“Your daughter is tricking you,” Pushpa Ji said to the DCP, South Delhi; she peeked over her shoulder at the two teenage girls trailing behind. 

Giggling and gibbering like the schoolgirls they were, the DCP’s daughter and Pushpa Ji’s granddaughter nibbled on chocolate bars, nudging each other over some private joke. The late afternoon sun towered over the streams of babbling high school students spilling out of the school gates. 

“You heard them, too, right, Pushpa aunty? Don’t tell me it’s one of your—the devil is in the detail theories. All because of my work commitments, my daughter was punished; I just didn’t get the time to buy those soccer shoes. The poor girl had to spend the last one-hour jogging around the field.” The DCP hung her head low. “What makes you think it’s a ploy?” 

“It’s the little things!” Pushpa Ji burst into a rippling laugh. She waved at her driver in the choc-a-block parking lot. “I don’t want the mom guilt to eat you up. Did you hear the chocolate snap when your daughter broke a piece and popped it into her mouth? The chocolate would be too much of a gooey muck to snap if it sat in her shirt pocket while she raced under the scorching sun.” 

A flicker of understanding dawned on the DCP’s face. “Two can play at that game,” she said, twisting her lip. 

The women settled in their respective cars next to their wards with a quiet nod. Pushpa Ji flipped through the latest issue of National Geographic; before she could zero on an article, her phone whirred. 

It was from a fellow sexagenarian, her close friend, and a neighbor down the street. The elderly ladies’ camaraderie extended to the rest of the family members, with their grandchildren—Rohan and Sheena, sharing school, university, and friend circle. 

“Hi, Pushpi! Can you please forward Rohan’s phone number?” 

“Of course; what happened?” 

“We are trying to find Sheena. She left her purse and mobile phone at home in the morning rush. Her mother is losing it by the minute; the girl was supposed to be back earlier this afternoon. We’ve buzzed all her friends—Sheena apparently never reached college,” the neighbor said, her voice tinged with worry. “I wanted to confirm it with Rohan too, but somehow couldn’t locate his name on Sheena’s contact list.” 

Like Pushpa Ji, everyone had long tagged Rohan and Sheena as a couple. 

“I’ll forward it right away,” Pushpa Ji said before hanging up. 

Her forehead puckered as her thoughts scampered in a million directions. She always had a soft spot for Sheena; her cheerful, spunky temperament reminded her of her youthful self. The girl was just what her reserved, soft-spoken grandson, Rohan, required in his life. But over the past few months, Pushpa Ji had spotted a subtle change—Sheena had become withdrawn, sulky, and distracted as if swamped by the weight of the world. It had been days since she’d seen the two youngsters together. 

“Hey, Grams, Suh,” Pia, Pushpa Ji’s granddaughter, peered at the frowns bunching her grandmother’s temples. 

“What’s brewing between the lovebirds?” Pushpa Ji stared at Pia; a puzzled expression shadowed her wrinkled, age-worn face. 

“Count me out of this narrative, Puh-lease! I am not the one to spill tea, Grams.” 

“Okay, then I won’t tell you why your buddy, the DCP’s daughter, won’t be laying her paws on the coveted blue-tooth speakers any time soon.” Pushpa Ji crossed her arms and twisted her lips in a mock pout. However, moments later, they sat huddled together, with Pushpa Ji apprising Pia about her adventurous afternoon. 

“Damn! I am shook!” Pia doubled over and slapped her thigh. “I owe you one! But it’s a little sus; Rohan is still tight about it!” 

“Can we please talk in my language, Pia? Remember, it’s your granny, born somewhere in the early nineteen sixties.” 

“Okay, Dadi, as you wish,” Pia bowed her head into a pretend curtsey, launching into a monologue in a language reserved for communicating with her linguaphile grandfather. 

“It had been going splendid for the pair; the whole shebang went up the flames when Rohan shared a photo of them holding hands on his profile with a frivolous caption. The silly muppet was just testing the waters before proposing to Sheena. Wonders of wonders, the picture didn’t garner the similar enthusiasm from the ladylove and even spurred a slanging match. An absolute bedlam!” Pia shook her head with a theatrical emphasis. “The aftermath saw the duo rebuffing each other. A conceited bloke, Neerav Khanna, is the subject of Sheena’s latest burgeoning relationship. Your grandson, Rohan, is courting a French lassie, an exchange student. And with that, I am done with the good turn of the day.” Pia sucked a long breath and buried her face in her phone. 

