Chapter 2: The Midnight Call

It was two in the morning when my phone rang, yanking me from a deep, blissful sleep.

You know that kind—fan whirring, phone charging on the old Godrej table, me sprawled on my bedsheet, half-covered by a thin chaddar. Suddenly, my ringtone—“Tum Hi Ho”—sliced through the silence. I jolted upright, heart thudding.

Unknown number. At this hour, that usually means urgent kaam or some drunk neighbour’s prank. But locksmithing is 24x7—dhandha ka koi time nahi hota.

"Are you the locksmith? My door won’t open—can you help me unlock it?"

A woman’s voice, anxious and breathless, with a Lucknowi lilt to her Hindi, switching to English as soon as I replied. For a second, I wondered if this was a prank—like that time Sharmaji’s son called me pretending to be stuck inside the bathroom. But the woman’s voice was too shaky, too real.

I put on my calmest professional tone—the one for panicking aunties worried about jewellery—and asked for her address and lock details.

She said Flat 1404, Block D, Kaveripur Residency. Standard mechanical lock, key goes in but won’t turn.

Kaveripur Residency: new high-rises, modular kitchens, fake Italian tiles, old cheap locks. "Aap tension mat lijiye, madam. I’ll be there in ten minutes," I promised, already making a mental note.

Told her it was likely the lock cylinder, might need replacing. She asked about the price, and my quote made her happy. "Thank you so much, bhaiya," she said, relief in her voice. Everyone’s a bhaiya these days—auto, delivery, locksmith. Makes the world feel a little closer, I guess.

I rolled out of bed and pulled on my navy blue uniform—creases ironed sharp, lion-holding-key logo my cousin drew (looks more like a dancing dog, but who cares). I tucked my comb into my pocket the way Dadaji used to before his morning shift, hoping it would bring me luck tonight.

Once ready, I grabbed my battered red canvas tool bag—zipper always stuck, but it holds my picks, pliers, fevicol, and my lucky screwdriver from Dadaji. Double-checked my own lock, then hurried down the stairs—our lift’s been dead since Diwali.