Chapter 1: The Devil in Rajpur

In India, even time leaves its fingerprints—on temple bells, on old silver anklets, and, sometimes, on the dead. In the dusty heartlands of Uttar Pradesh, such tales are whispered over cups of chai, carried by the winter fog, and retold in trembling voices when the lights flicker during load-shedding.

Uttar Pradesh produced a strikingly handsome man of mixed Indian and Russian descent, whose looks made countless women swoon.

His face alone—sharp jawline, pale skin, foreign glint in the eyes—was enough to turn heads at any wedding or mohalla function. Aunties would nudge their daughters and say, "Dekho, beta, iss ladke ki shakal toh film hero jaisi hai." Young girls giggled behind dupattas, and even middle-aged matrons found their hearts skip a beat.

But behind closed doors, he was a bloodthirsty, corpse-hoarding serial rapist and murderer.

A devil with the smile of a prince. What nobody could guess, not even the suspicious chaiwala or the curious auto driver, was that this man's darkness ran deeper than the Ganga on a moonless night. If his neighbours only knew, they'd have thrown handfuls of salt and chillies at his door.

Police unearthed 41 bodies from his bungalow—so many that even the forensic doctor was poisoned by corpse toxins.

It was as if his home had swallowed the souls of half the basti. By the time police started digging—one by one, each cadaver was drawn out, blackened by time, as silent witnesses to unspeakable horrors. The stench was such that old Dr. Shinde, the government hospital’s senior pathologist, collapsed right there. Later, the poor man’s liver was found damaged from inhaling the miasma of death. Rumours flew—"Doctor sahib ne toh chhati pe haath rakh ke bola, bas, mujhe yahan se le chalo!"

Rajpur, a small district town in Uttar Pradesh:

A place where paan stains coloured the corners of every wall, buffaloes dozed by the roadside, and everyone knew everyone’s business—except, perhaps, what lay hidden in the shadows of certain homes. The railway station sign was faded, but the pride of the town was intact. “Hamare Rajpur ka ladka hai, beta. Bahut tez hai.”

Winters in North India are bitterly cold. In a colony house on the outskirts, three men sat huddled around a gas stove, eating piping hot biryani. A gust of cold air slipped through the cracked window, making the men huddle closer, the smell of burning kerosene mixing with biryani.

Outside, a thick fog pressed against the windowpanes. The colony’s water tank dripped steadily, and every now and then, the shrill whistle of the pressure cooker from the next house broke the silence. The three men, knees tucked up for warmth, passed around a steel plate loaded with steaming biryani, their faces glowing from the fire’s flicker.

The swirling steam couldn't hide the striking features of one of the men.

The others, Amit and Raju, kept stealing glances—half with admiration, half with envy. His was the kind of face you saw on the calendars in sweet shops, only far more dangerous.

At 28, Kabir was tall, dashing, and so attractive that, even beyond Rajpur, he’d be considered one of the best-looking men in all of Uttar Pradesh.

Every strand of his wavy hair seemed sculpted, his eyes had a mischievous glint that made older women blush and young men imitate his style. People whispered about him—"Kabir bhai ke jaisa koi nahi hai. Ek number ka cheetah hai."

Kabir played the attentive host—serving kebabs, pouring Old Monk, coaxing his two subordinates until their faces were flushed and dizzy.

He’d flick open the Old Monk bottle with a flourish, pouring generous pegs, pressing the cold glass into his friends’ hands. “Arrey, Amit, thoda aur le na! Bas, yeh tumhaari biryani ke saath mast jayega.” He cut the kebabs with practiced ease, passing them around like a nawab at his table.

Kabir grinned, eyes glinting: "Yeh mutton kha lo, sher ki tarah daudoge. Rajpur ka asli dum hai ismein."

Kabir’s words came out with a confident swagger. His laughter boomed, echoing off the walls, making the other two feel both comforted and uneasy, as if each morsel would transform them into something fiercer.

Kabir’s eyes sparkled with excitement as he wickedly egged on Amit and Raju.

He leaned closer, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "Dekho bhai, is meat mein dum hai. Nawaabi recipe hai, samjhe? Aaj ki raat sher ban jaoge!" Even the way he gestured—the flick of his wrist, the glint in his eye—was magnetic and intimidating.

The two men gritted their teeth, forced themselves to swallow their discomfort, picked up the meat, and anxiously stuffed it into their mouths. After the first bite, they actually did feel a bit bolder.

They exchanged glances. Amit muttered under his breath, "Bhai, kuch alag hi taste hai." Raju, usually meek, let out a nervous laugh, "Accha hai... lagta hai asli biryani yahi hai."

The three of them quickly polished off a large plate of biryani, the aroma mingling with the lively atmosphere.

