Anant Chowhan
Chapter 1
The indoor pool was still cloaked in shadow when Suvam Dey stepped inside the cavernous space, his footsteps echoing against the high glass walls. The air smelled sharply of chlorine and faint mildew, a familiar scent that both comforted and stung. It was just past 4:30 AM, the hour he cherished most—before the noise, before the competition, before the world crept into the stillness. He dropped his duffel near the bleachers, removed his hoodie, and looked at the water—calm, mirrorlike, awaiting only him. Suvam dove in without hesitation, slicing through the silence. Each stroke was metronomic, clean, and powerful, pushing against the resistance of the water like clockwork. This was his ritual: twenty laps without pause, ten sprints, then endurance sets. As he turned on his twelfth lap, the light flickered above Lane 3, briefly plunging the pool into darkness. He stopped for a moment, treading water, catching his breath. Then a sound—soft, padded footsteps—broke through the hush. Someone was in the pool area, but Suvam saw no silhouette, no reflection in the wide windows. Shaking off the unease, he resumed his laps. He didn’t notice the faint, bitter taste in his mouth. Nor did he realize his limbs were growing heavier, slower. By the time he reached the edge again, his fingers slipped, and his vision turned to static. Moments later, the water returned to perfect stillness, disturbed only by a trail of bubbles that never reached the surface.
By 7:00 AM, the Aquaflow Sports Complex buzzed with early risers and junior swimmers warming up for their morning sessions. The air, once quiet, filled with whistles, instructions, and rhythmic splashes. Coach Ranjan Bhatt arrived in his signature navy track suit and sunglasses, nodding to the receptionist absently as he moved through the hallway with a thermos in hand. He was halfway through checking the day’s training list when a piercing scream halted everything. A maintenance worker named Amit Basu had stumbled into Lane 4 while skimming the filters, and there he saw it—Suvam’s lifeless body floating facedown, hair like ink swirling in the pale blue water. Chaos erupted. Priya Nair, in her swimsuit, dropped to her knees on the pool’s edge, crying out his name. The medics were called, CPR was attempted, but rigor mortis had already set in. News spread fast. A golden boy of Indian swimming, drowned in a pool he knew better than his own home. Reporters swarmed outside by noon. “Tragic accident,” the complex’s press statement read. But when the initial autopsy leaked hours later—mentioning traces of benzodiazepine in his system—what seemed like a tragedy turned sharply into suspicion.
Detective Avijit Mukherjee arrived on the scene just before sunset. Tall, lean, and built like a swimmer himself, he had once trained at Aquaflow before a shoulder injury ended his Olympic dream. He hadn’t returned since. Now, wearing his faded grey kurta and carrying a plain notebook instead of a gun, he walked the perimeter of the pool with quiet intensity. He asked questions others overlooked—why wasn’t the night security guard on duty? Why had the surveillance system rebooted at 4:43 AM, creating a mysterious 12-minute blackout? Why did Coach R’s training schedule for that morning omit Suvam’s name, despite the fact Suvam always practiced at dawn? And then there was Priya Nair. Her grief was real, raw—but her words were careful. Too careful. “He had trouble sleeping lately,” she had said. “Maybe… maybe he took something himself?” But Avijit had trained with boys like Suvam. He knew what commitment looked like. Suvam didn’t lose focus. Someone had helped him drown—and Avijit, staring into the very lane where it happened, vowed to pull the truth out of these silent depths, even if it meant tearing apart the shining facade of India’s elite sports world.
Chapter 2
The next morning, the pool was closed to the public, yellow tape crisscrossing its wide glass doors. Inside, it was quiet once more, but not peaceful. Avijit returned, this time with a full investigative team, but he moved alone. He retraced Suvam’s steps as precisely as possible: the front desk logbook had Suvam’s name signed in at 4:27 AM. CCTV from the reception area confirmed his entry. Past that, the footage went dark—power failure, the technician said—but Avijit wasn’t convinced. The backup system should’ve recorded at least in black and white. “Unless someone erased it deliberately,” he muttered. He stood at the pool’s edge, staring at Lane 4. The morning sun cast sharp beams through the skylight, cutting the water into golden ribbons. One of the forensic divers approached him, holding a sealed evidence bag. “We found this lodged inside the lane divider filter,” the diver said. Avijit took the bag. Inside was a rubber whistle—black, worn, but unmistakable. A faint smear of what looked like blood marred the side. Coach R’s initials were etched faintly near the mouthpiece. Avijit’s fingers clenched slightly. The coach had claimed he’d lost his whistle two weeks ago. Convenient.
