Chapter 2: Trapped in the Devil’s Game

Pune—a city as lively as a festival.

Here, the air was different—full of honking rickshaws, students rushing for lectures, and the heady mix of vada pav and incense from the temples. In this bustling city, even a newcomer from the North could get lost in the crowd, find a little anonymity amidst the chaos.

In a shabby lodge’s single room, a sexy, slender, heavily made-up young woman was slowly unbuttoning her saree blouse.

The room was dimly lit, plaster peeling from the walls, the sound of Marathi film songs wafting up from the street below. She moved with practiced ease, her anklets jingling faintly as she swayed.

The skinny man on the bed could barely contain himself, ready to pounce.

He licked his lips nervously, eyes darting to the door as if afraid his luck would run out. He clutched the bedsheet, anticipation plain on his face.

Just as things were heating up, the woman handed him a glass of coconut water.

She grinned, “Pehle thoda refresh ho jao, phir jo karna hai karo.” The man gulped it down, not suspecting a thing.

From a crack in the wardrobe door, two pairs of sharp eyes stared at the man’s reaction.

Kabir and Amit, cramped inside, hardly dared to breathe. Their hearts thudded in their chests, sweat beading on their foreheads despite the winter chill.

He downed the drink in one gulp, then turned to press the woman beneath him, eager to get started.

Within seconds, his hands turned clumsy, his vision blurred. The woman—Sneha—arched an eyebrow, watching his movements slow to a crawl.

The woman flashed a sly smile.

Her lipstick gleamed as she leaned back, knowing the drug would do its work. She straightened her saree pallu, her act complete.

The next second, the man’s body went limp and he fainted.

His head lolled to one side, a guttural sound escaping his lips as he passed out cold. In the silence that followed, the faint whir of a ceiling fan filled the room.

Two people crawled out of the wardrobe—one burly, one tall and handsome.

Kabir straightened his kurta, dusting off imaginary lint. Amit looked tense, eyes darting around as he checked that the hallway was still clear.

They checked the hallway to make sure it was safe, then rifled through the man’s briefcase.

The case’s cheap lock clicked open easily, revealing a jumble of documents, a crumpled train ticket from Kalyan, and a bundle wrapped tightly in newspaper.

Inside were an Aadhaar card, several train tickets, and a brick-sized wad of cash tightly wrapped in newspaper.

Kabir whistled low. “Yeh toh jackpot hai, bhai!” The serial numbers were crisp, the cash thick. Amit grinned, eyes wide.

"Hahaha, we’ve struck gold—at least two lakh rupees!"

Kabir let out a whoop. “Aaj toh daawat pakki hai! Pune ki biryani khayenge.” Even Sneha managed a weak smile, though her hands trembled a bit as she pulled her saree back into place.

These were Kabir’s gang, and this haul would let them live it up for a while.

They knew how to blend in—disappearing into the city’s crowds, spending the cash on food and cheap liquor, always moving, never staying long enough for anyone to get suspicious.

Looking at the unconscious man on the bed, Kabir’s eyes gleamed greedily. He pulled a folding knife from his pocket and traced the tip along the man’s body.

Amit looked queasy, but Kabir’s excitement was palpable. The knife glinted in the dull light, hovering over the victim’s chest, tracing invisible patterns. “Bas ek kaam aur bacha hai…”

"Just robbing is boring. I haven’t had meat in a long time."

Kabir’s voice was cold, casual. His words hung in the air, making Sneha flinch. The implication was clear—this man was as good as gone.

When the blade lingered over the man’s heart, Sneha quickly grabbed Kabir’s arm, feigning coyness.

She pressed her hand to his, lowering her lashes. “Arey bhai, yahan pe mat kar. Yeh Pune hai, Rajpur nahi. Kahin police ne pakad liya toh? Yeh sab se bada bad shagun ho jayega.”

"Arrey bhai, this isn’t like our hometown. If someone dies, there’s nowhere to hide the body. Blood brings bad shagun."

She tried to sound playful, but her voice wobbled. The air in the room seemed suddenly colder.

Kabir’s eyes flickered. Sneha made sense, so he stopped.

He clicked his tongue, flicked the knife shut, and tucked it back into his pocket, though disappointment clouded his face. “Theek hai, iss baar chhod deta hoon.”

