Smiling Devil: Rage Chapter - 4

The next day, at GH Society, a somber crowd had gathered around Indu’s lifeless body. Her family, relatives, friends, colleagues, and neighbors formed a circle of grief. The air was thick with sorrow; quiet sobs and muffled cries echoed across the space. The weight of loss hung heavy over everyone, filling the environment with an unbearable, palpable sadness.

Her body was carried to the funeral grounds and placed upon a wooden pyre. Indu’s father, Vikram, was completely broken, his eyes hollow, as if his soul had been ripped away. He could barely stand on his own and was supported by relatives, each step weighed down by grief and despair. The atmosphere was heavy with mourning, the crackle of the wood beneath the pyre a cruel reminder of the finality of loss.

The fire was set upon the wooden pyre, flames slowly consuming Indu’s body, marking her final departure from the earth. Everyone present—family, friends, and colleagues—stood around in mourning, paying their last respects.

Yet one person was absent. It was Pravin. He was nowhere to be seen. No one caught a glimpse of him, no whisper of his presence stirred among the crowd. His absence was absolute.

Meanwhile, far away, Pravin lay on his bed. His eyes were fixed on a photo of Indu on his phone. No sound escaped him—no sobs, no cries—just silent tears streaming down his face. Each droplet carried a mix of guilt and suspicion, the weight of losing the one he loved pressing down on him in unbearable silence.

The next day, Pravin entered the office. There was no usual smile on his face—only a deep frown, heavy eyelids partially concealing the pain in his eyes. He walked to his workstation, moving like a man numb to the world.

His deskmate, Abhinav, noticed immediately. Pravin didn’t speak; no sound escaped him. Abhinav finally broke the silence. “Where have you been? You haven’t come to the office for two days.” Pravin’s voice was low, almost hollow. “I was at home… had a headache.”

Abhinav hesitated, unsure if he should bring it up. “Also… you know about Indu—” Pravin’s eyes snapped up, sharp and pained. “I know what happened to Indu. Please… don’t say anything more.” Abhinav froze, shocked. He had guessed the truth, but seeing Pravin here, so broken, struck him hard.

He noticed the silent tears tracing down Pravin’s face. “Pravin… why are you crying?” Abhinav asked gently. Pravin quickly wiped them away, his hands trembling slightly. “It’s nothing,” he whispered, his voice fragile, hiding the storm inside.

At that moment, the office boy called out, “Pravin sir, the manager wants to see you.” “Okay,” Pravin replied quietly, and left his desk without a word.

Inside the manager’s cabin, the manager was reviewing Pravin’s work. His eyes scanned the documents, then drifted to Pravin’s face. The deep frown, the distant look—something was off. “Why do you look so sad today? What happened?” the manager asked, concern softening his tone.

Pravin’s voice was flat. “Nothing, sir… just a small headache.” The manager studied him for a moment, sensing the lie, but he chose not to push. “Alright. You have only a few tasks today. Focus on them. Nothing else.” “Okay, sir,” Pravin replied, leaving the cabin.

Back at his desk, he continued working quietly, absorbed in his tasks. Abhinav watched him, confused and concerned, unsure how to approach his friend, who seemed lost in his own silent world.

During lunch, Pravin, Abhinav, and their colleagues sat together in the cafeteria. Pravin quietly ate his food, his mind elsewhere, paying no attention to anyone around him. All eyes were on him, but no one knew how to break the silence.

Finally, Rhea spoke up, “Pravin… did you have feelings for Indu?” Pravin froze, skeptical. “Huh?” Rhea continued gently, “Abhinav told us.” Pravin shot a quick glance at Abhinav, who nodded slightly. “Then what were you expecting?”

Abhinav said. “I didn’t lie. You were completely traumatized by her death, Pravin. You’re usually the guy who smiles at everything. Today… you’re silent. Come on, man. Speak from your heart.” Pravin blinked back tears, trying to maintain control.

“There’s nothing to say,” he whispered. Rhea pressed, “Then you didn’t love Indu, right? Why weren’t you at her funeral, Pravin?” Other colleagues joined in, voices gentle but insistent. “Pravin, tell us what’s in your heart. We know you were close.” “She used to ask you for help, and you were always there for her,” another added.

Under the pressure of everyone’s concern, Pravin finally opened up. His voice trembled, heavy with grief. “Yes… I loved Indu. There’s nothing to hide. I don’t know how you all feel, but when I heard about her death, I was devastated. How could I see her in that state? Her smile, the eyes that once spoke a thousand words—they were gone. I… I wasn’t brave enough to face that.”

After saying that, Pravin broke down completely. Tears streamed down his face like a relentless waterfall, shaking his whole body. The sound of his sobs filled the cafeteria, heavy and raw.

Seeing him like this, everyone in the group rushed closer, surrounding him with quiet concern. Gentle hands rested on his shoulders, soft voices murmured words of comfort, and they tried, in every way they could, to support him—offering solace in the midst of his overwhelming grief.

That evening, Indu’s parents—Vikram and Savathri—sat in the police station, accompanied by a neighbor and their cousin, Sailesh. The tension in the air was thick, each of them restless as they waited for Inspector Lakshmikant.

From a nearby interrogation room, muffled cries echoed through the station walls. “Sirrr, please! I didn’t do the crime!” The sound of anguish and desperate pleading pierced the otherwise silent station. The interrogation was being conducted under the supervision of Sub-Inspector Prakash, a young officer in his twenties, whose calm exterior belied the intensity inside the room.