Every spoonful was chased with loud talk and rowdy jokes. The air in the room was thick—spiced with food, cheap rum, and the kind of brotherhood that only forms when secrets are shared.

After eating and drinking their fill, their desires were aroused. Kabir called for two women from the back room to join them.

The mood shifted as the women entered. There was a brief silence, the clink of glasses paused. Somewhere in the background, the distant cry of a vegetable vendor could be heard, blending with the dull hum of a TV soap from the neighbouring flat.

One was the alluring mistress, Sneha; the other, Kabir’s plain-faced wife, Meera.

Sneha had kohl-rimmed eyes, her saree pallu draped carelessly, lips painted dark. Meera, in a faded salwar-kameez, moved quietly, always clutching her dupatta as if it were armour. Both bore the marks of longing and exhaustion—one bold, one subdued, but each tethered by invisible chains.

Both women were hopelessly in love with Kabir. With a single gesture, they obediently sat by his side.

Meera’s gaze dropped to the floor; Sneha slipped in closer, a trace of a smile on her lips, as if only Kabir existed in the world. Their devotion hung heavy, palpable, a wordless rivalry that neither could voice aloud.

In front of everyone, Kabir pulled Sneha into his arms and kissed her passionately.

The kiss was brazen, loud enough to make even Amit and Raju look away, cheeks burning. Sneha didn’t resist, her hand lingering on Kabir’s chest for a moment longer than necessary. Meera’s fingers tightened around the edge of the sofa, but she stayed silent. A faint smell of jasmine oil from Sneha’s hair drifted into the room.

Watching Kabir with a woman on each arm, Amit and Raju could only look on with envy.

Amit let out a half-laugh, “Bhai, aap toh bindaas ho. Hum toh sapne mein bhi soch nahi sakte.” Raju just shook his head, lips pursed, eyes flicking nervously between the trio and the door.

Who could blame them? They were just his chamchas.

In Rajpur, every leader had his chelas. To be close to Kabir meant power, protection, and sometimes—fear. Even if it meant swallowing your pride, you stayed in his good books. After all, as they say, "Doodh ka jala, chhaach bhi phook phook ke peeta hai."

After several rounds of drinks, Kabir was a little drunk.

His words began to slur, and his laughter grew louder. He thumped the table, eyes glinting dangerously, while Sneha gently tried to take the glass away—he waved her off.

"Brothers, to be honest, business is tough these days. Money is hard to come by."

He let out a sigh, swirling his glass, the weight of recent setbacks creasing his brow. "Zamana kharab hai, bhai. Paisa kamana aasan nahi hai."

"Isn’t that the truth? We risk our lives for a bit of cash. What we do is a job where our heads are always on the line... hic," Amit chimed in, looking miserable.

Amit stared into his glass, voice cracking. “Kabhi kabhi lagta hai, apni kismet hi kharab hai.” Raju nodded, muttering, “Bas ek din paisa ayega toh sab theek ho jayega.”

"These days, there’s a saying: ‘If you want to die, come to Rajpur.’ Outsiders are too scared to come now."

Kabir chuckled darkly, "Arrey, yahan toh maut bhi sasti hai. Bahar walon ko toh dar lagta hai Rajpur se. Hum toh yahi ke sher hain."

They hadn’t made any money in ages.

The room, once vibrant with food and drink, suddenly felt heavy—like an old quilt on a muggy night. Even the gas stove’s flame seemed to shrink, as if it, too, sensed the gloom settling in.

Sensing the mood turning sour, Kabir raised his sharp brows, his eyes turning cold and menacing as he glared at the two men.

He tapped his fingers on the table, each knock sharper than the last. "Sun lo, dono. Kaam dhang se karo toh mutton aur whisky. Nahi toh..." His voice dropped to a chilling whisper.

"Work hard for me. Do well, and there’s whisky and mutton. Slack off, and you’ll end up like the bodies in the basement."

The words hung in the air like a curse. Amit and Raju exchanged terrified glances, not sure if he was joking or dead serious.

As he spoke, Kabir stabbed the butcher knife hard into the table—a true desperado.

The sound rang out, making everyone jump. The knife stood upright, its blade quivering, as if warning them that Kabir’s patience was running thin. Even the TV in the next room seemed to go quiet for a second. Sneha’s bangles jingled as she pulled her pallu tighter, eyes darting to the window.

The blade quivered, just like Amit and Raju’s hearts, trembling with fear.

Raju bit his lip; Amit’s hand started to sweat, clutching his glass so tightly it almost broke. For a moment, the only sound was the low hum of the fridge in the corner.

Neither dared to make a sound. They glanced nervously at the bones on the cutting board, a chill running down their spines.

The bones—unusually large, yellowed in the flickering tube light—seemed to mock them. Raju swallowed hard, his tongue dry as dust, Amit stared fixedly at the floor, willing himself not to retch.