Sneha breathed a sigh of relief. At least no one died this time.

She wiped sweat from her brow, her heart thumping so hard she thought it would burst. Glancing at her reflection in a cracked mirror, she checked her bindi, then whispered a silent prayer under her breath—“Bas, kisi tarah bach jaaun.” She knew she was walking a razor’s edge—one wrong move and she’d be the next corpse in some nameless dump.

After all, she hadn’t chosen this life. If she didn’t listen to Kabir, she might be the next body in the basement back in the North.

Her mind flashed to the dark, cramped room in Rajpur, the smell of rotting flesh. She shivered involuntarily, blinking away tears. A memory of her son’s laughter surfaced—his chubby hands clapping, his giggle echoing in her ears. The weight of her choices pressed down on her chest. She promised herself, “Main kabhi na kabhi is sab se nikal jaungi.”

In the month since heading south, they’d robbed several men using Sneha’s charms.

They moved from lodge to lodge, always on the run. Sometimes it was an engineer from Hyderabad, sometimes a tired salesman from Nashik. Each time, the method was the same—Sneha’s beauty, Kabir’s cunning, Amit’s muscle.

Most of their victims felt too ashamed to report the crimes.

After all, which man wanted to admit he’d been robbed by a woman in a saree? In India, izzat meant everything. The men went home, invented stories, and nursed their wounds in silence.

But this skinny man, upon waking and discovering his company’s procurement funds gone, went straight to the police.

He stormed into the station, shouting, “Saab, mujhe loot liya!” The constable at the desk rolled his eyes but took down the details. For once, shame took a back seat to fear of his boss.

At first, the Pune police were stumped. CCTV cameras were rare back then, and there were no clues—finding the culprits seemed impossible.

The investigation went nowhere. “Sir, koi saboot nahi hai. Yeh log toh bhoot ki tarah gayab ho gaye,” one inspector complained, chewing on a pen lid.

Until Kabir’s gang was caught at Mumbai railway station.

It was a chilly morning at Dadar. The platforms bustled with chai sellers and hawkers. Kabir, Amit, and Sneha blended in—almost. But the police were already watching them.

That day, the trio had picked a new target. Just as they were about to act, station police stopped them.

An alert hawaldar had noticed Sneha’s heavy makeup and nervous glances. He called over his superior, and within minutes, the trio was surrounded.

A scantily clad woman with two shifty men—no good at a busy station.

The constable muttered to his sergeant, “Dekhiye, saab, kuch toh gadbad hai. Is tarah ki aurat, do aadmi—yeh kaunse parivaar ke hain?”

Police had already noticed the suspicious trio, suspecting them of being a honey trap gang.

Their clothes, accents, and hurried manner gave them away. The officers exchanged knowing looks. “Pakka north se aaye hain. Yehi karobar hai inka.”

Sure enough, their bags contained large sums of cash, five Aadhaar cards belonging to others, several oral anaesthetics, and tickets to Pune tourist attractions.

One constable fished out a bottle of white powder. “Sir, yeh kya hai? Dawa lagti hai.” The other held up the stack of Aadhaar cards. “Yeh sab kiske naam par hain?”

Mumbai police guessed they’d committed crimes in Pune, too.

The officers called up their Pune counterparts, describing the suspects. Within hours, the two cities’ police stations were buzzing with calls and telex messages.

When they contacted the Pune police, it was confirmed.

The Pune inspector said, “Bhai, yeh toh wahi log hain. Humein bhi yahi log chahiye.” Suddenly, the web began to tighten around Kabir’s gang.

Further investigation suggested they might be involved in homicide.

A Pune constable noted that two of the Aadhaar cards matched missing persons reports from Uttar Pradesh. The plot thickened—something bigger was at play.

Two of the IDs from the North couldn’t be traced—the owners were missing persons back home.

The files from Rajpur police station were pulled out. Photos of two men—last seen boarding a train north—matched the names on the cards. Unease spread through the investigation team.

Pune police decided to set up a special task force, suspecting they’d caught a big fish.

A meeting was called at the police commissioner’s office. The officers, some in khadi jackets, some with worn-out notepads, agreed—they had a serious criminal case on their hands.

