Chapter 3: Death and Disappearance

Last night’s nightmare replayed in my mind. Kunal’s bleeding eye sockets, the desperate search for red high heels. My voice shook as I asked, “Kunal kahan hai?”

The room rep hesitated. Yusuf bhaiya, Kunal’s close friend, said softly, “Mar gaya.”

For a second, the world spun. “M…mar gaya?”

I stumbled to the window. Down below, a police jeep and ambulance were surrounded by students, all craning for a look. Two medical staff carried a stretcher—Kunal’s body, covered in a white sheet, water stains spreading, loaded into the ambulance.

“Maine tere liye jaan di,” Kunal’s words echoed in my mind, and the image of the chudail in a red saree wouldn’t leave me. The morning wind cut through the mosquito net. Downstairs, someone whispered, “Police aaye hain, kuch toh hua hai.”

“How did he die?” I asked Yusuf bhaiya.

He sighed, “Kuch nahi pata. Subah subah hungama hua, ambulance aa gayi thi.”

Teacher said it was sudden death—gaming all night. I couldn’t believe it. The room rep muttered, “Sudden death my foot. College ko bas zimmedari se bachna hai. Humne khud dekha tha.”

Kunal didn’t die suddenly. No one who dies like that looks the way he did.

Yusuf bhaiya glared, “Chup kar na.” His eyes said enough—some truths weren’t meant for daylight. The room rep fell silent, then explained my episode: after Kunal was taken away, Arjun had returned to find me strangling Meera, eyes rolled back, hands like steel claws.

They’d tried everything. Only two hard slaps and a splash of hot water brought me back. I looked at my hands—bloody scratches, but no pain.

After Kunal’s death, his roommates were scattered to other rooms. Arjun and Meera stopped coming, either scared or angry. For days, I lived alone, guilt gnawing at me.

A week later, when the monsoon rains finally broke the heat, Meera called. She wanted to meet downstairs. I agreed—I owed her an apology, and I couldn’t forget those red high heels.

Under the old neem tree, Meera waited. She rushed over, anxious. “Arjun kahan hai? Woh mujhse milta kyun nahi?”

“What? I thought he was with you. Usne toh class bhi nahi attend ki,” I said, confused.

Meera’s voice cracked. “Rohit bhaiya, acting mat karo. Usne tumhe bol diya kya? Kya woh break up karna chahta hai?”

She was serious. I tried to comfort her, handing her my handkerchief, awkwardly patting her shoulder. The scent of raat ki rani drifted from the hostel garden, thick in the damp air. “Sach bol raha hoon, Meera. Woh dikhai nahi diya. Room rep aur Yusuf bhaiya se bhi puchh lo.”

Meera wiped her eyes, voice trembling. “Us din ke baad jhagda hua tha. Tabse phone nahi uthaya. Abhi tak nahi mila.”

I promised, “Main dhundhunga. Milte hi bol dunga.” She nodded, turning to leave.

Then I remembered. “Woh red high heels—tum le gayi thi?”

Meera stopped, face pale under the streetlight, powdery and stiff. “Main pehni thi?” She stuck out her foot—the same red high heels, shining unnaturally.

“Woh toh bahut old-fashioned hain, daal do kahin,” I said, forcing a smile.

She didn’t reply, but asked, “Kya tumhe pata hai Kunal kaise mara?”

“Sudden death?” I frowned.

She shook her head. “Nahi, woh—”

“Rohit!” the room rep called out, slapping my back. I turned. Suddenly, I felt everyone’s eyes on me—people peering from windows, whispering, pointing.

“Rohit, kis se baat kar raha hai?” the room rep asked, face grave.

“Meera,” I said, turning. But behind me—nothing. No one.

I stood, stunned. Above, the old halogen lamps flickered. In the darkness, the sound of red high heels echoed—fainter and fainter. The questions clung to the humid air, heavier than the monsoon clouds outside.