The man was gone.
Not just out of sight.
Gone—like a wind that never asked permission.
Like a prayer abandoned mid-syllable.
Like a truth so precise it slipped past reality unnoticed.
His wife. His son.
His voice.
His eyes.
All dissolved into the crowd—
like Banaras had dreamed him into form
and awakened before finishing the thought.
And Isarish stood there, unmoving.
Not afraid.
Not stunned.
But alive in a way he hadn't felt in years.
"That wasn't a man," he thought.
"That was a mirror designed to breathe."
"A riddle pretending to be human."
For the first time in days, he wasn't thinking like a detective.
He wasn't weighing evidence or measuring logic.
He was feeling something far more dangerous—
wonder.
A feeling he hated.
A feeling he trusted less than violence.
---
"Bro?" Subhash's voice cut into the silence, squinting at him.
"You look like Swami Vivekananda just whispered a secret into your spine and vanished."
Isarish turned.
He wanted to speak.
To say—That man didn't tell a story. He constructed a prophecy, hung it midair, and made me walk through it.
To say—I saw the curve of something divine. And it looked back.
But he didn't.
He just looked at Subhash.
And said nothing.
Because some things aren't explained.
Some things are survived.
---
Just then, the sound of hooves carved across the stone.
A horse cart clattered to a halt beside the station.
Dust rose. The morning paused.
The driver—a wiry Indian man in a faded green shawl—rested one hand on the reins and eyed them with the kind of patience found only in men who've watched too much change to be surprised by anything.
He raised his chin.
"Detective sahib from Calcutta?"
Isarish blinked.
The moment was over.
The city had begun.
The driver shifted slightly, then spoke again in thick Banarasi-accented Hindi:
"Detective sahib, Banaras thana jaana hai na? Aapke naam se hukm aaya hai."
["Detective sir, you're headed to the Banaras police station, right?
An order has arrived—specifically in your name."]
Then, without fanfare, he handed over a folded envelope.
Red wax. No emblem. Just weight.
Isarish broke the seal.
---
Welcome to Banaras.
I know you are already tired from the journey,
but I'm afraid to say—you don't have time to rest.
I trust Mr. Carlson has alerted you.
Do not disappoint us.
— Henry Green
Chief Officer, Banaras Police Department
---
No signature. No warmth.
Just expectation.
Isarish read it in silence.
Folded it once. Slid it into his coat.
Then climbed into the cart like a man entering a second crime scene—one made of fire instead of blood.
Subhash followed, brushing sleep from his eyes.
The cart creaked forward, swallowing them into the breath of Banaras.
---
Isarish said nothing.
Not about the letter.
Not about the man.
Not about the story that had vanished like incense before dawn.
But his eyes…
They didn't rest.
They scanned everything—the ghats, the rooftops, the crows watching from power lines like black-robed judges, ancient and bored.
He wasn't looking for danger.
He was looking for a shape.
A pattern.
A fracture.
Because something had already begun cracking beneath the skin of this city.
---
Subhash, meanwhile, leaned against the railing—
not with suspicion,
but with that peculiar mix of tired grief and bright-eyed curiosity only men like him could carry.
His cat was dead.
The image still clawed quietly at his chest.
But Banaras—Banaras was too strange to ignore.
He watched a child float a diya into the Ganga like it could carry a prayer across lifetimes.
He saw men covered in ash laugh like gods between sins.
He bought a guava from a street vendor and tried to say "dhanyavaad"—
but butchered the accent so badly, the vendor laughed and gave him a second one free.
Subhash smiled.
Because in Banaras…
even language forgave you if your heart looked curious enough.
And something about this place felt less like a city…
and more like a riddle pretending to be eternal.
But soon, his heart caught a glimpse of the cruelty that always waited beneath the folds of beauty.
His smile cracked.
And his breath slowed.
Because just beyond the fruit vendor's stall, in a sunlit lane dusted with yellow petals and sandalwood smoke, he saw something that didn't belong to poetry.
A British man—tall, red-cheeked, face shaped like punishment—was standing over an elderly Indian shoeshiner.
The old man's turban was half-off, his hands trembling, face smeared with shame and dirt.
"You missed the toe. Are you blind?"
The man's voice was sharp—cutting more than commanding.
Then came the cane.
Not a strike.
A jab.
Quick. Casual.
Like flicking a fly.
It hit the old man's shoulder.
He fell back slightly, catching himself with one palm against the stones.
The crowd didn't move.
Didn't blink.
Just… watched.
Subhash froze.
His guava slipped slightly in his grip.
He didn't understand the full context.
Didn't hear the whole exchange.
Didn't need to.
Because hatred doesn't need a reason.
It only needs a reminder.
And right now, this—this was one.
His breath grew shallow.
His eyes darkened.
And for a moment, the holy city around him felt like a trap draped in incense.
They still walk like gods.
They still strike like kings.
And we… we still watch like shadows afraid of the sun.
He looked at the old man's hands—
wrinkled, calloused, still trying to shine a boot that had just humiliated him.
There was no blood.
But Subhash bled anyway.
Somewhere in the distance, a bell rang.
Not for prayer. For memory.
And just like that, Banaras lost a little of its magic.
Not forever.
But just enough to remind him—
that even riddles sometimes carry knives inside their words.
The horse cart clattered forward, turning past the alley before the British man's voice faded completely.
Subhash didn't say a word.
He didn't look back.
But his heart—
it stayed there.
Right where the old man knelt.
Right where cruelty wore polished shoes.