As the minutes dragged on, Sailesh leaned toward the 55-year-old constable, Sarfaraz. “Sir, when will the Inspector arrive?” “Please wait, sir. He should be here any moment,” Sarfaraz replied, his voice steady but weary. Sailesh’s patience was wearing thin.

“I’ve been hearing that for the past 30 minutes…” His tone carried frustration, worry, and the helplessness of waiting for answers that refused to come.

As Sailesh spoke, Inspector Lakshmikant entered the station. A muscular man in his early thirties, slightly heavyset, wearing a crisp police uniform with tightly fitted sleeves and three shining stars on his shoulder straps, he carried an air of authority. His face was strict, his gaze sharp and commanding.

As he walked in, Lakshmikant addressed Sarfaraz. “What’s happening, Sarfaraz?” Sarfaraz replied respectfully, “No sir, they’ve been waiting for half an hour, that’s why.” Lakshmikant’s stern expression softened into a brief smile. “My apologies. It’s my mistake. Please, take a seat.”

He took his place at the desk, while Indu’s parents, the neighbor, and Sailesh sat opposite him. Vikram leaned forward anxiously. “Is there any progress, sir?” Lakshmikant’s tone was firm yet reassuring. “Don’t worry, sir. We’ll find the person responsible for your daughter’s death. From the autopsy reports, it’s clear that this was murder. I was late today because I was retrieving recorded CCTV footage. But we’ll get to the bottom of this soon.”

Sailesh, however, was too upset to be pacified. “Sir… our girl died three days ago! And today, only you have the footage? Come on, sir… can you investigate or not?” As Sailesh pressed on, Lakshmikant’s temper began to flare.

Behind the station walls, the accused, undergoing a third-degree interrogation, sobbed and pleaded, their cries echoing through the room. Each sound fueled Lakshmikant’s anger further, tightening his jaw and making his gaze even more intense.

Lakshmikant slammed his desk with a force that rattled the papers. “Prakash! Don’t you see I’m investigating?” His voice thundered across the station. Without waiting for a response, he stormed out and headed straight for the jail cell.

Inside, the accused—Keshav—was barely clothed, his body smeared with blood, bruised and trembling. Lakshmikant pressed his boot firmly against Keshav’s private part, the raw intensity in his eyes unmissable. Keshav began crying loudly, his sobs echoing in the cold cell.

Lakshmikant leaned closer, voice sharp and unyielding. “Listen, Keshav. I know you didn’t commit the crime. I know your history—pickpocketing. I could have easily kept you behind bars. But I’m giving you one chance. Tell me the truth—where is that bloody Lucky? Stay silent, and don’t think this stops with me. JUST TELL ME!”

Keshav’s voice quivered as he finally spoke. “Sir… he’s at Ghatkopar, Garodi Nagar. One of our friends, Santhosh, gave him the hiding place. That’s all I know, sir. Nothing more.” Lakshmikant removed his foot and straightened up, a small, controlled smile forming on his face. “Why all the trouble then? You could have said this earlier.” “Sarfaraz, take him to the hospital,” Lakshmikant ordered.

As Sarfaraz lifted Keshav into the police jeep, blood dripping from his body, Sailesh’s voice faltered, silenced by the sight. The weight of the ordeal hung heavily in the air, leaving everyone in the station tense and uneasy.

Inside the jail cell, Lakshmikant’s eyes locked on SI Prakash, “Prakash, the guy in the green checked shirt standing outside—bring him in.” Prakash stepped out and called Sailesh. “Sir wants you inside.” Sailesh hesitated, his voice low and wary. “Why should I come in? Whatever needs to be said, say it out here.”

Prakash gave him a sharp, piercing look—one Sailesh could not ignore. Reluctantly, he walked inside the cell. As he entered, Lakshmikant rose to face him, the weight of authority radiating from every inch of his posture. Their eyes met, and the silence spoke volumes.

“You saw the guy outside just now?” Lakshmikant began, his voice low and precise. Sailesh nodded, swallowing hard. Lakshmikant leaned in slightly, his tone deadly serious, “Listen carefully. I know my job, and I don’t need lectures. I could twist this case and pin your daughter’s death on you with fabricated evidence.”

He paused, letting the words sink in, “You may eventually get bail or even be cleared. But during interrogation, in court—you’ll face torment. If you want to avoid that, stay silent, understood? Now go outside. Tell them exactly what I just told you. Trust the police—justice will be served. One wrong word, and you’re done.”

Sailesh, pale and trembling, nodded and stepped out. Facing Vikram, he repeated every word precisely. “Brother, he explained everything clearly. He will handle the case properly. Trust the police—justice will be served.” With that, the family left the station, the weight of both fear and cautious hope pressing down on them.

As soon as the family left, Lakshmikant returned to his desk, eyes fixed on the monitor. He replayed the CCTV footage, syncing the timing of Indu’s death with the camera recordings.

Then he saw it—a figure in a black hoodie scaling the compound wall, entering the building at the exact moment. Lakshmikant’s jaw tightened. He grabbed the phone. “Prakash, get over here,” he barked. Prakash approached swiftly, sensing the tension.

“I need a full list—every neighbor, friend, and colleague of Indu. By today night,” Lakshmikant ordered, his eyes never leaving the screen. “And tomorrow, we’re going to GH Society for a full on-site investigation.” “Yes, sir,” Prakash replied, noting every word.

Lakshmikant’s gaze returned to the black-hooded figure, narrowing. “I want to know who this son of a bitch is…and what connection he had with her.” The room fell silent except for the low hum of the monitors, as the first threads of the mystery began to unravel.