Pushpa Ji scanned a grumbling river of vehicles from the side window, her mind debating over Sheena’s whereabouts. She buzzed Rohan a few times, but the ring went unanswered. 

“Mata Ji, the low tire pressure light is blinking; a workshop is nearby,” the driver said, swinging the Mercedes into an alley. 

He pulled up in a clearing peppered with wild grass, tangled bushes, and rubbish a few minutes later. Pushpa Ji skimmed the deserted street flecked with locked shops with broken windows, ramshackle unkempt cabins with rusted metal grilles, and battered buildings. She couldn’t believe that such a place existed only a few miles from their posh South Delhi residence. 

A garage stood in a corner, prying into the main roadway from a makeshift barricade of dead automobiles, a few shrouded under a black tarp. 

“This place used to be bustling. Abdul Sattar knew cars like the back of his hand.” Pushpa Ji’s eyes hovered over a newly painted board announcing in bold blue letters—Abdul Sattar Motor works. 

“The MCD demolished the colony because of illegal construction. Abdul’s connection helped him arrange the required documents. He died last year, though, and his son handles it now. He is trying to attract business—” 

“But the shutters are down.” Pusha Ji mumbled. 

She tracked her chauffeur as he ambled up to the workshop. The doors rattled when he rapped against the metal frame. “Is anybody here?” he hollered. 

There was no reply. 

Stepping out of the vehicle, Pushpa Ji inched closer. 

Once again, the driver slammed his fist against the screen, hammering it harder, causing the clang of metal to ricochet in the silent street. Nothing. 

He replicated the banging a few times in frustration. 

Suddenly, something stirred; with a brassy clung, an aperture gaped between the floor and the tin shutter. 

“What’s with the racket?” A young man shrieked from under the shutters, punctuating his reply with the choicest obscenities. 

However, he sobered down once he noticed Pushpa Ji and the Mercedes. 

“Sorry, the shutters are jammed,” he said, wriggling out. He slipped on a neon green sleeveless vest hanging on a clothesline and picked up a can of kerosine and an old tire as he slinked close. An acrid stink of old rubber, admixed with grease, sweat, and motor oil, wafting from his T-shirt sent Pushpa Ji bolting back to the car. 

“Still renovating—maybe another three or four days to get it on its feet,” the mechanic said. He yanked a steel watch with a yellowing face from his pocket and strapped it on. 

“It’s just the air pressure!” the driver said in a cajoling tone. 

“Sorry, can’t. All the tools are packed!” the garage owner said, crushing an empty soda can under his electric-blue shoes. 

Irked by the young man’s air, the driver stomped back and jerked the engine to life. “Too much attitude for a Nukkad shop,” he cursed. “Opening today—it says,” the driver yanked a lemon-yellow flyer from the dashboard, crumbled it into a ball, and flung it out of the window. 

Pushpa Ji swiveled to see the garage owner’s reaction, but the chap had already retreated indoors. As the automobile drove ahead, her eyes drifted to a freshly dead pigeon—possibly eaten by feral stray cats floating in a drain like a grimy cloud in the night sky.  

****  

“See, Sugar!” Nihal Singh, a retired IAS officer, addressed Pushpa Ji, his wife of forty years, pointing at a plantlet of hedgehog cactus at the base of the bursage plant. “If you are a seedling in a harsh landscape, you are lucky to end up underneath a big plant like yourself. Cacti are vulnerable—most wouldn’t survive if it were not for their experienced friends.” 

“You win!” Pushpa Ji smirked, swerving from her husband’s experiment that had begun weeks ago to her rich black tea. The elderly couple relished trumping each other—Nihal Singh’s area of expertise was gardening. The animal world held Pushpa Ji’s fascination; her impeccable mastery over the subject was almost impossible to refute. She often drew striking parallels between humans and animals. 