No one yet realized these three had done far more than a few robberies and two murders.

In the corridors, old-timers whispered, “Bhai, yeh toh shayad serial killer case hai.” But nobody knew the true horror waiting to be uncovered.

Their crimes were unspeakably heinous—enough to shake the nation.

When the truth came out, headlines screamed across every Hindi and English paper—"Rajpur ki dahshat: 41 laashein nikli Kabir ke ghar se!" In every chai shop, the story was told and retold, growing darker with every retelling.

A shocking serial case put the small town of Rajpur on the map.

Reporters descended like crows at a wedding feast. Cameras flashed, local politicians gave statements. The town’s name was now infamous, a byword for terror.

In the interrogation room, Kabir sat with his legs crossed, lips curled in a sinister smile.

He lounged in the rickety chair, his shirt unbuttoned just enough to show off his gold chain. His eyes flicked between the police officers, mocking their every question.

He looked calm and composed, not the least bit rattled.

He tapped his foot to an invisible rhythm, picking at his nails, as if this were all a joke. “Arrey, inspector saab, itni tension kyun le rahe ho?”

"What’s wrong, inspector? Can’t find your missing people, so you blame me? What’s it got to do with me? I just picked up a few ID cards."

His voice was honeyed, but the menace was unmistakable. Even the seasoned inspector felt a shiver crawl up his back.

He seemed certain the police had no evidence and couldn’t touch him. He played deaf and dumb in the face of their questioning.

He leaned back, arms folded, a smirk playing on his lips. The constables exchanged frustrated glances; this man was proving to be slipperier than a fish in the Ganga.

With the investigation stalled, the police tried their luck with the others.

They knew sometimes it was the weakest link that gave way. One constable muttered, “Auraton se baat karo, kuchh naya milega.”

Young officer Rajeev Sharma was sent to interrogate Sneha.

Rajeev was new, his shirt still crisp, his notebook full of neat handwriting. He tried to look tough, but his kindness showed in his eyes.

The first time he saw her, with his years of experience, Rajeev sensed she was different from her two accomplices.

Unlike Kabir’s arrogance or Amit’s stubborn silence, Sneha looked haunted—her eyes darted to the corners, fingers twisting the edge of her dupatta nervously.

Though she tried to act calm and silent, she was clearly nervous—her brow furrowed, sweat beading on her face, as if weighed down by a terrible secret.

Rajeev watched the way she kept dabbing her face with the edge of her saree, her breaths coming in shallow gasps. She was like a bird trapped in a storm—frightened, but alive.

If she could be the breakthrough, the case might crack wide open.

He decided to play the long game, offering her water, listening patiently. In his head, he prayed silently—“Bhagwan kare, yeh kuch bol de.”

His instincts proved right.

Sneha’s hand trembled as she took the glass, her hands shaking so badly that a few drops spilled onto the table, leaving a small, dark stain on the wood. Her eyes flicked up to meet his. There was something desperate in her gaze—a plea for mercy, or maybe for release.

Before the interrogation, Sneha asked Rajeev to buy her a pack of sanitary pads.

She said it so quietly, he almost missed it. “Sir, ek request hai... zara sanitary pad la sakte ho?” It was an unusual request for the setting—one that made Rajeev hesitate, but only for a moment.

Though it wasn’t his duty, Rajeev agreed out of kindness.

He slipped out to the chemist, returning with a small blue packet. As he handed it over, their hands brushed for a second. Sneha looked at him, her eyes brimming with tears.

Unexpectedly, this small act of warmth triggered a clear emotional reaction in Sneha.

She pressed the packet to her chest, letting out a shaky breath. For the first time in days, her shoulders dropped, as if some invisible burden had eased.

She wanted to speak but hesitated.

Rajeev waited, letting the silence stretch. He knew when to push and when to let things unfold.

Rajeev knew this was his chance.

He leaned forward, voice gentle. “Koi baat nahi, Sneha ji. Jo bhi kehna hai, keh dijiye. Main sun raha hoon.”

Sure enough, after confessing to the Pune robbery, Sneha revealed the horrifying secret that had haunted her for so long.

