Chapter 6: The Market and the Trap

That afternoon, I took Meera shopping for clothes and daily necessities.

We squeezed into a crowded tempo, swaying as it rattled over potholes. Meera’s eyes sparkled as we passed the old Imambara, street vendors calling out their wares. She pointed out everything with childlike delight.

Along the way, she gazed hungrily at the scenery, curious about everything.

At Aminabad bazaar, Meera lingered at a bangle stall, eyes shining at the rows of glass choodiyan. She stopped to look at bangles in the market, gasped at the price of mangoes, and asked me questions about every shop we passed. It was as if she was relearning how to live.

Five years is a long time—the outside world had changed.

The traffic was louder, the clothes in the shops brighter, and even the hawkers shouted in a new slang. Meera stared at the cell phone displays, fascinated by touchscreens and selfie sticks.

On the way back, she clung to me more, brushing against me as we walked.

She held my arm as we crossed the busy road, her grip tightening at every honk. When we entered the building, she stayed close, looking up at me for reassurance.

Every touch sent a jolt through me. I knew I’d have her soon.

Her fingers felt warm, almost electric. I imagined her in my bed again, more certain now than ever.

Back home, someone knocked at the door.

The knock was loud, impatient, the kind that signals a neighbour with bad news or worse intentions.

Through the peephole, I saw Babloo’s greasy face.

He grinned, picking at his teeth with a matchstick, shifting his weight from foot to foot. I sighed, already dreading the conversation.

I opened the door a crack, annoyed.

"Haan, kya hai?"

Babloo pushed the door a little wider with his shoulder, his eyes darting around the room, searching for Meera.

He grinned, wedged the door open further, craning his neck to peek inside.

He sniffed the air, as if expecting to catch the scent of perfume. I blocked his view with my body.

"Bhai, we’ve lived here so long but never hung out. I’ve set a table at my place—come have a drink."

His voice was oily, too eager. I wondered what game he was playing.

I sneered inwardly. Babloo was notoriously stingy—if he was being generous, he must want something.

He never spent a rupee unless he expected ten in return. I crossed my arms, waiting for the catch.

As I was about to refuse, he leaned in and whispered, "I think I know who killed the landlady’s dog. Come over and I’ll tell you."

His breath was hot on my ear, his tone conspiratorial. My heart skipped a beat. Was this blackmail?

A chill ran down my spine. I followed him, almost in a daze.

I told Meera I’d be back soon, then slipped out, making sure to lock the door behind me.

At his place, he’d really splurged—dishes from the best local dhaba, a bottle of Old Monk.

The room stank of sweat and cheap perfume. Two plastic chairs were set at a table laden with mutton curry, tandoori rotis, and a bowl of peanuts. Babloo poured me a glass of rum, his hands shaking with excitement.

He toasted me again and again.

He clinked his glass against mine, shouting, "Cheers, bhai! To beautiful women and smart men!"

"Bhai, you’re amazing—always bringing home such fine women. I rarely admire anyone, but you, I admire."

He laid it on thick, his eyes gleaming with greed. I smirked, letting him talk.

His flattery made me grin and drink more.

No one ever praised me growing up. The more he spoke, the warmer I felt. I forgot my caution.

He filled my glass again, sidled up with a sly smile.

He leaned in, breath reeking of onions and rum. "Arrey, bhai, bata na—yeh setting kaise hoti hai? Kya jugaad hai tera?"

"Bhai, teach me—where do you find these women? Not only pretty, but obedient too. Even those from matrimony sites aren’t this good."

He winked, nudging my side. His laughter was loud, drawing curious glances from the open window.

I sneered, finally seeing his real motive.

Of course—he wanted my secret. I sipped my drink, pretending to consider.

If I told him, what would I have left?

This was my trade, my expertise. Why would I give it away for free?

I put a finger to my lips and shook my head.

"Trade secret, bhai. You wouldn’t understand."

"It’s my special skill. You wouldn’t get it."

He pouted, but didn’t argue. Instead, he topped up my glass, pouring more than I could handle.

He didn’t get angry, just kept buttering me up.

"You’re king, yaar. When I grow up, I want to be like you!" he joked, grinning like a schoolboy.

No one had ever flattered me so much. It felt good, so I kept drinking.

My head began to swim, but the praise was addictive. I leaned back, basking in his admiration.

Soon, my vision blurred.

The room spun, the faces on the TV blurring together. I blinked, trying to stay awake.

But I didn’t forget to ask who killed the landlady’s dog.

I slurred, "Arrey, tu bata na. Kutta kaun maara?"

Babloo’s voice drifted.

He leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper. "Raat ko do-teen baje, maine dekha tera darwaza khula. Aadhe ghante baad band hua. Kutta us ladki ne mara jo tere ghar hai."

"Last night, around two or three, I heard your door open. Half an hour later, it closed. The dog was killed by that woman in your flat."

My vision swam. I wanted to protest, to defend Meera, but the words wouldn’t come.

I lifted my heavy head to protest, but then remembered Meera’s knife skills and the dog’s perfectly skinned hide.

Images flashed before my eyes—her delicate hands, the precise slices in the meat, the cold determination in her gaze.

Babloo grinned.

He bared his yellow teeth, satisfied with my silence. "Samjha kar, bhai. Yeh sab hamesha jail ki hi karnamaat hoti hai."

"That chick did time, right?"

He didn’t wait for my answer, just kept talking, voice growing louder.

A chill ran through me, but the alcohol weighed me down.

My skin prickled, goosebumps rising on my arms. I looked around, searching for a way out.

"I’ve done time too—you can always tell. The cell’s so small, you can’t take big steps. She walks, every stride the length of a cell floor tile."

He stood up, demonstrating, taking measured steps across the floor. I watched, mesmerised by the absurdity of it all.

His laughter grew louder, his face fuzzier.

He slapped his knee, howling with laughter. "Bhai, tu toh kamaal ka banda hai."

"No wonder you scored such a top-shelf woman. That’s the trick. I’ve done time—I know. Once you’re out, you’ll do anything not to go back."

He poured himself another drink, voice slurring. "Mujhe bhi sikha de, bhai. Kabhi jail se nikal ke ladkiyan patana ho toh."

"Tell me, if I told that chick in your place that I know she killed the dog, then did something to her, would she dare call the cops?"

He leered, his meaning clear. My stomach twisted in disgust, but my limbs felt too heavy to move.

I tried to stand but collapsed to the floor. Darkness swallowed me.

The last thing I heard was Babloo’s laughter echoing in my ears, mocking me as I slipped into oblivion.