Chapter 3: The Professor’s Grief

Patil and his team rushed to Flat 401, hearts pounding. He took the stairs two at a time—the lift was, as always, out of order.

When Patil pushed open the door, a heavy silence pressed down. For a moment, no one spoke. The only sound was the distant ring of someone’s landline, unanswered.

Inside, the metallic tang of blood was overpowering. The white marble was streaked red. The living room was eerily still, except for a news jingle playing from a forgotten radio in the kitchen.

A middle-aged woman lay on the floor, blue and gold saree soaked and bunched at her waist. Bangles—shattered—scattered across the tiles, the TV remote just beyond her reach. In the second bedroom, a boy of about ten was sprawled on the bed, his school bag and cricket bat close by. Both had been stabbed multiple times—every wound precise and deadly. Even the old maid, who’d rushed in with the police, fainted at the sight.

Neighbours quickly identified the family: Dr. Amit Singh, associate professor in Acting; his wife, Anjali; and their son, Mohit. Amit was known for his booming yoga voice on the terrace, Anjali for her laddoos during Ganesh Chaturthi, Mohit for winning the Hindi elocution contest.

Amit Singh was famous for his Godrej fridge commercial, a joke among colleagues—"Amit, fridge waala dialogue bol!" Even the canteen bhaiya knew his face.

It was Amit who’d found the bodies and called the police. The constable later said, "Sir, kabhi kisi aadmi ko aise rote nahi suna tha."

He’d gone to Lonavala for a shoot—just a day’s work, nothing special—and picked up pedas on the way back, thinking Mohit would be thrilled. Before coming home, Amit called, but no one answered. He figured Anjali had taken Mohit out, so he drove straight back, shrugging off the unanswered rings as her usual afternoon nap.

Arriving, he saw a crowd gathered—word had spread about Meera’s murder upstairs. He felt a chill, for Meera was his wife’s close friend. But first, he decided to greet his own family.

He paused outside his flat, balancing the sweet box, a hopeful smile still on his face. But only the security gate was open—the wooden door locked tight. He knocked, "Anjali! Mohit! Main aa gaya hoon!" No answer.

The car keys weren’t by the shoe rack, but their red Maruti was still parked below. His heart raced. He borrowed Mrs. Nair’s phone next door, dialing Anjali’s number. No reply, only endless ringing.

He wiped his hands on his kurta, whispering, "Nahin, aisa nahi ho sakta," trying to steady himself. But dread gnawed at him. The balconies were slippery from the rain, but fear gave him courage—he climbed over from the neighbour’s balcony, not caring about stains on his trousers.

Inside, he saw the horror—his wife and son, murdered. His knees buckled, and he clutched the doorframe, the sweet box falling and bursting open, pedas rolling across the blood-streaked floor. Gasping, he staggered to the door and threw it open, his scream echoing through the stairwell.