She took a deep breath, voice barely above a whisper. “Main jo bataungi, woh sach hai. Mujhe bacha lo, sir. Woh log... woh laashe…”

"Save me. I crawled out of a pile of corpses. They dug out livers and intestines, eating human flesh."

Her words came out in gasps, as if the act of speaking would tear her apart. Rajeev’s pen slipped from his fingers. This was beyond anything he’d heard in his young career.

"What?" Rajeev couldn’t believe his ears.

He stared at her, speechless. The room seemed to shrink, the air thickening. “Aap kya keh rahi hain?”

"Please make sure what you’re saying is true. Start from the beginning and tell us everything."

He composed himself, pen poised over his notebook. “Bilkul sach bolna, Sneha ji. Shuru se batao.”

Sneha composed herself, looked at Rajeev’s police badge, steadied her nerves, and slowly said, "I have another big case—much bigger than this. If I confess, it’s a death sentence for sure, and you’ll get a huge merit. We killed more than twenty people in the North, but I want your DCP to see me."

She spoke in a monotone, as if reciting from memory, her hands trembling. “DCP sahib ko bulao, main sab bataungi. Mera beta… sirf ek baar milwa do. Phir chahe phaansi pe latka do.”

Impossible.

Rajeev’s mind raced. Surely this was a lie. But the way Sneha spoke, the look in her eyes—he couldn’t dismiss it outright.

That was Rajeev’s first thought.

“Yeh toh pagal ho gayi hai,” he thought. But what if she wasn’t?

Back then, even two murders in Pune would be a major case, and this woman claimed they’d killed over twenty people without being caught.

In 1990s India, a case of this magnitude was unheard of—especially in sleepy Rajpur. Rajeev felt the hairs on his arms stand up.

Was she mad?

He wanted to dismiss her as delusional. But a little voice in his head said, “Aisa bhi toh ho sakta hai...”

But what if she was telling the truth?

A shiver ran down his spine. If he ignored her and she was right, the consequences would be disastrous—not just for his job, but for his conscience.

Rajeev’s mind raced. Sticking to the principle of seeking truth from facts, he decided to report it to his superiors.

He scribbled a quick note for his senior, heart pounding. “Sir, ek badi baat mili hai. Turant dekhna padega.”

Such a huge case—he couldn’t shoulder the responsibility alone.

He called his mother that night, voice trembling, “Ma, aaj kuch ajeeb hua…” He didn’t elaborate—some truths are too heavy for family ears.

After hearing this, Deputy Commissioner Sharma was skeptical but agreed to meet Sneha the next day, introducing himself as Commissioner Sharma.

The next morning, the office was tense. Sharma ji, a gruff man with a thick moustache, walked in, eyes narrowed. “Kaun hai yeh Sneha? Dekhte hain kya bolti hai.”

Sneha didn’t question his identity. Seeing an official, she got straight to the point:

She looked him in the eye, voice calm but broken. “Sir, mujhe sirf do cheezein chahiye. Ek toh apne bete se milwa do, doosra, phaansi ke waqt haath-pair mat bandhiyega. Baaki sab sach bata dungi.”

"I’ve held this in for a long time and want to confess. But I have two conditions—if you agree, I’ll tell you everything: First, I want to see my son; second, when I’m hanged, please don’t tie me up."

Tears welled in her eyes as she said it, but her voice was steady. The entire room went silent. Even the constables looked away, uncomfortable.

When Sneha said this, she was ready to die.

Her shoulders dropped, as if a great burden had been lifted. She didn’t flinch, didn’t beg for mercy. Only her son’s name trembled on her lips.

She knew her crimes were monstrous, and even confessing wouldn’t save her from the gallows.

Her fate was sealed, she knew it. In India, crimes like this are never forgiven—families are ruined, mothers disown daughters, even the gods turn away.

Her only concern was her son.

A child’s photograph, worn thin from years of being folded and unfolded, peeked from her blouse. “Bas ek baar usse milwa do, sir. Uske baad jo chahe kar lo.”

In that small interrogation room, Sneha recounted her bizarre and tragic experience:

She took a shuddering breath and began her story. The walls seemed to close in, the single tube light flickering above her head.

One night last November, after a fight with her husband, Sneha left home.