“I present you the golden blooms of amaltas in their new avatar.” The kitchen doors burst open, and Rohan whizzed out, holding a tray. He pressed his back on the swinging door, and the housemaid sashayed with another plate. 

“Here, summer flowers with chili, kaffir lime, and peanuts. Awaken your taste buds with the robust-flavored phalse ka sherbet—Indian berries with a sprinkle of black salt.” Rohan chimed, placing a motley of vibrant-hued dishes before his grandparents. 

Nihal Singh picked up the magenta beverage and took a sip; his eyes sparkled as his senses soaked in the gustatory delights of the tangy drink. 

“So, you do like Indian flavors; I was told by a dicky bird that you are only into French cuisine these days.” Puspa Ji cast a sidelong glance at her twenty-year-old grandson. Contrary to his usual self, Rohan had become more boisterous and outspoken over the last few weeks. He squandered most of his hours outdoors, either at his college or picking up the finer nuances of his latest obsession—cooking. Was it an outcome of his falling-out with Sheena? Was it all a façade? Pushpa Ji wondered. 

Yesterday too, Rohan was in one such cooking class. After the session, he noticed the missed calls and phoned back with profuse apologies. Rohan had even put his classmates and teacher on the speaker to pacify his grandmother. 

Rohan looked at his grandmother with dark penetrating eyes, then curled his lip and said, “Guess what, Dadi? I have no appetite for Indian—I don’t want to be a fly in someone’s soup. Speaking of flies, I see one splashing in your tea.” 

Slack mouthed, Pushpa Ji dropped her gaze into her tea, and sure enough, a puny fly was snorkeling in her fragrant brew. “Please change the tea,” she called out. 

“Why, son?” Nihal Ji picked up the conversation thread, ignoring the brief, action-packed intermission. “Indian cuisine has so much to offer—Udipi, Bohra, Sindhi, etc.” He opened his arms to emphasize; his elbow struck the tray, knocking it over. A splatter of grub and glass clattered on the floor; pink rivulets of sherbet danced on the walls. 

As the maid rushed over with a mop and sat on her haunches to clear the mess, Nihal Singh’s shoulder slumped; he bowed his head and looked away. 

Pia’s feisty entry broke the tension a few moments later. “I’m mad AF, bro! Neerav is such a F***boi!” She announced, flouncing inside. However, she hunched forward, tucking her chin into her chest as she noticed her grandfather glaring at her. He loathed the slang language. 

“Oh, aunty, is this traditional cuff on your ankles?” Pia blurted in a high-pitched voice to the housemaid. “And these rings on your toes are called bichhi. Isn’t it? Mummy did a collection based on these regional designs last season, and it was such a hit!” 

All eyes, including Nihal Ji’s, turned towards the housekeeper’s jewelry. “Yes. Didi Ji! Mine is pure silver. They once belonged to my mother,” the maid said, stroking the silver anklet. 

Pushpa Ji eyed Pia; her granddaughter had reclined back, chuffed at successfully averting a reprimand. Isn’t she like a Nightjar, performing an elaboration distraction display to confuse a predator? Pushpa Ji chuckled. 

“Now, only a few of us own conventional pieces.” the help was still talking. 

“You were saying something about Neerav,” Rohan interposed. 

“Hear this,” Pia bounced back in the conversation with the eagerness of a tabloid journalist. “We were at Depaul’s, and somehow the discussion veered towards Sheena. People expressed concern, speculating about the unexpected disappearance. Then, suddenly, Neerav barged in. ‘The bi*** wasn’t dating me,’ he roared. ‘I am way out of Sheena’s league, though that didn’t stop the hoe from hankering after me. Batsal, my dad’s Nepali staff, was her actual toy boy.’ Neerav claimed to have proof of their steamy affair.” 

“W-h-a-t? Sheena is still missing? It’s over twenty-four hours now,” Pushpa Ji exclaimed. Her eyes drifted to Rohan; his jaw was clenched, and his face flushed red. 

Rohan still held on to anger, rejection, and resentment towards Sheena; Pushpa Ji ruminated. She picked the tea the housemaid had placed on the table, reveling in the heady aroma, before taking a sip. “Tch!” She winced before pushing it away. 

“Something wrong, Sugar?” 