Later that day, Avijit met Priya Nair at a quiet café two blocks from the complex. Her eyes were still red from crying, but her hands trembled more from anxiety than grief. She wore a simple cotton kurta, hair tied back, lips bare of gloss. “Suvam and I… we were close,” she said, voice low. “He was intense. Always focused, always pushing. But he was… tired lately. Something was bothering him.” She hesitated, then reached into her bag and slid a folded note across the table. “He gave this to me last week, told me to keep it if anything ever happened.” Avijit opened the note. It was handwritten in Suvam’s scrawled script: “If I disappear, tell Avijit Mukherjee. He used to swim here. He’ll understand. It’s all in locker 112.” Avijit looked up sharply. “Locker 112?” Priya nodded. “Maintenance wing. Old section. Swimmers aren’t allowed there anymore.” A lead. A message. And Suvam had trusted him, even in death. Avijit paid the bill without another word and left. His pace was quicker now. His gut told him he was already being watched.
The key to the maintenance locker had been tucked away in a file cabinet buried in old archives. When Avijit finally opened Locker 112, the smell hit him first—metal, damp, and ink. Inside were a few personal effects: an old duffel bag, a red towel, a flipbook of swim stats—but the key item was a black leather diary with pages marked by frantic underlining and names. Avijit flipped through it quickly, heart racing. One entry stood out: “Coach R is pushing pills again. Says they’re ‘boosters’—but they knock people out. Vikram is involved. Federation knows. I said no, and now I’m on their list.” Another line, scrawled days later, read: “Priya suspects. I’m scared for her.” Avijit shut the diary slowly. A cold wind from the open maintenance vent whispered past him. He now had motive, method, and two names. This was no accident. It wasn’t jealousy, or recklessness—it was a system built on silence and performance, on broken promises and illegal boosters, where refusing to obey meant disappearing. Suvam had tried to speak. And now, Avijit realized, someone else might be silenced next—especially if they knew he had found the diary.
Chapter 3
Avijit sat in his car in the parking lot of the Aquaflow Sports Complex, the diary heavy in his lap, his eyes scanning the last two entries again and again. The implications were explosive. If Suvam had refused performance-enhancing drugs and was silenced for it, this wasn’t just a murder—it was a cover-up buried under layers of ambition, ego, and corruption. At the top of it sat two men: Coach Ranjan Bhatt, the golden mentor with too many medals and not enough questions, and Vikram Mehta, a federation official known for pressuring coaches to “produce results.” Avijit decided to visit Vikram first. He knew the type—polished, evasive, always two steps ahead unless cornered. At the federation office in Nariman Point, Vikram greeted him with a firm handshake and a well-practiced frown. “A terrible tragedy,” Vikram said, offering him coffee he didn’t touch. “Suvam was talented. But these swimmers… pressure gets to them. It happens.” Avijit smiled without warmth. “Tell me, Mr. Mehta, when was the last time you met Suvam Dey personally?” Vikram blinked. “Two months ago. Some pre-selection briefing.” But Suvam’s diary said otherwise: “Met V.M. in private. He offered a contract. Refused.” Avijit leaned forward. “Did you offer Suvam performance drugs?” The man’s eyes darkened, his tone sharp. “Detective, be careful. You’re treading into federation affairs.” “Good,” Avijit said, rising. “That means I’m getting close.”
