2
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/We are the society ourselves./
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The crowded market of Nekpura was alive with the noise of vendors calling out to passersby, trying to sell their goods. It was Sunday evening, and the sky was darkening with heavy black clouds. Beneath the gathering storm, a statue of Gandhi stood in the center, one foot perched on a stone, his finger pointed toward the sky. Behind him, a line of followers, each holding an Indian flag, seemed to march with determination. The inscription at the base of the statue read, "Vande Mataram."
In the chaos, a black van, unmarked by any number plate, moved slowly through the crowd, unnoticed. The rear window bore a sticker of a fisted hand raised toward the sky. Most people were too busy to notice—focused instead on their daily routine. A vendor loudly hawked his fresh vegetables, while a young woman argued with him over the price of cabbage, trying to get him to lower it from.
"I'm a regular customer, sir. I will take it for fifteen."
"No, mam. Market's prices are not stable. Today it's for twenty. I'm not lowering than this."
She sighs. "Ok. Pack this. " She said.
Moments later, the van disappeared around a corner. As it left, a man in the crowd stumbled upon a figure lying motionless in the middle of the street. He squinted, his face paling as recognition set in. "Ramprasad?" he muttered, stunned. Panic seized him, and he shouted louder this time, "Ramprasad is dead!"
The crowd reacted instantly, clustering around the body in shock and confusion. Some gasped, some were scared to see, while others immediately reached for their phones to snap pictures and record videos. A journalist, the same woman who had been bargaining for cabbage, quickly began taking photos of the scene. She was the only one who had noticed the van earlier but kept that it to herself. She made a quick call to her cameraman, her eyes stuck on the crowd.
After few minutes.
The wail of sirens cut through the market noise. A police van screeched to a stop at a distance, and two officers stepped out. Inspector Krishna Godbole, clean-shaven with a bold mustache and black Ray-Ban sunglasses, looked every bit the serious lawman. His uniform was perfectly pressed, his name badge gleaming on his chest. Beside him was Inspector Vasant Shaaney, looking less formal with the top two buttons of his shirt undone and half his shirt untucked. Both wore three stars on their shoulders.
The crowd parted reluctantly as Godbole advanced, a long bamboo stick in hand, shooing people back. Shaaney stepped closer to the body, his eyes scanning the scene. The corpse wore a white vest, stained and marked by a slipper print in the center of the chest—size 9. The forehead bore a vivid red stamp that read "Mogambo." Right in the middle of the 'O' was a bullet wound, the skin scorched and bloodied around it.
Godbole crouched down and began searching the pockets, finding a folded sheet of paper in the upper pocket. He carefully opened it, revealing a list of crimes, written in elegant cursive. No numbers, just a string of offenses. Flipping it over, his eyes narrowed. The back of the sheet was stained with what looked like blood, and scrawled across it in bold letters were the words: "Start the whistles, it's MOGAMBO time."
He held the sheet up for Shaaney to see. "What do you think?" Godbole muttered, his voice tight.
"Looks like someone wants to send a message," Shaaney replied, his expression darkening.
The journalists buzzed like bees at a distance, flashes from their cameras lighting up the gloomy evening. The lady journalist whispered into her phone, eyes sharp with curiosity.
Godbole rose to his feet, glancing at the crowd, "Clear the area! Everyone step back!" His stick swung in the air, urging the curious bystanders to move away.
Shaaney turned to him, "This isn't just a murder, sir. This is a challenge."
Godbole nodded grimly.
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