The Murderer Vanished, The Widow Lied
Chapter 3: Old Lady Sharma’s Secret
At first light, Old Lady Sharma woke up.
Buzurg hote ho toh neend chali jaati hai; once you’re up, sleep doesn’t come back.
She shuffled out the door, first stop: the chicken coop.
In the early morning, when the koel calls and the sky is still grey, all the old ladies in our gaon start their din like this. You’ll hear a door creak, a muttered prarthana, the clang of a lohe ka bucket.
Jab log apne ghar kholte hain, murgiyon ka ghar bhi khulna padta hai.
Old Lady Sharma’s chicken coop had two levels: neeche, the chickens’ bedroom with a darwaza; upar, their egg-laying spot, open to hawa.
She opened the coop’s door, then, out of aadat, reached up to the second level.
Her hand closed on a roll of cash.
A wad of notes wrapped in newspaper, paan ke daag on it, smelling faintly of paseena and mothballs.
Old Lady Sharma snatched the bundle, stuffed it into her blouse like a chori, and darted back inside. Heart pounding, she glanced out the window, checking quickly if any neighbour saw her—nazar lag gayi toh?
“My Shyam came to give me paisa again. My poor boy—kaun jaane kahan chhupa hai, khana milta hai ya nahi, thand mein kaise rehta hai…”
Her voice trembled, as if she spoke only to her parchai, every sob hidden in her saans. Outside, the temple bell rang, the gaon slowly coming alive.
Old Lady Sharma sobbed in broken whispers, trying to muffle her dard.
She couldn’t let others know—if anyone found out, bas, gaon mein toofan aa jaata.
In a small gaon, news travels tez like hawa. The minute one hears, pura mohalla knows.
Her beta was a bhagoda.
Police had cast a wide jaal for him.
Once, the constables even searched under her cot, her old sarees thrown about like kapda for dusting, but found nothing. Still, har mahina, she waited for Shyam’s secret visit, praying for his suraksha and her izzat.