Back at the pool, the training lanes had reopened, and the atmosphere was artificially cheerful. New swimmers were laughing, stretching, preparing for drills. Coach Ranjan stood beside Lane 1, stopwatch in hand, barking instructions. Avijit approached from behind. “Coach.” The man turned, cool and composed. “Detective. Back again?” Avijit handed him a photo of the whistle found in the filter. “Yours?” Coach R barely glanced at it. “Yes, but I lost that weeks ago.” “Strange,” Avijit said softly. “Suvam’s blood is on it.” The coach’s expression didn’t shift. “Blood in a pool doesn’t prove much. You’re chasing ghosts.” “Suvam thought you were dosing swimmers,” Avijit replied. “He wrote it down. I have the diary.” That finally made Coach R flinch—just for a second. “You’re basing a murder investigation on teenage paranoia?” he scoffed. But his confidence had thinned. Avijit noticed how his hand kept adjusting his cap, how his eyes flicked to the swimmers around them, checking who was listening. “Tell me, Coach,” Avijit pressed, “if he was paranoid, why was the CCTV wiped clean exactly during his solo practice?” Coach R was silent. The swimmers in the background churned the water. But beneath their laughter and splashes, the fear was tangible. No one trusted anyone anymore.
That evening, Priya came to Avijit’s flat, pale and shaken. “Someone followed me,” she said, eyes darting. “I left practice early. A black SUV. It circled twice. I lost it near Lower Parel.” Avijit closed the blinds and handed her a glass of water. “They know we’re getting close.” Priya looked at him, her voice barely audible. “You need to see something.” She opened her phone and played a voice memo. It was a recording—faint but clear. Suvam’s voice: “They’re pushing it on the juniors now. Pills, shakes, injections. Coach says it’s all federation approved. Priya, if something happens to me… go to Avijit.” The last words were static, then silence. Avijit stared at the screen, fists clenched. Suvam had recorded evidence. Maybe more existed. Maybe hidden files, USB drives, locker room videos. But someone else knew this too. The pressure had shifted now. This wasn’t just about one swimmer’s death. It was a battle between truth and control, and Avijit was already in the deep end. The current was pulling. And if he didn’t swim fast enough, the next body to surface might be Priya’s.
Chapter 4
The next morning, under a grey monsoon sky, Avijit returned to Aquaflow disguised in trackpants and a hoodie, blending in with the regulars. The security guard barely glanced at him as he walked past with his old duffel slung over his shoulder. Inside the locker area, the faint smell of disinfectant clung to the tiles, masking something older—mustier, unclean. He moved quickly toward the row of disused lockers behind the utility corridor. Locker 112 had given him Suvam’s diary, but one particular line had haunted him all night: “The real stash is in L-17.” Locker 17. He found it wedged behind a stack of broken chairs and tangled extension cords. Its paint had chipped off around the edges. With a small pry tool, Avijit jimmied it open—and what he found stopped him cold. Inside was a white cardboard shoebox, wrapped in a towel. He opened it carefully. There, laid out like surgical instruments, were three used syringes, a strip of blue pills, and a small digital camcorder—its tape slot slightly cracked, but intact. Avijit slipped on gloves, pocketed the items, and sealed the locker again. Voices echoed down the corridor—Coach R’s unmistakable bark and another deeper voice he didn’t recognize. Avijit held his breath behind the stack until they passed. Then he slipped out the back gate, a storm brewing in his chest.
At the crime lab later that afternoon, Avijit played the camcorder tape in a sealed AV room. The grainy footage opened to a locker room—empty benches, low lighting. Then a door creaked, and Coach R entered with a young swimmer, maybe fifteen, jittery, shirtless. “Just a vitamin shot, Arjun,” Coach R said. The boy hesitated. “Will it make me faster?” “You want to go to the nationals or not?” the coach replied, already prepping a syringe. The camera trembled, suggesting Suvam had been filming it secretly, likely hidden in a towel or bag. The shot cut suddenly, followed by silence, then a final clip: Suvam’s own voice, whispering: “If this gets out, he’ll kill me.” Avijit leaned back in his chair, rage rising in his throat. This wasn’t suspicion anymore—it was documentation. Abuse, manipulation, systemic doping, all under the federation’s nose. Worse, perhaps with their quiet approval. He made two encrypted backups of the footage, placing one in his locker at the station and sending another to a burner drive he handed to Priya later that evening. “If anything happens to me,” he told her, “you leak this to every news outlet you can find.” Priya nodded, her face pale. “Do you think… do you think he killed Suvam himself?” Avijit paused. “I think he ordered it. And someone else did the dirty work.”
