Chapter 5: The Tennis Clue

5

Mr. Sharma’s threat wasn’t empty. I soon felt the pressure.

The phone rang at all hours; my team leader started giving me sidelong glances. Even the station chaiwala whispered, “Saab, kuch gadbad hai kya?” behind my back. In this city, word travels faster than the local trains.

The team leader asked me every day when the case would close, and the DCP personally urged me to hand it over to the court as soon as possible.

Every morning, the DCP’s call came before I’d had my first chai. “Beta, why is the file still on your desk?” he’d ask, half-joking, half-accusing. I muttered excuses, heart pounding. The entire station felt the tension—constables shuffled past my door, eyes averted, everyone waiting for the storm to break.

But the more pressure Mr. Sharma put on me, the less willing I was to let go. I was convinced Prakash must have suffered some injustice, which led him to kill Ananya out of resentment.

I remembered a lesson from my own Dadaji: “When a powerful man shouts, there’s always a story he’s afraid of being told.” I resolved to dig deeper, no matter the cost.

I copied the CCTV footage of my conversation with the Sharmas and replayed her gesture again and again.

The video flickered on my laptop late at night, shadows dancing across the wall. I watched Meera’s hands, the arc of her motion, the tension in her shoulders. Something about it tugged at my memory.

She seemed to be gripping something with both hands and suddenly swinging it forward, as if hitting something.

Not a slap, not a punch—something more controlled, more deliberate. My mind raced through possibilities: cricket, baseball, hockey?

I consulted a few cricket enthusiasts on a WhatsApp group, but after watching the video, they all said it didn’t look like cricket.

The replies came fast: “No, boss, not cricket for sure. The follow-through is different.” “Looks like tennis or badminton.” “Maybe golf, but who plays that here?”

“Bats are heavy. If you swing them behind you, you’ll easily lose balance. Her motion is much larger—more like hitting something.”

The group’s banter faded as the seriousness of the case became clear. I thanked them, then stared at the phone, gears turning in my head.

The word “hit” sparked a thought. I immediately rushed to the nearby tennis court to observe the players’ swings.

The courts were busy, balls thwacking back and forth. I watched a woman practicing her backhand, and suddenly, the gesture clicked—the same arc, the same determined swing.

I found that—Mrs. Sharma’s gesture was a textbook backhand stroke.

My breath caught. Had I finally found a thread to follow? The connection was subtle, but in my experience, the smallest clues often broke the toughest cases.

Could it be that the grudge between Prakash and the Sharma couple was related to tennis?

The idea seemed absurd—what could possibly bind a butcher and a pair of government officers through a game of tennis? Yet, the thought refused to leave me.

But there was nothing tennis-related among Prakash’s belongings, and to be honest, he was burly and didn’t look like a tennis player at all.

I pictured him again: sweating behind his counter, cleaver flashing, sleeves rolled up. No sign of tennis anywhere. Still, my instincts urged me on.

I had no choice but to visit the Sharma home in search of clues.

I stopped at the famous Gupta Sweets on the way, picking up a box of fresh motichoor laddoos—a small gesture, but in India, sweets often open doors that even police badges cannot.

I bought some sweets at the local mithai shop and, under the pretense of offering condolences, was let in by Mrs. Sharma.

She greeted me with a forced smile, adjusting the pallu of her sari, her eyes rimmed red from crying. The house smelled of incense and lemon floor cleaner, but underneath it all, there was a coldness, as if laughter had been locked away with Ananya’s old toys. A family portrait hung above the shoe rack, Ananya’s smile frozen in time.

Unlike Prakash, the Sharma couple were typical tennis enthusiasts. Their rackets hung prominently in the living room, and trophies and photos filled the showcase by the door.

I glanced at the glass cabinet—trophies for local tournaments, yellowed newspaper clippings, a signed tennis ball from a famous player. Meera noticed my interest and straightened a photo of Ananya holding a silver cup, her pride unmistakable.

I asked if I could see Ananya’s room, but Mrs. Sharma told me—Ananya didn’t have her own room.

She said it as if it were normal, even desirable, her voice firm. Rajesh, listening from the dining table, didn’t contradict her.

“She usually studied in the study, and at night she slept with me. My husband sleeps in another bedroom.”

A shadow flickered across Meera’s face. Rajesh coughed, looking away. I caught the faintest whiff of camphor, the sign of nightly prayers or sleepless nights.

I was shocked. Didn’t this mean Ananya had absolutely no privacy?

In Mumbai, space is always at a premium, but even so, a teenager without her own room? It felt stifling. I thought of my own school days, the precious escape of a door that could be locked against the world.

Mrs. Sharma seemed evasive. “That child always sneaks novels to read at night. Her eyesight is so weak now. We have no choice.”

She smiled tightly, but the anxiety in her eyes was unmistakable. Rajesh busied himself with his laptop, pretending not to listen. The air in the flat felt heavy, as if no laughter had touched it in years.

I grew more certain that Ananya’s parents were indeed strange. Their desire to control their daughter bordered on obsessive.

My mother used to say, "You can lock doors, but not hearts." Here, it seemed, both had been sealed shut. I wondered how much of Ananya’s life had been lived in silent rebellion.

Living in such a family, no wonder the girl wanted to run away.

I looked at the small shelf by the window—neatly arranged, but a single dog-eared Mills & Boon peeking from behind a textbook. A quiet, desperate act of defiance.

But the question remained: how did she just happen to run into Prakash on her way out? Could it really be such a coincidence?

I chewed on the thought as I bit into a laddoo, its sweetness suddenly cloying. In India, coincidences are rarely what they seem.

Suddenly, a possibility occurred to me—

Could Ananya have gone to find Prakash on purpose?

The idea hit me like a slap. I stood up, thanking Meera for the chai, mind racing with new possibilities. There had to be a connection—hidden, but real.