Pushpa Ji plucked the newspaper from the table; a few brochures dropped like confetti as she opened it. “Nothing much, except that it’s the same old tea—the maid just boiled it after scooping out the fly,” she said in a defeated tone. 

“How can you be so sure, Dadi?” It was Pia interjecting this time. Pushpa Ji mused; the help seemed to have charmed everyone during her brief stay. 

“You see, I had added sweetener and cinnamon to my tea before the fly fiasco. I haven’t touched the sugar dispenser yet. But the new tea is already sweet,” Pushpa Ji said, preoccupied with the flyers in kaleidoscopic colors.  

**** 

“The investigation improved after you put in a word with the DCP, but now it’s worse than ever,” Sheena’s grandmother said; a veil of tears shimmered beneath her aging grey eyes. “Sheena is out with a partner or probably lying drunk someplace—the police persisted initially. Now, those photos of Sheena with the Nepali help have screwed the matters. The investigating officer is only interested in Sheena’s love life and male friends. They couldn’t even locate her car. My Sheena could be lying hurt, injured, or —” 

— dead somewhere! Pushpa Ji brooded. It had been over three days since Sheena had gone missing. Each passing hour slumped the chances of her being alive. 

Pushpa Ji stared at the dusty panorama outside. Gulmohar blazed in its crimson fury; jacarandas rued in a purple-blue, and marigolds stood uneasy in smoldering burnt-orange, echoing the family’s emotions. Sheena’s photos in the arms of a twenty-something youth, Batsal Rai, had become viral, further intensifying the controversy. The class discrepancy between Sheena and Batsal had added fuel to the fire, giving traction to more gossip. True to his form, Neerav had proven to be a scumbag; there was little doubt he was behind Sheena’s photos with his dad’s employee, Batsal. 

“Is that Sheena?” Pushpa Ji flitted closer to an oil painting. 

The artwork depicted a lush pasture in glorious shades of purple against a backdrop of a coral sunset and turquoise waters. A young woman who looked like Sheena sat on a rock, donning a white dress cascading past her feet, her face toward the sky, and her long wavy hair adorned with wreaths of violets. 

“Yeah. Our tenant, an upcoming artist, did it; Sheena hung it here, counting on it to entice clients for the girl. It worked too—our lodger painted a whole slew of portraits—the Khannas, Mehtas, and Aggarwals commissioned many projects.” 

Whoop! Screech! Thud! 

The commotion sent the women scampering outside. 

“Are you alright?” Sheena’s grandmother cried, kneeling down. The girl, who Pushpa Ji surmised as their lodger nodded, found her feet, and approached the stairs with an exaggerated gait of someone dead drunk and failing to hide it. Pushpa Ji grabbed the young lady before she stumbled again. 

“Look what it’s done to us,” Sheena’s grandmother burst into sobs as she accepted the posy of violets from the lodger. “Sheena loved these flowers.” 

Pushpa Ji mounted the staircase, bracing the tenant on her shoulder. 

Her chauffer’s hangdog expression greeted Pushpa Ji when she returned to the car sometime later. She was alarmed to find the maid sniveling in a corner—the female stood barefoot, her hair disheveled and her cotton saree soiled and stained. 

The state of play soon became apparent. 

The housemaid was looted at knifepoint by three men during a taxi ride. The crooks had seized her handbag, which had some cash, jewelry, and a mobile phone, and threatened to kill her. However, the jewelry, including the gold chain and two gold rings in her purse, belonged to the driver’s wife. The maid was only collecting it on her behalf from the jeweler’s bazaar. 

“They rode away after the theft; I walked all the way,” the maidservant whimpered, wagging her broken slippers before the driver. 

As Pushpa Ji patted the lady’s back, comforting her, the bag on her shoulder slithered down, spewing its content on the asphalt. 

“Oh,” Pushpa Ji bent down. Her staff scooched, too, more by obligation than inclination, gathering the rustling tissues, coins, and lipsticks that skipped in multiple directions. 

Pushpa Ji angled herself and whispered something to the maid. It instantly shifted the woman’s demeanor; she fell back, shaken as if bitten by a snake. Soon, the ladies drifted out of sight with a subdued housemaid following Pushpa Ji. 

