Chapter 5: Morning Suspicion

The next day, I was woken by shouting downstairs.

Pressure cookers whistled, someone shouted for the milkman, and a scooter backfired in the lane below. Women arguing over water, a man cursing as his scooter stalled—usual morning chaos. I rubbed my eyes, the taste of last night’s failure bitter in my mouth.

I checked the time—it was already noon.

I cursed myself for oversleeping. The sun blazed through the window, dust motes dancing in the beam. I scrambled up, pulling on a crumpled shirt.

When I came out, a delicious smell greeted me.

Spices floated through the air—jeera, ginger, frying onions. My stomach rumbled, the aroma promising a feast.

Meera, wearing an apron, stood by the table, smiling.

She looked like a different person—hair tied back, sleeves rolled up, her eyes bright with pride. The apron had a faded cartoon on it, left behind by a previous tenant.

Two meat dishes, two vegetables—all looked and smelled great.

She’d even made rotis, puffed and hot, steam rising in curls. On the table, a jug of cold water, two steel glasses, and a bowl of chopped onions completed the spread.

"I haven’t cooked in ages. Not sure if I’m still any good. Come try."

Her voice was soft, hopeful. She brushed a loose strand of hair from her forehead, waiting for my verdict.

I was starving. I sat down and wolfed down the food.

I tore into the mutton first—tender, juicy, perfectly spiced. The vegetables were crisp, the dal creamy. I let out a satisfied sigh, not bothering with table manners.

Her cooking was excellent, especially her knife skills—every slice of mutton was perfectly even, as if measured with a ruler.

The pieces were cut just so—neat, uniform, each bite a testament to her patience. I wondered where she’d learned to handle a knife like that.

Looking at her, I thought I’d found a real treasure.

For a moment, I imagined keeping her for myself, never handing her over. A woman who cooks like this, with a face like hers—who wouldn’t want her?

The commotion outside grew louder. Curious, I went to check.

The window rattled as people shouted. Someone banged on a steel plate, a common way of calling attention in the colony.

A crowd of tenants had gathered at Aunty Radha’s door.

Women in housecoats, men in lungis, children peeking between legs. The smell of sweat and fear mingled with the stench of dog urine.

I couldn’t squeeze in, so I tapped a tattooed, yellow-haired guy on the shoulder.

His name’s Babloo, a local goon who’s done time and now scrapes by with petty theft.

Babloo’s hair was bleached to a shade only found in cheap salons. Tattoos crawled up his neck, spelling the names of various girlfriends. He grinned at me, his teeth stained with tobacco.

He grinned at me, showing yellow teeth.

He flicked a beedi stub onto the ground and winked, his breath stinking of rum.

"Bhai, us kutte ka toh band baj gaya. Koi badiya kaam kiya, bilkul professional jaisa."

He whispered this with relish, like a kid sharing a ghost story. His eyes glittered with mischief.

"The old lady woke up to a bloody hunk of meat and the dog’s skin on the ground—she went mad."

He mimed the scene, clutching his chest and rolling his eyes. The crowd tittered, enjoying the spectacle.

"Heard she’s in the ICU now. If the ambulance had come any later, she’d be reunited with her mutt."

He spat on the ground for effect, then burst out laughing. Some of the neighbours joined in, barely hiding their relief.

People around were chatting and smirking. Everyone here had been bitten by Sheru at some point. The hallway always reeked of dog pee and faeces, but Aunty Radha was so overbearing, no one dared complain.

Kids used to throw stones at Sheru, but if anyone complained, Aunty Radha would create such a scene that even the police would run away. Now, with the dog gone, there was a sense of guilty celebration.

Now the dog was dead, Aunty Radha was in the ICU—if anything, people were holding back from celebrating.

Some neighbours offered perfunctory condolences, but most seemed relieved. Someone muttered, "Accha hua, kam se kam corridor saaf rahega."

Thinking of last night, I spat and laughed.

I remembered the way Sheru had lunged at Meera, the way Aunty Radha had cursed us. I couldn’t help but feel a small thrill of vindication.

Just then, Meera poked her head out from the stairwell.

She looked nervous, eyes scanning the crowd for me. Her dupatta was wrapped tightly around her shoulders, hair pulled back neatly.

I waved her over. She came to my side.

She walked quickly, keeping her head down, but stayed close behind me, trusting me to protect her from the curious stares.

Babloo’s eyes nearly popped out of his head.

He whistled low under his breath, nudging me with his elbow. "Bhai, mast maal hai," he whispered, grinning lecherously.

"Arrey, who’s this?"

His tone was teasing, but his eyes lingered on Meera a little too long. I moved to block his view.

I calmly shielded Meera behind me.

I slung an arm around her shoulders, daring anyone to question me. I stepped in front of her, folding my arms across my chest, giving Babloo a hard stare. "Kuch kaam hai?" I asked, voice cold.

"My girlfriend."

I said it without hesitation, claiming her as mine. Babloo raised his eyebrows, impressed.

Babloo grinned, full of envy.

He let out a low whistle, shaking his head. "Kya baat hai, bhai."

To break the awkward silence, he changed the subject back to the dead dog.

He nudged me again, as if letting me in on a secret. The crowd drifted away, the excitement fading.

"Did you see how the skin was peeled? Whoever did it was a pro—ten years of knife skills, at least."

He drew a finger across his throat, miming the act. His eyes glinted with admiration, almost respect.

"Police came, but with so many people, who could they question?"

He shrugged, lighting another beedi. "Arrey, yahan sab chor hai. Kisko pakdegi police?"

"All because the old lady was too cheap to fix the security cameras. Now look what happened..."

He spat again, laughing. "CCTV ka paisa bachaya, ab bhugto."

Knife skills...

My mind flickered to the neat slices of mutton in the morning’s curry, the way Meera handled the knife with practiced ease.

For some reason, I thought of Meera’s perfectly sliced mutton.

An uneasy feeling crawled up my spine. I glanced at Meera, who was staring at the ground, face expressionless.

I turned, but she was already heading upstairs, her figure swallowed by the dim corridor.

Her footsteps were silent, measured. For a moment, I wondered if I really knew her at all.