• Crime - English

    The Whispering Knife

    Damien Arora Episode 1 – The First Cut The rain had begun an hour before midnight, a thin drizzle that turned the streets into black rivers of glass. In the corner of the old bazaar, where the neon of a dying sign stuttered over broken tiles, a man leaned against the wall as if sleep had claimed him standing. To the drunkards stumbling home from the late bar, he looked like just another lost figure in the city’s night. It was only when the streetlight caught the crimson pooling beneath his shoes that anyone realized he would never move again.…

  • Crime - English

    The Locked Room in Mumbai

    Devraj Sinha The monsoon had not yet broken, but the clouds over Mumbai were swollen with a menace that seemed to mirror the city’s mood. At Marine Drive, waves pounded against the seawall as if the Arabian Sea was impatient with human stubbornness. Detective Arvind Rao, sitting in the back of a police jeep, felt the salt spray coat his face as they sped past the stretch of neon-lit hotels that fronted the coast. His phone buzzed again; Commissioner Kulkarni’s voice had been sharp and hurried. “Bollywood producer, big name, dead in a penthouse. Locked room. Media will have a…

  • Crime - English

    The Mumbai Syndicate

    Adrian S. D’Costa Part 1 – The Last Supper The night smelled of salt and rust, the sea breeze drifting from the Arabian coast into the narrow gullies of Colaba. Neon lights flickered above paan shops and half-shuttered bars, their red and blue haze blurring with the cigarette smoke that hung thick in the air. It was a Saturday night, but the streets were too quiet, as if the city itself was holding its breath. Inside Casa Fortuna, an old Portuguese villa-turned-restaurant, twelve men sat around a mahogany dining table polished to an unnatural gleam. Each man wore an expensive…

  • English - Suspense

    The Vanishing Sketch

    Arjun Mehta Part 1 – The Disappearance The Delhi Metro was alive with its usual evening rush—voices overlapping, the metallic shriek of sliding doors, hurried footsteps pounding the tiled platforms. Inside the swaying compartments, the city pressed itself into tight spaces, strangers brushing shoulders, the air thick with the scent of perfume, sweat, and the faint metallic tang of rails. Rhea Kapoor moved through the crowd with practiced ease, her leather satchel slung diagonally across her body, her eyes hidden behind a pair of round glasses. At thirty-four, she was one of the country’s most fearless investigative journalists, but here…

  • Crime - English - Suspense

    Crimson Monsoon

    Ayan Mehta 1 The rains had not stopped for three days, and in the heart of Kochi’s old port area, the swollen waters had turned every lane into a stream. On the fourth morning, as the sky remained heavy with dark monsoon clouds, police were called to a derelict warehouse by the shore. Inside, half-submerged in knee-deep water, floated the body of a middle-aged man. His face was bloated, his shirt clung to his chest, and his trousers bore muddy stains. A faint smell of oil and damp wood filled the air, mixing with the pungent odour of decay beginning…

  • Crime - English - Suspense

    The Architect’s Alibi

    Meghna Rao 1 The skies over Bengaluru were unusually clear that Thursday morning as dignitaries, media personnel, and shareholders gathered beneath a white canopy set up in front of the city’s newest architectural marvel—Skyrise X. Towering fifty-four stories high, its glass façade shimmered like a knife under sunlight, cutting through the skyline of the tech capital with defiant elegance. Designed by the legendary Arvind Raghavan and funded by real estate giant R&R Infrastructures, the building was hailed as the future of vertical urban living—complete with rooftop gardens, automated energy grids, and helipad access. Cameras flashed, champagne flowed, and applause erupted…

  • Crime - English - Suspense

    A Death in Dariba

    Mayank Sufi Part 1: The Man in the Silver Kurta The lanes of Dariba Kalan in Old Delhi were quiet that morning, quieter than usual. The scent of ittar still hung in the air like the memory of a lover’s touch, but the shops had yet to roll up their shutters. It was barely 6:30 a.m. when a rickshaw-wala, yawning and rubbing the sleep from his eyes, noticed something odd in front of Ibrahim & Sons — Jewelers Since 1837. A man lay face-down, slumped against the closed shutter, silver kurta crumpled, a faint red trail soaking into the dust…