At midnight, Avijit received a call from Amit Basu, the maintenance supervisor, who hadn’t returned to work since discovering Suvam’s body. The man’s voice trembled. “Sir… I didn’t tell everything. That night… I was here. Drunk. I—I saw someone leave through the emergency pool gate. Not the coach. Someone shorter. Lean. Fast.” “Could you see a face?” Avijit asked. Silence. Then: “No. But I saw a jacket. Red. With a federation logo. Not standard issue. Custom.” Avijit’s mind raced. Only a few elite swimmers had federation-issued red jackets. One of them was Rishi Talwar, Suvam’s former relay partner—and his closest rival. Avijit hung up and opened Suvam’s diary again. One old entry stood out now with disturbing clarity: “Rishi offered me something yesterday. Said Coach made him. Said I’m falling behind.” A knock rattled his door. Avijit froze. It was past 1:00 AM. He reached for his torch, stepped quietly to the peephole—and saw no one. But wedged under the doormat was a folded photo. It was a picture of Priya, walking alone near Churchgate. Scrawled on the back were five words in thick black ink: “Back off. Or she drowns.”
Chapter 5
Avijit barely slept. By dawn, he was outside Rishi Talwar’s apartment in Bandra, a high-rise that overlooked the sea but felt sterile, empty. Rishi, 21, hailed from a wealthy sports family and had once been Suvam’s closest ally before becoming his fiercest competitor. Avijit buzzed the intercom. “Police. We need to talk.” The door opened after a long pause. Rishi appeared in a sleeveless hoodie, headphones dangling, and an expression that balanced perfectly between arrogance and detachment. “I already told the federation everything I know,” he said. “This isn’t federation business anymore,” Avijit replied. Inside, the flat was clean—too clean. Trophy shelves, laminated photos, protein shake containers lined up like laboratory samples. Avijit went straight to the point. “Where were you the morning Suvam died?” Rishi shrugged. “Asleep. Alone.” “Witnesses?” “Nope. Not that I knew murder was on the schedule.” Avijit placed the red jacket on the table—the same one security had found dumped in a bin behind the pool, reeking of chlorine. Rishi stared at it, and for the first time, a flicker of panic crossed his face. “That’s not mine.” “It has your initials inside the tag,” Avijit said coldly. “And Suvam’s skin cells on the cuff.” Rishi looked away. “I—I just left it there. It was damp.” “You expect me to believe your best friend drowns mysteriously, your jacket shows up at the scene, and you ‘left it damp’?” Avijit stood. “You’ve got one chance, Rishi. Tell me what Coach R asked you to do.”
Cracks began to show. Rishi’s voice, once smooth, wavered. “He said Suvam was… slowing down the team. That he wasn’t ‘committed’ anymore. He asked me to—” he paused, ashamed—“convince him. Just a little push. Make him miss practice. Or take something to slow him down.” Avijit’s face hardened. “And did you?” “No! I couldn’t. I argued. But later that night, I saw Priya and Suvam arguing. She was angry. Accusing him of something. I don’t know what. She stormed off.” That changed things. Avijit hadn’t seen Priya since the photograph threat. He returned to his car, called her number—no answer. Called again. Voicemail. Dread curled in his stomach. He raced to her hostel near Grant Road, climbed two floors in seconds, and banged on her door. No response. He kicked it open. The room was dark, curtains drawn. Her phone was on the bed. But Priya was gone. A single line had been carved into the mirror in what looked like red lipstick: “He watched her drown too.” It wasn’t just a threat anymore. The killer was escalating. Avijit scanned the room—no signs of struggle, no blood, but her locker was open. Suvam’s backup USB was gone.
