Chapter 2: A Second Body

For the Mumbai Police, a murder at the Institute was a nightmare come true. News would hit the headlines by morning, and their seniors would demand answers. The media would be on them like crows on a wire.

The Santacruz Branch responded swiftly, sending their sharpest men to the scene. Havaldar Joshi reached first, elbowing through the crowd, khaki shirt clinging to his back, eyes scanning for clues. Minutes later, Inspector Dinesh Patil’s team pulled up, sirens wailing, the police Gypsy splashing through puddles outside the blue gate.

The Crime Branch’s Major Crimes Unit, led personally by Inspector Patil, soon joined. Patil-saab was famous for his bulldog determination—his moustache alone scared pickpockets straight. He barked, "Sab log peeche hat jao! Crime scene hai, movie shoot nahi!"

Inside, the flat was chaos—drawers yanked open, clothes tumbled out, a dabba of kaju katli crushed on the floor. The living room looked cyclone-hit. According to Jiya, "Sab already aise tha jab main aayi."

Meera’s body had already been taken away by ambulance. Neighbours described how ward boys lifted her gently, faces set in grim lines, while the old maid wept at the door.

The hospital called soon after: Meera had been stabbed seven times. She was gone.

The entire staff quarters slumped in grief. Someone whispered, "Uparwala bhi kya kya dikhata hai..."

Inspector Patil scribbled in his notebook, jaw tight, as constables cordoned off the building with yellow tape. "Saboot mat chhodo," he warned, "even a hair or footprint."

Many today might not remember Meera, but in those days she was known to all. Elderly professors murmured, "Aaj ki ladkiyaan kahan aisi dance karti hain?" Her old students—scattered across India—would soon hear the news and grieve. She’d been a beloved instructor, bringing samosas after rehearsals and sending WhatsApp forwards about scholarships. Many still called her "Didi."

Before joining the institute, Meera had starred in the dance drama “Silk Route, Monsoon Rain,” earning praise for her back-bending sitar pose as Nandini. Posters from that show, her mid-spin with a peacock feather, still hung in the auditorium.

Some said she inspired a generation to pursue Bharatanatyam. Her murder was already shocking. But then, an urgent call on Patil’s walkie-talkie chilled even the most hardened officers: Another incident—in Flat 401.