I stood in the rain outside Santa Cruz Police Station, the telegram crumpled in my fist. Arjun is dead. The words hadn’t sunk in, not until I saw the urn—small, cold, wrapped in a police receipt. They said it was a fall from the hostel roof. But the constable’s eyes flickered when I asked for the report. That’s when I knew.

Bombay didn’t welcome me. It watched. From the chai wallahs to the taxi drivers, everyone knew more than they said. Then I met Jhumri—sharp-eyed, smirking, selling fake gold rings to tourists. She took my money, then my story. By midnight, she was at my hotel. 'Your brother didn’t fall,' she said. 'He was pushed. And if you want the truth, you’ll need people who know how to lie.'

She brought me to Babu Kasai Hyderabadi, a man who spoke in proverbs and carried a knife in his walking stick. 'Godha moves in silence,' he warned. 'But so can we.'

Now, standing on the edge of a world I never knew existed, I have to decide: do I walk away with Arjun’s ashes… or do I make them mean something?