gory moves executed with precision, their screams echoing in her memory. Pushpa remained unaware, lost in his celebrations and business, arrogant in his power. Sweety fired at the van tires as he returned from a party with dancers, forcing it to halt, legs crippled by precise shots. 

Media swarmed immediately, flashing cameras, capturing the illegal wooden logs she uncovered. She handcuffed him, ruthless but controlled, her eyes cold, calculating, voice steady as she shouted commands. Pushpa looked shocked, disbelief painting his face, the first taste of fear in his empire. She relished the chaos, her fury met with a methodical mind — proof of evolution from scared girl to raw, dangerous cop. By nightfall, news of Pushpa’s arrest spread like wildfire, the forest whispers carrying her ruthless legend. And somewhere in the chaos, she smiled faintly, knowing her vengeance was only beginning. Sweety drove the van slowly, rain hitting the windshield. 

Pushpa sat handcuffed, grinning, spitting, “Lanja munda, should’ve finished you last time.” Sweety didn’t blink. She lifted the axe he had brought, swung it hard, blood sprayed. She smashed his head with a stone and threw it over the waterfall. The van floor was wet and red, but her face stayed cold. At the court, she told them it was a tiger attack. No one questioned, no proof existed. Judges, lawyers, and police whispered in shock. Sweety’s hands were dirty, but her eyes were sharp. She walked out, fearless, leaving rumors behind. At Pushpa’s house, Srivalli cried, falling on her husband’s headless body. Women pulled her up, removed bangles, washed the bindi, and stripped her to blouse and skirt. 

The barber arrived and wet her hair slowly. Sweety stood nearby, watching every move. The razor first touched her head, Srivalli screamed, hair falling in clumps. The sound was loud, each cut cutting her pride. She sobbed, muttering “Lanja…!” tears streaming down. The room was tense, raw, full of grief. By the end, her head was bare, her body shaking, her pride gone. Sweety leaned close as Srivalli glared, trembling. “If you had a husband, I would have killed him, given you gundu!” Srivalli spat. Sweety laughed, fearless, “Just like I’m doing now, lanja…” Some women covered their mouths, surprised by her courage. Srivalli slowly stood, wearing a white saree, shaking. 

She picked up a fire stick and moved to Pushpa’s body. Flames rose, smoke twisting into the sky. Sweety watched silently, satisfied. Srivalli’s grief burned raw, her anger strong. The house was quiet, watching the fire, the legend of Sweety growing darker. Shadows hinted the next danger was coming. The morning air was heavy with smoke from Pushpa’s last rites. Jogendra, sharply dressed, walked in and his eyes scanned Sweety—Anu Shetty. “Sweety,” he said with a smirk, “nickname sweet, but you? Not even a drop sweet, huh?” His words were smooth, but the darkness in his mind flickered like a hidden fire. Anu’s eyes didn’t flinch; she only tightened her fist at her side. 

Around them, mourners whispered quietly, sensing the tension. Jogendra glanced at Srivalli, her bald head shining under the sun, her arms crossed stubbornly. He nodded slightly to Anu, praising her courage aloud while inwardly scheming. “Courageous ammyi, don’t lose it now. But watch carefully…” he murmured, his lips curling faintly, a promise of danger hidden in every word. Anu’s jaw tightened, the spark of revenge simmering silently. Srivalli’s gaze flickered between Jogendra and Anu, unsure but tense. The funeral ended, but the storm of scheming had only begun.By evening, Jogendra found Srivalli alone, flipping through old wedding albums of Pushpa. 

Her bald head caught the faint light, rough stubbles pricking her fingers as she traced memories. He spoke softly but with cunning sharpness, “Life must go on, gundu… You can stand strong, make them fear you. Pushpa may be gone, but you?” His words sank in slowly, weaving control around her mind. Srivalli’s eyes narrowed, resistance fighting the creeping manipulation. Jogendra guided her to sit, showed her possibilities—money, influence, respect, power. “Stand for elections,” he said, calm but insistent. “This is your chance, nobody will stop you. You will be someone now.” Srivalli hesitated, gripping the edge of her chair, her stubbled head bowed.

