Prologue: The
Echo of a Crimson Stain
Bhopal.
Ten years ago.
The city, usually a
symphony of bustling life, held its breath in the hot, humid air.
It was a place of
vibrant markets and ancient, whispering temples, but within the walls of one
prominent family home, a silent drama was unfolding.
Ramakant Mishra was
a respected man, a widower who had bravely raised his two sons, Teju and Deepu,
relying on the quiet strength of his aging mother, Savitri.
From a distance,
the boys looked alike.
They shared the
same lean build, the same tall stature.
So alike, in fact,
that the town often called them "The Twins," an easy label that stuck
like dust to a well-worn path.
Yet, beneath that
surface resemblance lay two vastly different souls, like the North and South
Poles of a single planet. Teju, the elder, was a gentle spirit.
Once, he'd found a
lost kitten, shivering and tiny, and his face had lit up with pure,
unadulterated warmth, like the sun breaking through a storm of clouds.
His room was a
sanctuary of old books, their spines cracked and loved, each one a testament to
his kind and thoughtful nature.
Deepu, however, was
a different story.
A dark shadow
seemed to follow him, a subtle chill that made small creatures cry out before
falling into an unsettling silence.
His desk remained
perpetually dusty, untouched by study or curiosity, a stark contrast to his
brother's world. Ramakant, the father, watched Teju with profound pride, his
chest puffing out.
But when his gaze
shifted to Deepu, something flickered in his eyes – a shadow of fear, a knot of
worry that he kept hidden from the world.
Savitri Mishra, the
grandmother, with her wisdom etched in every wrinkle, tried to soothe the
discord, to bridge the growing chasm between the brothers.
But Deepu seemed
impervious to her kindness; her gentle words bounced right off him, like stones
hitting an unyielding wall.
When Teju turned
seventeen, he packed his bags – old, worn from years of travel – his degree a
shining promise of a future elsewhere.
He left Bhopal,
leaving behind an empty space that echoed in the quiet house. Not long after,
Savitri, feeling no longer needed, also departed.
Ramakant was truly
alone then, with only Deepu. And Deepu watched him, his eyes hard and cold,
like river stones frozen in winter.
Deepu's touch
lingered on property papers, and his whispers, strange and unsettling, filled
the house.
People called him
"Young Master" now, a title that sounded pleasant but was delivered
with an underlying current of fear, an unspoken threat.
Deepu knew the
house inside and out, all its hidden secrets, its creaky doors, the precise
jingle of every key.
The phone rang one
evening.
Sharp. Loud. Its
insistent ring shattered Teju's fragile peace.
"Brother,"
Deepu's voice crackled through the line, shaking just a little too much, a
performance for the unseen audience.
"Father's
health... bad." Teju felt a cold wave of sickness wash over him.
"What
happened?" he managed, his voice thin. "Can't say. Come quick."
The demand hung in
the air, heavy and suffocating like smoke.
Teju booked the
first available flight, buying a ticket that felt like a digital grave for his
peace of mind.
He landed in
Bhopal, the familiar humid air now feeling oppressive.
He went straight to
his father, who was indeed sick, dying.
But even in his
grief, a knot of unease tightened in Teju's stomach.
Savitri Sadan. The
Mishra home.
The cold tiles
underfoot felt colder than the outside air. The big wooden doors, shiny and
imposing, seemed like gates to a lost place.
The brass
nameplate, "Ramakant Mishra," gleamed in the dim light, the black
letters somehow looking angry. He knocked, but there was no sound, just a
profound quiet.
He turned the
knob. It squeaked, like a scared mouse.
Darkness rushed out
from within, swallowing the light from the hallway.
Teju fumbled for
the switch. Nothing. "Power cut?" he whispered, his own voice
sounding small, just hoping.
He stepped inside,
slow steps, feeling like a stranger in the house where he'd grown up.
"Dad?" he
called out, louder now. "Deepu?" No answer.
The air inside grew
colder, a chill that had nothing to do with the weather.
It wrapped around
him, like a heavy, cold blanket.
His heart pounded,
loud in the overwhelming quiet.
He could hear his
own rough, ragged breath. "Dad, where are you?" he begged now.
"Deepu, where
are you?" Fear grew, like a dark, noxious flower unfurling in the shadows.
Then, he saw a
shape. On the bed. Hunched. Still. Just... there.
Black.
All black.
Teju reached out,
blind, groping in the oppressive darkness.
His fingers touched
something. Cold. Hard. A distinct shape.
His dad. Not
moving. Still.
Not just quiet, but
dead still.
He touched again,
lower. Wet. Slick. Sticky warm.
Fear hit him hard,
a physical blow that squeezed his chest, stealing his breath.
His hand felt
something sharp.
Hard. Sticking out
from his dad's chest.
A glint, even in
the faint light.
Something dripped.
Slow.
Heavy. Teju's heart
hammered, fast and furious.
He tasted metal,
sick and metallic in his mouth.
Someone. Something.
A knife. His dad. Hurt. Dying.
Flash!
White light.
Blinding.
The oppressive dark
was gone, replaced by a harsh, unforgiving glare.
He blinked, spots
dancing in his eyes. Clicking sounds. Shutter snaps. Cameras.
Flashes again and
again, like a morbid disco.
People. Dark shapes
in the blinding light.
He looked down. His
hands. Wet. Red. The sharp thing.
Still in his dad.
He jerked back, as if he'd been burned.
"Deepu,"
he whispered, the name a curse, tasting foul.
Voices swirled all
around him. Sharp. Loud. Click.
Handcuffs. Cold metal. A
man in khaki.
Steel eyes, looking
at him, accusing.
He should have
listened. Payal, a kind neighbor, had said, "Something's wrong,
Teju." Her face had been etched with worry. "Deepu is playing
games." He had dismissed it. "He's my brother," he'd said.
Foolish.
Click.
The cuffs
tightened, biting into his skin. Cold.
The trap. It had been there all
along.
And he had walked
right into it.
Later, long after
the noise had died down, Teju would wonder how the media had arrived so
quickly.
Too quickly.
Someone had tipped them off—someone who knew exactly when he would walk into
that room.
But at the time,
all he could feel was the sting of betrayal and the sharp snap of handcuffs
Weeks passed.
Months.
Each day felt the
same. Courtroom.
Lies. Deepu looked
sad, a picture of brotherly grief.
But Teju saw it – a
quick flash in his eyes. Happy.
The evidence, all
twisted, utterly wrong.
Raj Mathur, a
private detective and his dad's old friend, had fought hard.
He'd told the
truth, presented the facts, but money talked, and power closed doors.
Evidence vanished.
Stories were
changed.
Raj Mathur tried,
but it wasn't enough.
Seven years. Not
fair. Not right. It was hell.
But time, even
cruel time, sometimes relents.
After three years,
an unexpected transfer brought a new jail superintendent.
Teju’s quiet
strength, his mediation of inmate disputes, and the night classes he led for
juvenile prisoners did not go unnoticed.
Evaluations were
filed.
Recommendations
made.
Two years were
reduced from his term for exemplary behavior.
Five years.
He walked out with
no money, no family, and no name worth saving—but he walked out.
That, at
least, was something.
How is Teju going to revenge his father's murder and his unjustified conviction read The Crimson Alibi, The Novel of Twisted Justice.
