Mumbai Noir

11

Exhaustion clung to me like a second skin as I left the station. Patil had a board plastered with names and timelines, each a suspect in Ayushi's disappearance. Three, maybe four possibilities, Mr. Kapoor gnawing at me the most. The man seemed genuinely distraught, his grief a tangible weight in the air. Yet, the pieces wouldn't fit. What motive could a loving father have?

Reaching my apartment, I sighed, the sound echoing in the emptiness. Another night staring at the ceiling, my mind a labyrinth of dead ends, wasn't what I needed. Then, the shrill of my phone startled me. Mrs. Kapoor.

My heart hammered. A lead? Evidence? "Hello, Mrs. Kapoor?" I answered, my voice guarded.

"Ragu, it's urgent. Could you come over? Maybe there's something you can help with," she said, voice trembling.

Hope flared. Maybe this was the break we needed. I rushed to the Kapoors', anticipation twisting into a knot in my gut.

The door swung open before I could knock. Mrs. Kapoor stood there, eyes red-rimmed but holding a spark of determination. "Come in, Ragu," she ushered me inside.

The house felt suffocating, heavy with sorrow. My gaze darted around, searching for any sign of what she might have found. "What is it, Mrs. Kapoor?"

"It's Ayushi," she began, then stopped, wiping a stray tear. "There's something... something she might have kept from us." She led me to a room, most likely Ayushi's.

The space spoke of a life abruptly cut short: posters plastered on the walls, a messy desk, a half-knitted scarf draped over a chair. Mrs. Kapoor opened a drawer, pulling out a worn photograph.

It was a group picture, teenagers huddled together, faces beaming. Ayushi stood towards the back, her arm linked with a boy who grinned goofily. "This is..." I trailed off.

"Her boyfriend," Mrs. Kapoor finished, a tinge of sadness in her voice. "We never knew."

"I got to know about it, we didn't consider him as a suspect,"  I said.

"I knew him, he is a nice guy," she said. "But everyone now seems a suspect to me,"

We sat on the edge of the bed, united in our grief. Mrs. Kapoor began talking about Ayushi, her voice filled with anecdotes of a childhood stolen too soon.

Somehow, the conversation drifted. She spoke about her own life, a quiet life, she confided, a life that had taken an unexpected turn when she met her husband. It wasn't love at first sight, she admitted, but a comfortable arrangement.

Then she mentioned Ranjan, a young teacher who had been fired for "inappropriate behavior." The way she lingered on the word "inappropriate" sent a spark of curiosity through me.

"He was charming, you see," she explained, a faint blush creeping up her neck. "But there were boundaries, boundaries he crossed."

I found myself mesmerized by her. The vulnerability in her eyes, the hint of hidden desires, it was a stark contrast to the composed woman I'd known. A pull tugged at my chest, a tightening I couldn't explain.

I knew it was wrong.  She was married, grieving.  But the feelings, raw and unfamiliar, threatened to overpower my sense of reason.

The silence stretched, thick with unspoken emotions.  In a move that surprised even myself, I leaned closer, my hand reaching for hers.

Her eyes widened, a flicker of understanding followed by a swift rejection. She pulled her hand away, her voice firm. "Ragu, this isn't why I called you here."

Shame washed over me. I stammered an apology, my voice barely a whisper.

"No," she said, her voice surprisingly gentle. "It's alright. Just... please leave."

I stood awkwardly, the weight of my transgression heavy on me.  I turned to go, my head hung low.

As I reached the door, her voice stopped me.  "Don't worry," she said, a hint of sadness in her tone. "I won't tell anyone."