She remembered every detail—the slammed door, the cold wind on her face, the tears freezing on her cheeks. She’d wandered the streets, unsure where to go, clutching her purse tightly.

While venting her frustration at Lucknow railway station, she met a living devil—Kabir Walia.

The station bustled with coolies shouting, chai-sellers weaving through crowds, and Sneha stood alone by a peeling pillar, her face streaked with tears. Kabir Walia approached with practiced ease—a predator in hero’s clothing.

At first glance, Sneha thought he was exceptionally handsome and gentle.

He offered her tea, his smile gentle, his words soothing. “Madam, lagta hai aap pareshaan hain. Main madad kar sakta hoon?” She was wary, but his voice was so kind she let her guard down.

Deep-set features, tall and thin, fair-skinned—he was attractive in every way.

He looked like someone who belonged on magazine covers, not the grimy benches of a railway station. Sneha’s defences slipped further.

Kabir Walia struck up a conversation, claiming to be the owner of a sugar mill in Rajpur and hiring workers. He even showed her a business license.

He flashed an official-looking paper, a stamp from the tehsil office half-visible. “Dekhiye madam, hum Rajpur mein nayi factory khol rahe hain. Achhe log chahiye. Kaam bhi hai, paise bhi milenge.”

Sneha, a nursery school teacher suffering from burnout, wanted a change.

She’d grown tired of unruly kids, the endless complaints from parents, and the meagre salary. Her mind drifted to a new life, somewhere far away from her troubles.

Swayed by Kabir Walia’s sweet talk, Sneha obediently followed him.

Her mother’s words echoed in her head—"Baharwale sab theek nahi hote." But hope overruled fear. She boarded the bus with him, heart pounding, dreams swirling.

The so-called sugar mill was a front—the place was just a shabby rented house, not a real business.

As they arrived, she looked around in confusion. The building was run-down, paint peeling, broken tiles at the entrance. “Yeh kaisi factory hai?” she wondered, but Kabir’s smile never faltered.

The door was opened by Kabir Walia’s wife, Meera.

Meera’s eyes were hollow, her smile forced. She stepped aside, barely acknowledging Sneha. “Aaiye, andar aaiye.”

At first, Sneha was glad to meet someone her own age, thinking they’d have things in common.

She tried to make small talk—asked Meera about the town, about her life. But Meera only gave curt, one-word replies, as if guarding a dangerous secret.

But soon, cruel reality shattered her hopes.

There was no sign of machinery, no sacks of sugar, no workers bustling about. The house smelled faintly of bleach and something far more sinister.

Meera just shot her a cold look and retreated to the inner room.

Sneha watched her go, confusion turning to unease. “Kya ho raha hai yahan?”

Sneha felt the house was oddly chilly—doors and windows sealed tight.

The air was stale, every curtain drawn. The silence was suffocating—broken only by Kabir’s footsteps echoing in the corridor.

This nearly airtight space made her uneasy.

She shivered, rubbing her arms for warmth, wishing she could open a window.

When she tried to open a door for some air, she found it locked.

Her heart skipped a beat. She tugged at the handle, but it wouldn’t budge. Panic set in. “Kabir ji, yeh band kyun hai?”

Kabir Walia grabbed her from behind, covered her mouth, and pinned her down.

He was suddenly behind her, a hand clamped over her lips. She struggled, muffled screams echoing in the empty house.

"Chup, if you want to live, don’t move."

His breath was hot on her ear, his grip iron-tight. “Ek shabd bhi mat bolna, samjhi?”

Kabir Walia threw Sneha onto the bed like a ravenous wolf, pinning her and tearing at her clothes.

She fought, clawed, but he was too strong. Her pleas went unanswered, her cries absorbed by the four locked walls.

Sneha screamed, but the woman outside ignored her.

She heard footsteps in the corridor, a shadow flickering under the door. But no help came—only silence. The world outside was as indifferent as the woman who’d retreated earlier.

The gentle Kabir instantly became a ferocious, manic demon, repeatedly assaulting Sneha.

His face twisted with rage, his touch violent and cruel. He became someone else—a monster in human skin.