He left her there, planting the seed, knowing it would grow. Alone, she touched her bald scalp and whispered, “Maybe… I can be like him… maybe stronger.” Her life’s direction shifted, quietly dangerous now. Srivalli took her time that evening at the market, carefully picking up vegetables, her rough stubbled head bare and catching a few curious glances. Anu, passing nearby, spoke casually to the vegetable vendor, but her words carried a sharp edge meant for Srivalli. “A head without hair, a heart without strength… gundu, that’s your life now,” she said softly, letting her gaze linger. Srivalli flinched, trying to ignore her, but Anu wasn’t done.

Leaning slightly closer, she added with a mock cheer, “Gundu so bright, anyone can spot you from the next street… scary, huh?” Srivalli’s hands trembled over the vegetables, her humiliation deepening, and she turned away, leaving the market without buying anything. Every step home felt heavy as her stubbled scalp brushed against her fingers, a constant reminder of the encounter. Anu watched from a distance, a quiet satisfaction in her eyes, knowing the message had landed perfectly. The mixture of fear, shame, and the sharp sting of Anu’s words clung to Srivalli, marking the start of her reckoning. As she disappeared down the lane, Anu’s smirk remained, a silent declaration of her dominance.

That night, Srivalli lay alone on her bed, fan whirling fast above her. Her right hand moved slowly over her rough stubbles, feeling the jagged edges of her bald head, while her left hand cupped her breasts. Her mind raced, anger and lust mixing, remembering how Anu had humiliated her before. She clenched her chest in frustration, tears rolling down her cheeks, thinking of Pushpa and the gundu he left her with. “How will I teach that police ammayi a lesson?” she muttered, biting her lip, her body trembling. Fingers tracing over her stubbles again, she imagined Anu’s fearless face, her short boycut, her sharp eyes. Heat coursed through her veins, but anger fueled her thoughts. 

Slowly, she pinched herself, sobbing softly, plotting revenge. By the time her pulse steadied, she had made a decision—she would call Jogendra and make him her weapon against Anu. Exhausted from desire and fury, she drifted into a restless sleep, fists clenching sheets, mind spinning with plans. Next morning, Anu met Krishna Manohar IPS at the station, voice steady as she gave her weekly report. “Sir, Srivalli is active… and MLA Jogendra, I suspect something,” she said, eyes sharp. Krishna Manohar leaned back, frowning, then his expression darkened. “Anu, you don’t know the full truth. Jogendra is Ali Bhai’s brother—the one whose criminal empire I dismantled while undercover.

He’s dangerous… cunning… and he killed my father’s murderer.” Anu’s heart skipped a beat. Her mind raced as he laid out the full history: Jogendra’s public persona was clean, but his inner side was ruthless. She felt a chill, the weight of understanding settling in. “I thought he was a clean MLA, sir…” she whispered, realization cutting her calm. Krishna Manohar’s gaze held hers, warning her silently: “Be alert, Sweety. This one is different.” Her eyes narrowed. A plan was already forming in her mind, calculating every move carefully. Alone in her office later, Anu thought through every detail. Jogendra’s history, Srivalli’s bald head, her arrogance and recklessness—it all connected.

If she wanted to reach Jogendra, she had to deal with Srivalli first. Her mind sharpened, pulse steady, adrenaline quiet but strong. “First, aa gundu munda… then Jogendra,” she murmured to herself. Images of past battles and victories flickered—Pushpa, Daya, every humiliation she’d survived. She traced the steps in her mind, noting weaknesses, observing patterns, planning for the trap. Every instinct screamed caution, but also ruthlessness. Her short boycut framed a face hardened, fearless, calculating. She clenched her fists on the desk, feeling the spark of vengeance flare. This was no longer just duty—this was personal, strategic, and deadly.