Back at the station, Avijit replayed the camcorder footage again, this time focusing not on Coach R or the boy—but on the background. A blurry figure could be seen walking past in the far mirror—barefoot, hair tied up, holding a stopwatch. It wasn’t Coach R. It wasn’t Rishi. It was a girl. Thin. Familiar gait. Avijit’s chest tightened. He enhanced the frame. The reflection grew sharper—and he froze. It was Priya. Not just present. Involved. He sat back in disbelief, the threads rearranging themselves. What if Suvam didn’t hide the footage from Coach R—but from Priya? What if her role wasn’t that of an innocent witness, but an unwilling accomplice? Or worse—something darker? His phone buzzed. Unknown number. He answered. A girl’s voice whispered, trembling: “Avijit… I didn’t want to… they made me…” And then a scream. The line went dead. Avijit stared at his screen. The location pinged near the old diving hall—abandoned since 2017, now shuttered behind rusting gates and forgotten medals. He grabbed his torch, badge, and rushed out. Somewhere beneath the echoes of victory and betrayal, the truth was finally ready to surface.
Chapter 6
The old diving hall loomed like a forgotten tomb behind the newer pool complex. Its walls were stained with algae and years of abandonment, windows long shattered, the air thick with the stench of mold and rust. Avijit parked his bike near the rusted gate, the iron groaning as he pushed it open. No power. No lights. He stepped inside with a flashlight, its narrow beam slicing through the dark like a scalpel. Echoes of past competitions clung to the silence—the faint cheer of an invisible crowd, the imagined splash of a perfect dive. But tonight, the water lay still, black, unfiltered, and deadly. At the far end of the hall, on the lowest diving platform, a single figure sat—her head bowed, shoulders hunched. “Priya,” Avijit called out softly, approaching slowly. She looked up. Her eyes were hollow, her face tear-streaked. In her trembling hands was Suvam’s USB drive. “I didn’t know they were going to kill him,” she whispered. “I just… wanted them to stop hurting him.”
Avijit knelt beside her. “You need to tell me everything. From the start.” Her voice was like a crack in glass—thin, breaking. “Coach R approached me first. Said Suvam was refusing training orders. That he was going to bring everything down—get us all banned. They made me believe he was unstable. Self-destructive.” She sniffled. “So I helped them. I spiked his shake that morning. Just enough to make him drowsy. That’s what they told me. I didn’t know it would—” Her voice broke. “I left before he entered the pool. When I came back… he was gone.” Avijit’s throat tightened. “And the camcorder?” “He gave it to me a day before he died. Told me to hide it. I didn’t watch it until later. When I saw what they did to that kid… I knew I was part of something unforgivable.” Avijit looked at her—broken, but not evil. “Why didn’t you come forward earlier?” She looked up, eyes filled with fear. “Because Rishi saw me leaving the pool that morning. He threatened me. Then Vikram called me. Said if I spoke, I’d ‘vanish like Suvam.’” She handed him the USB. “But I’m done running.”
A sound echoed through the hall—metal against tile. Avijit stood instantly, torch raised. A shadow darted near the changing room doors. “Stay behind me,” he told Priya, moving cautiously. The torch flickered—then blacked out. Footsteps. Fast, heavy, closing in. Avijit turned just as a figure lunged from the dark, a crowbar swinging. He ducked, the metal slicing the air. He struck back with the torch, catching a glimpse of the attacker’s face—Coach R, eyes wild, teeth gritted. “You had to keep digging!” he growled. “You don’t understand the empire we built!” Another swing. Avijit blocked it, the metal crashing into a locker. “You killed a boy,” Avijit snapped, “and for what? Medals? Glory?” Ranjan sneered. “That boy was a traitor. He wanted to ruin us.” In the chaos, Priya grabbed the crowbar from behind and struck him across the back. Coach R crumpled. Breathing hard, Avijit cuffed him. Backup sirens wailed in the distance. “It’s over,” he told her quietly. “No,” Priya whispered, eyes locked on the water. “This place… it will never be clean again.” The surface rippled silently, reflecting nothing but ghosts.