Kabir was ruthless—a man who meant what he said. If he lost his temper, he could really chop them up.

Everyone in Rajpur knew Kabir’s anger was not the kind you survived twice. People still talked about the time he broke a man’s arm over a card game. The fear was real, and it crept up on the men now, making their legs weak.

Suddenly, there was a rapid knocking at the door.

A loud, urgent banging interrupted their grim silence. The gas flame flickered. Everyone froze—tension snapping like a kite string caught in a sudden gust of wind.

"Arrey!"

Kabir’s heart skipped a beat, his hair standing on end.

He glared at the door, muttering under his breath, "Kaun aa gaya ab iss waqt?" The shadow behind the glass seemed unfamiliar, and the whole room held its breath.

"Shit, I haven’t even cleaned up what I just chopped."

He cursed under his breath in Hindi, "Saala, abhi abhi kaat ke rakh diya tha sab kuch. Bakra bhi nahi sambhal paaya main."

He waved at Amit to quickly cover the exposed bones on the cutting board with plastic sheeting.

Amit sprang into action, yanking a crumpled sheet of plastic from under the sink, hastily piling bones onto a tray and shoving them out of sight behind the fridge.

Whatever came, they’d deal with it. No matter who it was.

The men exchanged silent looks—each one reading the same message in the other’s eyes: stay sharp, don’t panic. Kabir flexed his knuckles, ready for anything.

The door opened—it was the landlady.

Relief and irritation swept through the group as the old woman appeared. She wore a faded green sweater and a checked muffler, the kind all North Indian aunties wrap around themselves when the mercury dips. She paused to adjust her slippers at the threshold, muttering about a kaali billi crossing her path, before glaring inside.

The old woman stood at the threshold, glanced inside, pinched her nose, and complained, "What’s going on in your house? There’s a stench every now and then. I can smell it from my kitchen."

Her voice was shrill and familiar. "Arrey beta, kya pakate ho roz roz? Pichli baar bhi bola tha, ghar mein badbu aati hai!" She eyed the men with suspicion, one hand still clutching her nose.

Kabir picked his teeth with a toothpick and replied, "Aunty, all you’ll find here is the aroma of fresh-cooked mutton. Have a bite, and you’ll feel twenty years younger."

He grinned, flashing his dimples, trying to charm her the way only Kabir could. "Aap bhi taste karo na, aunty. Ek dum zabardast hai!"

The old lady knew this boy was being cheeky again and quickly waved her hand, hurrying away.

She scolded, "Tum toh hamesha mazaak hi karte ho. Kha lo, par dhyaan se!" Her slippers made a flapping sound as she shuffled away, muttering complaints all the way down the corridor.

Kabir was charming and good-looking, but he always gave people an odd feeling.

There was something unsettling—his laughter lasted a little too long, his eyes seemed to see through you. Women crossed themselves after talking to him, whispering, "Nazar na lage isko, par bhagwaan bachaye humse."

Everyone inside breathed a sigh of relief—the crisis had passed.

Amit exhaled loudly, pressing his palm to his chest. Sneha relaxed, untucking a loose strand of hair from behind her ear. The tension seeped away like water through a leaky bucket.

"Looks like we can’t stay in this dump. When summer comes and it heats up, those dozens of bodies with their ‘patina’ will stink to high heaven. The police will show up for sure."

Kabir wiped his forehead, glancing at the closed windows. "Garmi mein toh sab khatam. Yeh laashon ki badbu pura mohalla utha degi. Police toh seedha gate tod ke ghus jayegi."

Kabir decided to take Sneha and Amit south for a big score, then come back to move everyone to a new place.

He laid out his plan, voice low. “South mein paisa hai, samjhe? Wahan se ek bada maal utha ke aayenge, phir sabko naya ghar dilayenge.”

After all, this house was too close to the police chowki.

The local constable’s whistle could be heard every evening as he made his rounds, and Kabir never trusted the nosy neighbours or the paanwala who saw everything.

Raju and Meera were to guard the house.

He looked at Raju, voice stern. “Tum log idhar hi raho. Koi bhi idhar-udhar ghusa toh mujhe bata dena. Samjhe?” Meera simply nodded, eyes lowered.

Before leaving, Kabir instructed his wife: "I’ll call you every two weeks after I leave. If you don’t hear from me for a long time, something must have happened."

He pressed Meera’s hand, his touch heavy with meaning. “Phone nahi aaya toh samajh lena, kuch gadbad ho gaya.” Meera’s lips trembled as she promised to wait, no matter what.

He never imagined those words would become a prophecy.

As he turned to leave, a chill ran down his spine—like someone had just walked over his grave. But he shrugged it off, blaming the cold. “Ajeeb lag raha hai aaj…”