Tangled Lives

CHAPTER 2

The sun had barely risen when I reached the crime scene, the first light of dawn casting a pale, sickly glow over the rugged landscape. The path had been arduous, winding through dense underbrush and uneven terrain. A cold mist clung to the mountainside, winding its way through the trees like a serpent, shrouding the scene in an eerie stillness. As I stood on that remote peak, I couldn't shake the feeling that this place had seen horrors long before the events of yesterday. There was an ancient, oppressive weight to the air, as though the very earth recoiled from what had been done here.

The police had already cordoned off the area, though their efforts seemed almost trivial in the face of such overwhelming violence. The body of Druvan Dutta had been removed hours earlier, but the brutality of the act lingered, as though the earth itself bore witness to the atrocity. I could still see the dark patches of dried blood staining the leaves and dirt, a macabre reminder of what had transpired on this secluded hilltop.

I crouched beside the blood-soaked ground, my fingers lightly brushing against the foliage, now brittle and stiff where it had been saturated with Druvan's life. The cold air bit at my skin, but I barely noticed it. My attention was drawn instead to the footprints scattered around the site—strong, deliberate impressions in the dirt, made by someone with considerable weight and purpose. Whoever had committed this murder had not acted in haste. The precision, the methodical nature of the attack—it was clear to me that this was the work of someone who knew what they were doing. This was not a random act of violence. It was planned. Premeditated.

I stood slowly, letting my gaze sweep across the scene. The area was secluded, high on the mountain, hidden from the city below by a thick canopy of trees. Whoever had brought Druvan here had done so with a clear intent. They knew the terrain well, and they had chosen this spot for a reason.

"One hundred and eight stabs," I murmured to myself, the words hanging in the cold air like a specter. "Why 108?"

The number had gnawed at me ever since I had first read the autopsy report. It wasn't arbitrary; I knew that much. In Hinduism, the number 108 held deep spiritual significance. It represented cosmic wholeness, a bridge between the physical and the divine. There were 108 Upanishads, ancient texts that contained the wisdom of the Vedas. A mala, the prayer beads used in meditation, had 108 beads, one for each recitation of a sacred mantra. The number 108 wasn't just important—it was sacred. It symbolized something far greater than a mere murder.

But why? Why had the killer chosen this number? And why inflict it upon Druvan Dutta, a man whose reputation, by all accounts, had been that of an upstanding citizen?

I crouched once more, this time focusing on a patch of disturbed earth near where the body had been found. Something had caught my eye. A faint smudge, almost imperceptible against the dark soil. I reached out, my gloved fingers brushing the surface, and then paused. Vermillion. A vibrant red powder, unmistakable in its association. Vermillion, or sindoor, was typically used in religious rites, often applied to the forehead as a mark of devotion or blessing.

A chill ran through me, more biting than the mountain air. Why had there been vermillion on Druvan's body?

The juxtaposition was unsettling—one hundred and eight stab wounds, an act of extreme violence, paired with vermillion, a symbol of faith and piety. Was this some kind of twisted offering? A desecration disguised as devotion?

I straightened, my mind working through the puzzle before me. The clues were sparse, but each one carried weight. The number 108. The traces of vermillion. The secluded location. There was a pattern emerging, something ritualistic, something far beyond a simple murder.

I turned to Inspector Rao, the local officer who had been overseeing the initial investigation. He stood a few paces away, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket, his expression one of grim resignation.

"Inspector," I called, my voice cutting through the quiet. He approached, his boots crunching on the dirt as he neared.

"Yes, ma'am?" he asked, his tone respectful, though I could sense the doubt beneath it. My arrival from the CBI had been unexpected, and I had no doubt that Rao was still adjusting to the idea of a younger, female agent taking charge of such a high-profile case.

"Have you uncovered anything about Druvan's personal life that might suggest a connection to any religious or spiritual practices?" I asked, keeping my voice neutral, professional.

Rao hesitated for a moment, then shook his head. "Not as far as we've been able to tell. Druvan Dutta was... well, he was a businessman. Traditional, yes, but nothing unusual that we've found so far. He was a family man, respected in his community. A wife, no children. Lived a quiet life."

"A quiet life," I echoed softly, glancing back at the blood-stained earth. "Hard to reconcile with a murder of this nature, wouldn't you say?"

Rao shifted uncomfortably. "Yes, ma'am. We're still digging into his background, but on the surface, nothing about him suggests he was involved in anything... dangerous."

"On the surface," I murmured, more to myself than to him. I looked up at the inspector, my gaze sharp. "I want to know everything there is to know about Druvan Dutta. His business dealings, his personal relationships, any affiliations he might have had. Something doesn't add up."

Rao nodded, though I could tell he still didn't fully grasp the depth of what we were dealing with. I couldn't blame him. This wasn't just a case of murder—it was a ritual, something dark and ancient, hidden beneath the veneer of modern life. It was the kind of evil that lived in the shadows, waiting to be uncovered by those who knew where to look.

As Rao retreated to coordinate with his team, I took one last look at the crime scene, my thoughts drifting once again to the number 108. It gnawed at me, its significance pressing down on my mind like a heavy weight. There was something more here, something deeper, and I intended to find out what it was.

The clues were sparse, but the direction was clear. This was no ordinary murder. This was a ritual. And rituals had motives far beyond simple revenge or hatred. There was a purpose behind this act, and I would uncover it—no matter where it led.

                                                                                                             *

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                                     Until then, farewell my lovely readers!