Chapter 2: The Living and the Dead

2

By the time I reached the cremation ground, it was 11 p.m. The BMW sat beneath a dim lamp, its front end crushed but engine still solid. With some repairs, it could be sold again.

Incense smoke curled into the night, mixing with the tang of burning sandalwood and sweat. The distant chanting of a priest drifted over as relatives shuffled barefoot on the dusty ground.

I saw the body—Rohan, half his head caved in, wrapped in a white shroud except for his bare, dirty feet. His relatives stood in a tight group, eyes red from crying or smoke.

I asked Uncle Dev what happened. Rohan was at my shop that morning—how could he be dead so soon?

Uncle Dev wiped his brow, muttering, “Beta, Mumbai eats people alive. He was drunk, they say. Smashed into the divider on Sion-Panvel Road. Lucky it was afternoon, or aur bhi log mar jaate.”

A stray dog sniffed at the car, nose twitching for prasad. Life moves on quickly, even when someone’s ends.

I was about to ask more when two women approached. Priya—dressed up, bangles clinking, dupatta perfectly draped—laughed at something her friend said, not a tear in sight.

She greeted me, voice brisk. “Boss, how much for this car?”

Her friend tugged her arm, whispering, “Log kya kahenge? At least wait till after the tehrvi.” Priya just rolled her eyes.

I’ve seen all kinds, but never someone as cold as Priya. Rohan’s body wasn’t even cold, and she was already making a deal.

An old man passing by muttered, “Yeh zamaana kharab ho gaya hai,” echoing my own thoughts.

I said, “Priya, you’re selling the car a bit fast. Rohan’s tehrvi hasn’t even happened. Aren’t you scared he’ll come at midnight, asking why you sold it? Car isn’t even in your name, hai na?”

I fixed her with my sternest stare. In our world, disrespecting the dead is no small thing.

Priya looked scornful. “That coward wouldn’t dare come, even as a ghost. He transferred it to me this morning. I was going to consign it to a dealership, but he had an accident at noon. Just give me a price. After all that, all I got was this car.”

Her friend nodded, arms crossed. It was as if Priya had wiped her hands clean of the past, ready for a new start.

A shagun, a wedding flat, and still she complains. I really pitied Rohan.

Some people are never satisfied, I thought, heart heavy for Rohan’s simple dreams.

“I sold it to him for 5.8 lakhs. Now he’s gone, I’ll buy it back for the same.”

I was losing money, but once the man is dead, no point arguing.

Business is business, but sometimes, fate writes its own contract. I kept my face neutral.

Priya was satisfied. With the car so damaged, she hadn’t expected to get full price. I told her to come tomorrow for paperwork. She even called me a good person, promising to send business my way.

I almost laughed. In this line, blessings and curses come free.

I shook my head. “Priya, do you believe in karma?”

For a second, her eyes flickered—fear or irritation, I couldn’t tell. Her friend giggled, and Priya called me crazy before disappearing into the smoky night.

As Priya’s laughter faded into the night, I wondered—maybe some cars really are cursed, but it’s the living who carry the heaviest burdens.

A month after Rohan’s death, I had the BMW repaired. Front end cost me 80,000, but with my original price low, there was still some profit left.

The mechanics at Abdul’s garage shook their heads, hammering metal straight. The chaiwala said, “Sharma-ji, yeh gaadi phir bik jayegi kya?” I just smiled—every car finds its owner, sooner or later.

I was about to put it up for sale when a young man appeared—skinny jeans, fake gold chain, hair styled Mumbai-style. He hung around outside before stepping in.

I’d seen his type before. “Looking for a car, bhai?”

He nodded, eyes shifty. “Boss, I heard you sell that kind of car.”

I grinned. “Haan, second-hand accident cars. Come, sit—I’ve got all kinds.”

I poured him cutting chai, watching him fidget. The city’s heat makes everyone thirsty.

He introduced himself as Amit—wanted a cheap car for commuting, something with status.

He barely touched his tea, scanning the wall of customer photos.

What luck—I had just the thing.

I wiped my hands on my kurta. “Ekdam fresh arrival—BMW X1, 2020. Good condition, only two people died in it. Lowest body count in my shop.”

He blinked. “How much?”

He didn’t flinch. Most people do. Either brave, or hiding something.

“5.8 lakhs. You’re driving it yourself, right?”

Amit hesitated. “Of course. Boss, can you go lower—5 lakhs?”

Bargaining is a Mumbai sport. I smiled. “Bhai, BMW hai. Deaths aside, you know what you’re getting.”

“2020 BMW X1—if not for the deaths, would you get it this cheap? Not a rupee less. Or, if you want, I have one where everyone in the car died—2.2 lakhs.”

Amit shook his head. “No, just the BMW. I’ll take it.”

He counted out notes, hands steady, eyes sharp. I wondered who the real buyer was.

The deal was smooth. Amit took a short test drive, added me on WhatsApp, and drove away.

A drizzle started as he left, headlights fading into the evening. I shrugged—one more story in the city.

Later, scrolling WhatsApp Status, I nearly dropped my chai: “Congrats to my brother for getting a BMW.”

Arrey, he’d bought it for his brother! I muttered a few choice words.

I messaged: “Bhai, why’s the car for your brother?”

Blue tick, then blocked. Bas, aaj kal ke log.