Chapter 4: Red Alert on WhatsApp

"Ding"—a WhatsApp notification made me jump out of my chair. My phone’s screen glowed with my hotel owners’ group—the DP a patchwork of paan stains and chai cups. My sweaty palm nearly dropped it. My heartbeat thundered in my ears.

There are about twenty of us in the group—Lucknow’s small hotel walas. We share info about raids, local thugs, and even the best Maggi suppliers. All of us sharks in a tiny pond, just trying to survive.

Someone had posted a news link, almost as if they’d read my mind.

My thumb hovered over the message. The chat was full of red alert emojis and ‘Bhagwan bachaye’ messages. My hands shook as I clicked.

[Urgent Notice: Suspected Serial Killer Has Entered Lucknow. All citizens, please be vigilant. If you have any information, contact the police immediately.]

The words glared like a curse. For a second, everything stopped. Even the street dogs outside went quiet.

I was petrified, hands trembling as I clicked the link.

The page took ages to load—wifi acting up, as usual. Each second felt like a lifetime. At last, the article appeared.

It said a serial killer was on the loose, targeting young women.

My eyes darted over the details—just like that girl upstairs. My heart pounded, sweat running down my back.

His signature move: bringing freshly killed women to small hotels to dismember them.

‘Freshly killed’ made me gag. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. This was happening in my hotel. Mine!

Several hotels had been closed after such cases.

I saw my entrance shuttered, police tape everywhere. Years of savings, gone. My wife, my daughter—what would happen to them?

Police were warning owners to stay alert, report any clues.

I stared at the screen, the warnings louder than sirens. Should I call? Should I run? I felt trapped.

No photo of the killer, just a vague description—height, build. I remembered the man’s cap, mask, tattoo. The article fit him like a tailored kurta. My mind spun.

After reading, my heart went cold as ice.

All the warmth from my chai was gone. My hands went numb. The world tilted.

Between the cameras and the news, I was ninety-nine percent sure the killer was upstairs.

I closed my eyes, took a shaky breath, tried to steady myself. This was real.

Heart pounding, I reached for my phone, thumb hovering over the green call button.

My phone was already dialling 100, but I hesitated.

Panic turned to calculation. Would the police believe me, or arrest me first?

How could I explain this to the police?

They’d ask—‘How did you know?’ Would I confess everything and trust their mercy? What if they saw me as a partner in the crime?

I couldn’t say I’d seen it all through hidden cameras.

The moment I opened my mouth, I’d be in jail before I could say ‘chori chhipe’. No lawyer would save me.

If I said I saw the news and acted, maybe they wouldn’t care about the few minutes’ delay, or about letting him check in without ID. But Lucknow police aren’t quick at night. By the time they came, he’d be gone—or I’d be blamed.

By then, he’d probably started already.

The images haunted me—the knife, the plastic, the girl’s lifeless body. I could almost hear a scream that would never come.

And the police would search every inch for evidence.

They’d rip apart the room—every cupboard, every socket, every mattress. My secrets would spill out for the world to see.

My cameras—I might fool guests, but not the cops.

One look, and they’d know. ‘You’re finished, bhaiya,’ I heard in my mind. My hands shook harder.

What then?

I imagined myself cuffed, neighbours whispering, my family’s name ruined. My blood froze.

This isn’t petty crime. Police would dig up every second of footage I’d recorded.

They’d call the media, show my face on TV. ‘Pervert hotel owner exposes private moments’—my life destroyed.

But if I waited for him to finish and leave, what if he got caught later?

I’d be an accomplice, not a bystander. Police always find a scapegoat.

Or if they investigated and traced it back to me, the cameras would be found.

Even if I tore everything out now, the evidence was built in. No way to hide it.

The wiring, the holes, the angles—cops aren’t fools. They’d find it all. My future felt as fragile as a diya in monsoon.

If they thought I’d covered for him, I’d be ruined.

Not just jail—my family’s name, my daughter’s marriage, my wife’s dignity—gone.

I frantically searched: How many years for secret filming in a hotel?

My fingers slipped as I typed. The answer: up to ten years’ jail. My head spun.

Ten years!

I gasped, nearly dropping my phone. All for a few lakhs and dirty secrets?

Arrey baba! Arrey baba! Arrey baba!

The words escaped, a half-prayer. I pressed my palms together, wishing for a miracle.

I was falling apart.

My vision blurred. I rubbed my temples, trying to focus. This was a nightmare, and there was no waking up.

My hands shook so hard it took three tries to light a cigarette.

Sweat slicked the lighter. When the flame caught, I inhaled deeply, coughing out the panic.

A few deep drags, and I forced myself to calm down.

Slowly, my heart steadied. I wiped my face with my gamcha, refusing to let panic win.

In half a minute, I thought through everything.

It’s strange, how your mind works under pressure—past, present, future, all jumbled together.

I couldn’t let my hidden cameras be found. Otherwise, not just my money—my whole life would be destroyed.

So, I couldn’t call the police, but I couldn’t pretend I hadn’t seen anything, either.

Doing nothing was just as dangerous. The world doesn’t spare cowards.

The most important thing: I absolutely couldn’t let him dismember the body here.

That would be the end. One cut, and I was finished. I had to act, fast.

If he didn’t do it here, maybe police wouldn’t investigate so hard.

If I could get him out—send the problem elsewhere—maybe I’d survive.

I had only one option left: get him to leave.

Risky, but what else could I do? I’d rather face a killer than the police.

Now! Immediately! No time left.

My thumb hovered over the call button—one call could end everything, or destroy me.