Pushpa Ji strolled back minutes later; installing herself in the passenger seat, she signaled the chauffer to drive away. The maid was nowhere to be seen. 

“Here, your jewelry,” Puspa Ji held out a pouch. “She was lying; there was no robbery. The burglars couldn’t be super benevolent to leave behind her mother’s anklet and toe rings.” 

An indefinable mixture of reverence, awe, and joy glimmered on the driver’s face as he took the pouch, verified the contents, and squeezed behind the steering wheel. 

“Um... it’s all smokes and mirrors in Sheena Madam’s case, Mata Ji,” he said in a low voice as they stopped at a traffic junction. “The fellow—Batsal Rai—is my cousin’s son. He couldn’t have had an affair with Sheena Madam—he is what one would call—” 

The chauffeur hesitated. “A human version of the Jerusalem male vultures.” 

“Huh?” Pushpa Ji cried. Then her mind galloped back to the documentary she had watched the other day in the car. It was about a pair of homosexual griffon vultures at Jerusalem Zoo engaging in “open and energetic coupling” before building a nest. 

“He needs help, Mata Ji. The police have flipped their lid over the case; they are torturing Batsal right, left, and center.” 

“Bring him home,” Puspa Ji said, clamping her eyes shut; a tangle of thoughts crowded her mind.  

****  

“Hey Sugar, did you hear? The body they fished from the lake at Hauz Khas Village has been identified as the Nepali youth who visited you the other day—some Batsal Rai. The press conjectures it to be a suicide.” Nihal Singh said, sliding onto a lawn chair. 

“It’s a stale story for Dadi; she accompanied our driver to identify the body,” Rohan said. 

“Evidently, Sheena’s stuff—her backpack, identity card, and journals—were recovered from the young man’s body; sure-fire evidence to prove him guilty. Crimes of passion, eh, Sugar?” 

“The body wasn’t bloated; the boy’s hand and feet were bare and tied with a rope. In addition, he had an injury to his head near his ear. Quite a suicide, eh?” 

“Spare me the grisly details, Pushpa; I am not the one writing the news columns.” Nihal Singh humphed. “What’s the police doing? Shouldn’t they be snooping around for Sheena’s body?” 

The mention of Sheena provoked a visible change in Rohan. His neck cord jutted out, and his temple veins throbbed as he clenched and unclenched his fists. 

Pushpa Ji tilted Rohan’s chin to meet his gaze. “You deserve the truth, Rohan. Sheena was neither Batsal’s girlfriend nor Neerav’s; she was in a same-sex relationship with her tenant. Yes, she was a closet lesbian and being manipulated by Neerav for it. Batsal was gay too; he was only helping Sheena to escape Neerav’s clutches.” 

Rohan’s mouth gaped open; his voice came in a whisper. “Is Neerav responsible for Sheena’s disappearance? Did he kill Batsal?” 

“From what I gather, he is cooling his heels in the police station, singing like a canary, confessing his wrongdoings. In due course, police will release his statement.” Pushpa Ji then directed her attention to her husband and said, “What do you think about the young mechanic—Nazim Sattar?” 

The mention of the mechanic unleashed Nihal Singh’s fury. “Isn’t it this the third time in the week the imbecile has jostled his way here? The rascal is deliberately marking down the engine of my old Toyota Land cruiser. A snowball’s chance in hell, I’ll sell it to him.” 

Pushpa Ji’s phone buzzed, thwarting Nihal Singh’s passionate assertion. 

“You were right! It’s a crime of misplaced passion. The police recovered Sheena’s body.” Puspa Ji said; she disregarded the astounded faces around her and hastened outside. 

“Nice watch! How come you didn’t wear it all this time?” She said to the mechanic, bent under the car’s hood. 

Sattar rubbed his thumb over his watch; a small smile played on his lips. “It’s my father’s. A weasel pinched it from me, but I settled everything, once and for all.” 

“Do you know the Nepali boy, Batsal Rai?” Pushpa Ji slid asked, her eyes never leaving the young repairman’s face. 

Sattar shrank back for a split second. “No, Mata Ji,” he said, recovering fast; his glance pirouetted to his wristwatch and the electric blue shoes on his feet, and his smile deepened. 

