Chapter 3: Truth, Tension, and a New Customer

3

In my business, you have to be clear—owner must know everything. Amit bought the car, but gave it to his brother. I was sure the brother didn’t know the full story.

If you hide the truth, bad luck circles back. That night, I couldn’t sleep—thinking about the BMW’s new owner.

I guarantee the car’s condition, but not everyone can handle a car with this kind of past. Luckily, Amit left contact info, so I tracked him down.

I slipped on my oldest slippers and set out. A man’s word is his izzat.

That afternoon, I closed shop and headed to Rajdeep Colony. Old building, but property rates still 15,000 a square foot. I spotted the BMW by the curb—hood gleaming in the sun.

Even the security guard gave me side-eye—fancy car in an old colony always draws attention. The air shimmered with heat.

I didn’t go upstairs. I called the number on the dashboard. Five minutes later, a man in his thirties rushed down, scanning the lane before spotting me.

He looked wary, hand on the car door like he was guarding treasure.

“Hello, I’m the one who called. Are you Amit’s bhaiya?”

He froze. “Yes, I’m Rajeev. And you are?”

“Mr. Rajeev, I’m Sharma—Victory Second-Hand Car Dealership. Your brother bought this car from me.”

Rajeev frowned. “Boss Sharma, what’s this about? Did Amit owe you money?”

I shook my head. “No, but there’s something you should know. This car is special.”

“My brother said it’s a used car.”

He crossed his arms, eyeing me. City people are always wary of bad news.

“Not just any used car. Two people died in it. The last owner died days after buying it. If you want, I can buy it back for the original price.”

I braced for anger, but he just looked puzzled.

A rickshaw driver slowed, eavesdropping. I shifted to block his view.

Before I could say more, a man with a bag of apples came—Amit. His face dropped.

He glared at me, clutching his apples. “What are you doing here, Sharma-ji?”

He turned to Rajeev. “Don’t believe him, bhaiya. He sold it cheap and now wants more. Did he say two people died in this car, and he’d buy it back if you cared?”

Unbelievable—Amit nailed it word for word.

He had the gall to lie right in front of me, face as cool as a kulfi in May.

I could see Rajeev would side with family. Sure enough, he gave a hesitant smile.

“Boss Sharma, that’s not how business works. You signed a contract. You can’t go back just because you sold it cheap. That would ruin your name.”

His words stung, but I kept quiet. No point arguing with closed minds.

I said, “Mr. Rajeev, if you don’t believe me, have Amit show you the contract. Or come to my shop—it’s all there.”

Before he could reply, Amit snapped, “So annoying! The car’s sold—why keep pestering us? My brother’s got a rishta meeting today, this car is his style booster.”

In India, every big buy comes with family expectations and social drama. I understood, even if I didn’t agree.

With that, Amit dragged Rajeev away. They didn’t look back as they climbed the stairs.

I shrugged, watching them go. “Bhai, I tried.”

I’d done my duty—said my piece. As after-sales go, I’d done my part.

I headed back. Outside my shop, a girl paced, glancing at the notice, phone in hand but too shy to call.

Her hair in a loose braid, glasses slipping, kurti crisp but sandals worn—definitely a student.

I’d seen this type—shy about asking price. “Madam, looking for a car?”

She jumped, then met my eyes. “Are you the boss? I want to buy a car someone died in.”

Her voice was soft, but her eyes steady.

4

I invited her in. She perched on the chair like for a viva, knees together, a bead of sweat at her temple.

“Are you a university student?”

She nodded. “Mumbai University. Boss, I want a car someone died in.”

Her bag had a faded college logo—no doubt.

“Just got your licence? Want a cheap practice car?”

Students like her buy, then sell back in six months—I make eighty–ninety thousand each time.

She thought, then nodded. “Boss, do you have a car with a lot of deaths? The more the better.”

She fiddled with her dupatta, but her gaze was direct.

Typical student logic—more deaths means cheaper. True, but more deaths means heavier bad luck, more chance of weird things. With her quiet nature, she might attract something.

Elders say, “Zyada maut, zyada badh luck.” But youngsters don’t listen.

I pulled up my computer and picked a car. “How about this 2017 Mazda? Highway fog, truck hit—driver, passenger, two colleagues died.”

She barely glanced at the photos, mind elsewhere.

She shook her head. “Heard that car was stuck in traffic. Do you have something better? Preferably a big brand.”

Her fingers drummed the table, but her eyes held hope for something grander.

My best haunted car—the BMW—was gone. Honestly, I’d rather sell to her than to Amit.

Regretfully, I said, “A few days ago, I had a BMW that was perfect, but it’s sold. Leave your number? Add me on WhatsApp. I’ll let you know.”

She typed in her number, hands shaking. Username: Disha. Cute, but her DP was pitch black—gloomy vibes.

Youngsters these days love dark themes, but something about Disha’s energy gave me pause.

I walked her out, checked her Status. Used to be food, shopping, some handsome guy. Now all dark themes—maybe breakup, maybe just moody. With this generation, who knows?

After Disha, it was 5 p.m. I remembered Moti was still at the pet shop for a bath, so I zipped over on my old scooty.

My TVS wheezed through traffic, dodging sabzi carts and delivery boys. The air was thick with petrol, frying samosas, and somewhere, a temple bell clanged.

Moti is my stray—no breed, just black, smart, loyal. Whenever I put him in an accident car, he senses if something’s wrong. Once, he barked at the exhaust—sure enough, there were remains inside.

Neighbours call him “kali shadow,” dropping off leftover roti for him. I trust his nose more than any mechanic.

Usually, I only sell cars that pass Moti’s test.

Sometimes, I light camphor and circle the car with Moti before a sale. Accident cars, you never know—better safe than sorry.

At the pet shop, Moti was spotless. He ran to me, wagging, drooling. I was thinking of an extra treat when my phone rang—local police station.

“The inspector’s voice was all business. I wiped my hands on my kurta, feeling Moti press against my leg. Trouble, I thought, always knows my number.”

"Are you Mr. Sharma? There’s been a traffic accident on Laxmi Road involving a car bought from your shop. Please come to the station to assist with our investigation."

Even as I scratched Moti’s ears, my heart skipped a beat. In this business, trouble is always just one phone call away.