Chapter 7
The media descended like vultures. By noon the next day, every national outlet had Coach Ranjan Bhatt’s face plastered across breaking news tickers: “Top Swimming Coach Arrested in Doping-Murder Scandal.” Protests erupted outside the Aquaflow Complex—some angry at the betrayal, others defending the coach as a scapegoat. Federation officials released a carefully worded statement disavowing all knowledge of any illegal practices. But Avijit wasn’t convinced. The depth of rot couldn’t be contained in one man. At the station, he interrogated Ranjan for six hours. The coach remained mostly silent, lips tight, but fatigue cracked his armor. “You don’t understand what it’s like,” he said at last, staring at a blank wall. “These kids come to us with dreams. We turn them into champions. You think that comes from talent? No. It comes from pressure. From chemicals. From obedience. The federation didn’t just know—they demanded it. They just didn’t want to get their hands dirty.” Avijit leaned in. “Names. Give me names.” Ranjan smirked bitterly. “You already know one: Vikram Mehta. But he’s not the only one. There’s a whole chain above him.” He paused, then muttered, “Locker 9. Back hallway. Behind the federation gym.” And then he clammed up. No more words. As if even he feared what would happen if he said more.
That evening, with an unofficial nod from his superior, Avijit made his way into the National Swimming Federation headquarters. The gym had closed for maintenance, and a single security guard nodded him through. The back hallway was silent, dimly lit. Locker 9 sat awkwardly between two water dispensers. Avijit opened it with a bolt cutter. Inside: a wooden panel covering a false back. Behind it lay a hidden compartment stuffed with files—medical charts, procurement orders, internal memos. Avijit flipped through the papers with growing horror. One memo was from Vikram Mehta’s office, approving monthly shipments of banned stimulants under a coded name: “AquaX.” Another was a list of swimmers marked as “risk clients”—those who had questioned or refused protocol. Suvam’s name was circled in red. At the bottom of the file stack was a photo of the 2022 national swim team—smiling, arms linked, medals shining. Almost all of them had been drugged. They just hadn’t known it. A hush fell over him as he realized the scale—this wasn’t a single murder. It was a factory of silent crimes, polished with gold medals and shut mouths.
Avijit returned to the station and filed an emergency warrant against Vikram Mehta. But when the officers reached his apartment that night, it was empty. Vikram had vanished—his phone switched off, his office cleared. One of his aides mentioned he had left “for a retreat” the day before. Avijit knew what that meant: someone had warned him. Someone in uniform, maybe in government, maybe higher. The federation would stonewall now. But he still had the USB, the tapes, the documents. He compiled a dossier and handed it over to the Home Ministry’s Special Investigations Bureau, bypassing local chains. That night, he sat in his one-bedroom flat and stared at his wall—once bare, now filled with notes, photos, timelines. In the center was Suvam’s photo. The boy who had refused to cheat. Who had swum every lap clean. Who died not because he failed—but because he dared to speak. Avijit raised a glass of water and whispered, “We’re not done, Suvam. Not until they all sink.” Outside, the monsoon rain lashed the windows, washing the city in truth.
Chapter 8
The city of Mumbai simmered beneath a heavy monsoon sky, its gutters brimming, its skyline ghosted behind curtains of rain. But inside the government archives building in Fort, under a flickering tube light and the rattle of windowpanes, Avijit found the document he had been chasing for days—a confidential internal audit dated two years ago, marked CLASSIFIED: NOT FOR CIRCULATION, signed by none other than Vikram Mehta. It detailed budget allocations for “performance development initiatives” under a covert project titled Project Triton. According to the audit, over ₹3 crores had been siphoned from public sports funding into private pharmaceutical procurement, under fictitious companies linked to Vikram’s brother-in-law. Even more damning, the document had a list of “specially monitored athletes”—and Suvam’s name appeared with a red warning triangle beside it. At the bottom of the page, a scribbled note read: “Monitor for resistance. High-risk of exposure.” Avijit took a photo of the page, backed it up thrice, and sent a copy to his contact in the Special Investigations Bureau. The net was tightening. But as he turned to leave, his phone buzzed. A blocked number. He answered. A voice, low and grainy: “You’re being watched. Priya’s not safe. She was never meant to survive.” Then the line went dead.