Afterwards, his eyes turned fierce. He bound Sneha’s hands with wire, choked her neck, and threatened:

She gasped for breath, tears streaming down her cheeks, as he wound a thin wire around her wrists and leaned in, his voice pure venom. “Ab yahan se bhaagna mat sochna. Jo bhi aaya, zinda nahi gaya.”

"Once you set foot in this house, don’t dream of leaving alive. No woman has ever escaped me."

His words etched themselves into her mind, cold and final as a death sentence. Sneha sobbed, shaking uncontrollably.

The more he spoke, the more excited he got. The act of killing thrilled him—watching a living person wither away in his hands made him feel like the master of life and death.

He looked down at her as if she were nothing—a mere object for his pleasure, and perhaps, his next victim.

After all, if he wanted someone dead, they wouldn’t survive.

Sneha’s eyes widened in terror, realising the truth. “Yeh aadmi pagal hai,” she thought, heart pounding in her chest like a dhol at a wedding gone wrong.

But this time, Kabir Walia failed.

Fate had other plans. Her body fought to survive, even as her mind slipped away.

Sneha felt herself suffocating, her brain starved of oxygen, her vision going dark, and she passed out.

As the world slipped away, she thought of her son—his laughter, the way he hugged her legs before she left for work. She whispered a silent prayer, “Bhagwan, mujhe bacha lo.”

She didn’t know how long had passed. When she woke, she was choking on a foul stench, her whole body in pain.

The darkness was absolute, the smell so overpowering that her stomach heaved. She coughed, gagging, her mouth dry as sand.

Opening her eyes, everything was pitch black and blurry.

She blinked, desperate for light. Her hands fumbled in the dark, searching for anything familiar.

But a sliver of light seeped in from above. Looking closely, she saw a highly decomposed human face right in front of her.

A face leered at her from the gloom—its features sunken, flesh blackened, eyes long since gone. She recoiled, a scream ripping from her throat.

Sneha screamed in terror, struggling in panic.

She flailed, feet slipping in the sludge beneath her. Her cries echoed, but nobody came.

But all she could touch was sticky, viscous matter.

Her fingers slid through something slimy and cold. It took her a moment to realise—these weren’t rags, but bodies. Limbs tangled together, some fresh, some long gone.

She couldn’t stand or grab onto anything.

Every attempt to rise was met with the give of rotting flesh. She sobbed, retching, every breath a punishment.

Because beneath her were layers of rotting corpses.

She was entombed with the dead. Their silence pressed in on her, as if the weight of every sin clung to her skin.

Bodies oozing with putrid fluids, packed tightly together.

The fluids seeped into her clothes, the air thick with decay. She fought the urge to faint again, knowing that sleep here meant certain death.

Sneha immediately vomited uncontrollably. She wanted to escape but found herself in a narrow, deep pit—like a vegetable cellar.

Her stomach convulsed. She clung to the wall, nails scraping brick and bone. When the vomiting stopped, her mind cleared just enough for panic to settle in.

Survival instinct kicked in—she couldn’t just wait for death.

She forced herself to think. "Jeena hai toh kuch karna padega." Her son’s face flashed before her eyes, giving her a burst of desperate strength.

After vomiting everything out, her mind cleared a bit.

She pressed her lips together, willing herself not to sob. "Rona mana hai, Sneha. Abhi nahi. Abhi bachna hai."

This was a mass grave. If she wanted to survive, she had to save herself.

The walls seemed closer now, the stench stronger. But somewhere in her, a sliver of hope ignited—she would not die here, not today.

Sneha shouted, but no one answered.

Her voice cracked. “Bachao! Koi hai?!” But the house above was silent, the only reply the squelch of decomposing flesh.

She forced herself to suppress her nausea and fear, trembling as she stacked the corpses beneath her, raising herself up little by little. As she clawed upwards, she remembered climbing mango trees in her childhood village—how her feet would slip on the smooth branches, but she’d keep going for the juiciest fruit. The memory gave her strength, and she grit her teeth, pressing on through the horror.

Her hands shook, tears streaming down her face, as she pressed one broken body atop another, building a mound high enough to reach the opening. The pain, the disgust, the terror—they were nothing compared to the will to live. Each push, each step up, brought her closer to the light.

Her fingers scraped brick—then, suddenly, footsteps echoed overhead. Someone was coming.