Pushpa Ji stood there, chatting up the young mechanic until the police arrived to arrest Sattar. “That weasel’s name was Batsal Rai, Isn’t it?” Pushpa Ji mumbled to Sattar as he the police van pulled away. 

*** 

The evening sun seeped through a leafy canopy of jamun trees; the summer breeze bore the tint of blossoming jasmines and dahlias. 

The DCP and Pushpa Ji sat on the wooden recliners sipping iced masala lemonade. 

“Can I pick your brain about the first breakthrough that unraveled everything?” The DCP said, peering at a pair of pigeons cooing on a branch. “What made you infer Sheena as a lesbian? Or that Neerav was milking her secret to his advantage?” 

“The little things are actually the big things.” Pushpa Ji sighed. “Call it my grandmotherly bias, but it seemed unlikely of Sheena to reject Rohan for that entitled brat. Why will Sheena condone Neerav’s behavior on social media when Rohan’s naïve post led to a massive outburst? It all hinted at Sheena being under Neerav’s thumb. The mystery cleared soon enough.” 

Pushpa Ji looked down at the plump Jamuns lying on the ground; many were squished, their juices smearing the earth in variegated tones of black and purple. “Did you know the common violets are symbolic of Lesbian love? The tenant’s painting of Sheena and the violet nosegays alluded to something on these lines. Later, the artist left no doubts by proclaiming her love for Sheena in her drunken stupor. The half-finished projects commissioned by Khannas in her studio solved another element. It implied at Neerav having access to the girls’ personal space; the rat could have bumped upon something.” 

“Excellent deduction, Aunty!” The DCP said. “Your suggestions set the tone for Neerav’s second round of interviews. The likelihood of him being a potential suspect for Batsal’s murder scared the shit out of him. He confessed to everything; he had stumbled upon Sheena’s secret more by accident than design. I’ve seen the photos that kept Sheena on Neerav’s leash—the two girls are in intimate positions in various stages of undress. But why did you think of Batsal as Sheena’s ally?” 

Puspa Ji squinted at her husband’s prized hedgehog cactus sprouting snug beside the bursage bush and drew a breath. “I recently learned that even plants shield others like themselves in hostile situations. Going by that logic, it made sense that Batsal, given his sexuality, would assist Sheena in outmaneuvering Neerav. More so, if Neerav terrorized Sheena based on her sexual orientation. Batsal’s sexuality was no secret in certain closed groups; perhaps that’s why Sheena approached him in the first place. Plus, the fact that he worked most evenings in Neerav Khanna’s home office.” 

“But Batsal and Sheena had underestimated Neerav’s villainy. Somehow the scoundrel had caught a whiff of Batsal’s and Sheena’s arrangement—that they were trying to delete those distasteful pictures. It only triggered Neerav to amass more material to bully Sheena—this time, it was her pictures with Batsal clicked at strategic moments. Later, after her disappearance, he made them public to deflect suspicion from himself.” 

“I wish Batsal confided in me! We could have saved him.” Pushpa Ji said; her eyes took a far-away look. 

“How could he admit to blackmailing Sattar?” The DCP raised her brows. “But I applaud you for guessing it correctly, nevertheless. Of course, now we have all the evidence. We’ve recovered Sheena’s voice messages from Batsal’s devices dated the previous night of her disappearance. Sheena mentions the need to see a mechanic early the next morning and even forwards Batsal an image of a flyer advertising Sattar’s workshop. Batsal later used this communication to intimidate Sattar. However, Sattar mentioned Batsal harboring the photos of Sheena’s car in his workshop, but we didn’t find any such pictures.” 

“So, practically, Batsal had nothing concrete. He was bluffing like Monitor Lizard—fooling Sattar into believing he was more dangerous than he actually was.” Puspa Ji chortled. “The little things hinted at a possible dynamic between Sattar and Batsal! On his uncle’s behest, Batsal showed up at my house reeking of motor oil, wearing those electric-blue sneakers and the steel timepiece I had previously seen on Sattar. Yet he denied being acquainted with the mechanic. Something seemed amiss. I paid good money to Sattar’s for showing up at my door on the pretext of checking an old vehicle to delve deeper. Meanwhile, the lure of a quick buck saw Sattar returning many times more, but always without those shoes or the steel watch. Of course, it was just a tiny matter, but I was hooked. Batsal’s dead body raised red flags; in fact, his dead body spoke more to me than he ever did.” 