Avijit drove straight to the safehouse where Priya had been relocated by internal security. But the apartment door was ajar, lights flickering. Inside, the place was a mess—drawers upturned, furniture cracked, paper files scattered like confetti. The panic in his throat swelled. “Priya!” he shouted, gun drawn, torch scanning every corner. No answer. The only sign of life was a beeping smoke detector and a shattered USB drive on the floor. In the bathroom, written in soap on the mirror, were the words: “Check the pool.” That night, Avijit returned to Aquaflow. It was past midnight, and the pool was dark—no guards, no lights, no ripples. But in the far corner, near the maintenance pit, he saw her—Priya, unconscious, tied to a ladder rail, her hands bound with swim rope, mouth taped. He ran, heart pounding, and pulled her out. She was breathing—barely. As he carried her out of the water chamber, headlights flashed across the pool glass. A black SUV. Two men stepped out, one of them holding a silencer-equipped pistol. Avijit ducked behind the bleachers, dragging Priya with him, whispering, “Just hang on.” He fired once, hitting the driver in the leg. The second man fled. In the silence that followed, Priya stirred. “He’s… still here,” she murmured. “He’s not done.”
By morning, the Special Investigations Bureau had launched a nationwide manhunt for Vikram Mehta, now confirmed to be the architect of the Triton project and suspected of ordering Suvam’s murder. Coach R was transferred to Arthur Road Jail and placed under surveillance. But the public’s attention had shifted—from grief to rage. Thousands of athletes demanded independent inquiries. The Prime Minister’s office released a rare statement. Priya, now recovering in a secure hospital wing, agreed to testify, but her face had aged years in days. “I’ll carry him forever,” she said to Avijit. “But I want to make sure no more boys die in that water.” Avijit nodded. His own hands were trembling. He went home, sat at his desk, and started writing. Not a report. A book. Titled simply: The Silent Depths. Not just to expose, but to remember. Because in the end, truth didn’t float by itself—it had to be pulled, lap by agonizing lap, from the bottom of silence. And Avijit Mukherjee was not done swimming.
Chapter 9
It was a drone operator from Nagpur who first spotted the vehicle. A matte-black SUV, matching the BOLO issued by the SIB, parked on the outskirts of a mango orchard thirty kilometers from Wardha. Inside, officers found a cellphone, a tattered duffel bag, and half a dozen burnt paper fragments. One still bore the watermark of the National Sports Federation. But no Vikram Mehta. The ground was muddy, and his trail washed out by rains. The man was a bureaucrat by face but a survivalist at heart—trained in both erasing footprints and outsourcing violence. For days, tips poured in from across the country. SIB teams raided resorts in Goa, a farmhouse in Solan, a private jet hangar near Hyderabad. Nothing. Avijit, meanwhile, focused on patterns. “He’s not running,” he told the Bureau Chief during a late-night strategy call. “He’s circling. He’s looking for a leak. He’s trying to erase Priya and me.” The Bureau Chief hesitated. “You think he’ll strike again?” “Not think,” Avijit replied grimly. “Know.” That night, someone left a single gold medal tied with red string at the entrance of Priya’s hospital. Attached was a note in Sanskrit: Yatra naryastu pujyante ramante tatra devataḥ — “Where women are honored, divinity prevails.” Avijit didn’t find it poetic. He found it mocking.
The trap was set three nights later at the abandoned swimmers’ hostel in Pune—once a national camp, now condemned and overrun with vines. SIB placed agents in plainclothes across the perimeter. Avijit entered alone. It had to be him. Vikram would only come if he believed he could finish what he started. The inside smelled of sweat, dust, and memory. Avijit walked past rooms filled with rusted bunks and old trunks still bearing faded name tags—S. Dey, P. Nair, R. Talwar. In the old mess hall, a figure finally emerged. Slim, greying at the temples, wearing a coach’s stopwatch around his neck like a trophy—Vikram Mehta. “Detective,” he said smoothly, as if they were at a press briefing. “You know, you remind me of myself when I was younger. Idealistic. Righteous. Utterly useless.” “And you remind me of the disease we’re about to cut out,” Avijit said, drawing his sidearm. “Surrender.” Vikram raised his hands, smiling. “You’ll need more than one bullet, Mukherjee. Because if I fall, I take half the ministry with me.” “That’s fine,” Avijit replied. “We’ll build the new system from the ground up.” A shot rang out—not from Avijit, but from a rooftop sniper—Vikram’s last bodyguard. It missed. Avijit fired twice. Vikram collapsed.
