Chapter 2: Silent Witnesses and a Fifty-Rupee Note
That severed head rolling to the ground, and Old Sharma next door under the gulmohar—both kept quiet for five years.
Gaon mein, even the trees yaad rakhte hain. The neighbours didn’t open their mouths, nobody wanted to wake old bhoot. Five monsoons came and went; khoon ke daag faded from the mitti, but the whispers never left.
Our only clue was a two-year-old boy who survived that night, and the money the suspect kept sending, kabhi kabhi, to his budhi maa every saal.
The second clue? We didn’t get it until paanch saal baad.
Because the suspect’s maa, now frail and sensing her end, wanted to see her Shyam one last time. So she came to us and said, “Mera beta—har saal mujhe paisa dene aata hai.”
Her words trembled, eyes darting like a chidiya trapped in a cage, but in her wrinkled palm she clutched a pachaas ka note, edges all torn. Everyone in the chowki froze; even the peon, who was bringing chai, set the tray down with a clatter, spilling a little, as the mother’s words hung in the air. For a moment, time stopped—everyone felt the weight of her raaz.