“Yeah, the body’s hands and feet were bare,” The DCP added. 

“Exactly! And there was Sheena’s stuff on Batsal’s body, something the Police couldn’t locate on any past inspections. Remember, Batsal was always a suspect.” Pushpa Ji said, crossing her legs at the ankles and leaning back. “To cut a long story short, it signified that apart from their sexual orientation, Sheena and Batsal shared their killer, too. You see, only Sheena’s killer was in a unique position to obtain the stuff she carried the day she went missing. And only Batsal’s murderer could pinch or stow something on Batsal’s body. I was shocked to find the sneakers and wristwatch missing from Batsal’s body. By default, it implied that any individual possessing those jazzy shoes and the time-worn watch was an accomplice or the murderer himself.” 

“Ah! And then you saw Sattar sporting those two articles; that is when you called me.” The DCP bobbed her head. “You know it took the Police over an hour to locate the body. Glad you could hold the mechanic for that long.” 

“Sattar always struck me as greedy; the right bait did the trick.” Pushpa Ji said. An image of a skunk, an opportunistic predator, flashed in her mind as she spoke about Sattar. Her thoughts darted back to the first day she had met Sattar. “To think of it, I should have questioned his behavior the first day itself. Like a threatened skunk, he had grumbled and growled before sending a wallop of noxious odors my way. Only the pong was kerosine, rotting sweat, and the stench of old tires in his case.” 

The dwindling sunshine fell on the folded newspaper on the cane table, spotlighting the mugshot of the young mechanic, Nazim Sattar, and the words under it. 

June, DELHI 

Nazim Sattar, the owner of a garage near a deluxe South Delhi colony, has been charged with the murder of a 20-year-old woman, Sheena Chopra, and her friend, 22-year-old Batsal Rai a man of Nepali origin. 

Sheena Chopra had left her house ten days back to attend college when she went missing. The young woman’s partly decomposing body was found buried in a pit at the backside of Sattar’s workshop. The post-mortem confirmed she was brutally raped and suffered blunt head trauma in the minutes leading to her death. 

Reportedly, the mechanic planted Sheena’s articles on Batsal’s body to mislead the Police. “I was fed up with his continuous extortion threats. There was no money—I used every penny to renovate and advertise—those flyers ate everything. I tried to pacify Batsal with my late father’s watch and thrift-shop shoes, but he wanted more. I had no choice.” Sattar said in his statement. 

Sattar apparently kept his workshop closed for three days following Sheena’s murder to dump her car. He replaced Sheena’s car’s registration number plates with fake ones, defacing the vehicle with spray paints, and sold it for spare parts to a garage in Ghaziabad. 

“She came for a puncture repair with my flyer in her hand. I had cravings...” Sattar later told Police. “I went overboard, I guess.” 

****

Word Count (excluding the glossary and title)-4931 

**** 

Glossary-   

The little things are the big things- a quote from a poem titled ‘The Art of Marriage by Wilferd Arlan Peterson, an American author.   

Spill tea, I am shook, sus, being tight, AF, bro, F***boi! - Gen Z slangs-50 Millennial Slang Words And What They Mean - Popular Slang Terms (oprahdaily.com)  

****  

Further reading/References-  

Desert shrubs sheltering seedling cacti in hostile conditions- Nurse Plants and Cactus Southwest Desert | azplantlady.com/ Nurse plant theory and its application in ecological restoration in lower subtropics of China - ScienceDirect  

Violets as a symbol of lesbian love- LGBT symbols - Wikipedia  

Homosexual griffon vultures at Jerusalem Zoo-'Gay’ vulture couple split up at Jerusalem zoo, then become fathers - Haaretz Com - Haaretz.com  

Bluff- animals tricking predators into thinking they’re dangerous-Nine Awesome Defenses Animals Use to Avoid Predators - Animals Network  

Elaborate distraction display by Nightjars-Distraction Display - Gordon Yates (gordon-yates.com)