The trial that followed was one of the largest sports corruption cases in Indian legal history. Vikram survived the gunshot but was sentenced to life under multiple counts—murder conspiracy, destruction of evidence, organized doping, and intimidation of witnesses. Coach Ranjan Bhatt received fifteen years. A new task force was commissioned by the Sports Ministry, and more than forty junior coaches were suspended across six states. Priya testified calmly, unwavering, and then disappeared into a new life under protection. Rishi Talwar’s career ended with a quiet retirement. But Suvam’s name—once whispered in closed circles—became a national symbol. His portrait was placed at the entrance of the new training center in Navi Mumbai, beside a plaque that read: “Integrity is gold. Let no one sink for speaking.” Avijit stood before it one morning, long after the case closed, and allowed himself a rare smile. His badge felt lighter. His conscience cleaner. And the pool behind him—at last—rippled with children’s laughter instead of secrets.
Chapter 10
It had been eight months since the courtroom doors closed on Vikram Mehta, and yet the echoes of the case continued to ripple through the sporting world. Avijit Mukherjee, now a senior officer on special assignment with the Sports Ethics Committee, spent his days reviewing cases from every corner of India—old wounds, buried scandals, and emerging whistleblowers. He still swam every morning, but no longer at Aquaflow. That pool, stained by memory, had been shut down indefinitely for restructuring. Instead, he chose a smaller civic pool in Sion, where children from working-class homes trained with borrowed caps and unbranded swimsuits—where ambition still felt real, and hope hadn’t yet been poisoned. On a quiet Monday, he received an envelope without a return address. Inside was a photo. Priya Nair, standing before a modest school in Coorg, with a group of village girls in swimming gear, smiling. On the back she had written: “They don’t know who Suvam was. But they know what he stood for.” Avijit stared at it for a long time, a smile creeping past the weight in his chest. The water had not drowned everything.
Later that week, Avijit visited Suvam’s parents in their modest flat in Jadavpur. They had been wary of him once—suspicious, broken, unable to grieve fully until the truth was known. But now, they welcomed him like family. Suvam’s room had been kept untouched. A single gold medal rested on the bookshelf beside his textbooks. Above it hung a framed newspaper article titled “The Boy Who Refused To Sink.” Avijit sat with them over tea, listening quietly as Suvam’s mother recalled his first swimming competition. “He used to get nosebleeds if he stayed underwater too long,” she said with a small laugh. “But he’d still dive in. Every time.” Before leaving, Avijit placed a small laminated copy of the Federation Ethics Charter—revised and renamed in Suvam’s honor—on the table. “He didn’t die in vain,” Avijit said softly. “He gave us the courage to clean the water.” As he walked out into the Kolkata evening, monsoon clouds looming once more, he felt the first drop hit his cheek. It didn’t feel heavy this time.
Months later, on the anniversary of Suvam’s death, a small ceremony was held at the new National Aquatic Training Center. No flags, no politicians. Just coaches, swimmers, and families who had seen too much silence over the years. Avijit stood by the diving board, dressed in white, watching a group of kids line up for a 200-meter freestyle. As the whistle blew and they launched into the water, their limbs slicing cleanly, fearlessly, he thought not of pain or politics—but of peace. Of what it meant to surface, gasping, not with dread—but with life. As the ripples spread behind the children, he looked up toward the glass ceiling. The light filtered through just right, bathing the water in gold. Suvam had once said in his diary: “The surface is where truth breathes.” And now, at last, the surface had broken. And the truth, hard-won and undrowned, had risen.
—
The End
