Within days of her fairy-tale wedding with Manav Chauhan, the dashing young entrepreneur, Hiya Sen, the reigning queen of Tollywood, is brutally raped and murdered by three men. As ACP Agni Mitra investigates into the high-profile murder, he meets Neha Awasthi, with whom Manav broke his engagement to marry Hiya, Neha’s father Deepak Awasthi, who was eyeing business benefits through the alliance, Mayank Kapoor, an alcoholic model, and Rituja Bose, the diva who had reigned over Tollywood over the past decade. When two more murders connected with the case make headlines, it’s time for Agni to find answers to perplexing questions and unveil shocking truths.

The Colours of Passion breezes through Kolkata’s glamorous world of industrialists, movie stars, models and fashion designers laced with drug addiction and illicit liaisons, with a heart-wrenching tragedy at its core.

1

The man lay on the ground bleeding profusely, his face contorted in pain. Blood streamed past his jaw forming rivulets. His puffed-up lips moved but his voice failed him. He could barely open his eyes. Blood flowed from his nose onto his untucked shirt. One of his nostrils was clogged in blood and he had difficulty breathing. His outstretched hands grabbed the cold air of the night.

He could see blurred images of the three men dragging her away like a rag doll along the dusty road. He could see her flailing hands. Her helpless cries seemed to float in from a distant planet.

He turned his head and looked at their car parked a few feet away. They had shattered the windows. He could see their chauffeur, slouched at the wheel. Was he still alive?

He mustered the last vestiges of his strength and tried to crawl on his elbows and knees. He had not progressed even a few inches before he gave in to the excruciating pain.

The breeze of the night felt cold on his bare torso as Mushtaq walked out of the makeshift car garage, 14 | Sourabh Mukherjee zipping up his trousers. Running his fingers through his grubby hair, he turned back.

He could see Rishi tottering out of the garage. Ashfaq was still at it, his hips moving back and forth between the outstretched legs of the woman, his throaty groans filling the stifled air of the dingy garage. The woman lay still under him.

‘Enough! She must be dead by now. . . .’ The other two men chuckled. ‘Relieve yourself and slit her neck, you horny bastard. We need to get the hell out of here, fast! It’s clearing up,’ Mushtaq looked at the dull grey sky. The two men made their way towards the bike parked outside the garage.

Ashfaq finally ejaculated inside the motionless woman with a grunt. He wiped the sweat off his brow and looked around for the dagger he had been carrying in the small of his back. He remembered throwing it away carelessly when he had unbuckled his belt and lowered his pants before he pounced on the woman. He found it lying a few inches away and picked it up. The edge of the knife had all but grazed the edge of the woman’s neck when Ashfaq suddenly stopped, as if he had remembered something.

He looked around him making sure the others were not watching. Those idiots had no appreciation for his romantic fancies. They did not call him ‘Rangeela’ without a reason.

He pulled out his mobile phone and turned on the camera. He lay down next to the woman, his sweat-slicked cheek rubbing against hers, and held the phone a few inches above their faces. Her hair was matted in sweat, the eyes had been reduced to tiny white slits, the mouth was gaping, her lips and cheeks bruised, and her face had a deathly pallor.

Ashfaq smiled at the camera and clicked. After all, it was not every day that one managed to click a picture lying next to Hiya Sen, the heartthrob of millions. That too, her last picture