Mohit Gupta 1 The rain had been relentless that night in Lucknow, turning the streets of Hazratganj into glistening rivers of neon reflections. The abandoned colonial mansion stood at the edge of the bustling market, a towering relic of British architecture swallowed in shadows, its façade cracked and weather-beaten, windows like hollow eyes staring into the storm. For years, the house had been whispered about in tea stalls and alleyway conversations—said to be cursed, a place where footsteps echoed in the dead of night though no one lived there, where whispers curled around like smoke in the dark. But on…
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Pabandeep Singh 1 The day began with a deceptive calm as the Singh family gathered at the ancestral haveli, its sprawling courtyard decorated with marigold garlands and incense smoke curling into the late afternoon sky. The occasion was meant to be one of prayer and ritual, a havan arranged by Harjit Kaur to mark a prosperous harvest season and to offer blessings for the family’s future, but beneath the fragrance of camphor and the rhythmic chanting of the priest lay a storm of unspoken tensions. Gurpreet Singh, the eldest son, stood near the head of the courtyard, his arms crossed…
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Anurima Ghosh 1 The train wound its way through the steep curves of the hills, the rhythmic clatter of wheels fading into the hush of the morning mist. Detective Satyen Chatterjee leaned against the window of his compartment, watching the world blur into shades of gray and green. Darjeeling, with its colonial houses perched like watchful sentinels and the endless rows of tea bushes stretching into the fog, had always held for him a curious mixture of charm and melancholy. This was no leisurely visit, however. The summons from the Darjeeling police was urgent: a murder had been discovered in…
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Pramit Deshmukh 1 The hills of Dharamshala carried a silence unlike any other. It was not the silence of emptiness, but one layered with murmurs of prayer wheels, the occasional clang of temple bells, and the distant rustle of pine forests swaying with the mountain wind. In the early mornings, the mist floated across the ridges like drifting spirits, veiling and unveiling the town in turns. Pilgrims wound their way to monasteries, their maroon robes a steady rhythm against the gray stone paths. The air smelled faintly of incense and butter lamps, mingled with the earthy dampness of rain-kissed soil.…
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Pinaki Verma 1 The Goan sun dipped low into the Arabian Sea, painting the horizon with fiery streaks of orange and crimson as Anjuna beach slowly came alive with tourists gathering for the evening. Arjun Sen leaned back on the creaking wooden chair outside his shack, the smell of charred prawns and kingfish mixing with the salty air. Once, he had carried a badge, a gun, and the weight of justice on his shoulders; now he carried trays of seafood and glasses of feni to strangers. To most, he was just another shack owner—dark glasses hiding tired eyes, hair flecked…
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R. K. Menon Chapter 1 The morning traffic on Outer Ring Road was its usual symphony of blaring horns, impatient engines, and the occasional curse shouted through helmet visors. Somewhere between a lumbering BMTC bus and a swerving goods carrier, Prakash Nayak’s modest grey scooter skidded. The police report would later write it up as a tragic but routine road mishap—oil slick on the asphalt, sudden brake, impact with a divider, helmet cracked clean through. For the few bystanders who stopped, he was just another middle-aged man in an ill-fitting formal shirt and worn office trousers, carrying a black backpack…
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Aparna Thakur Chapter 1 – Blood on the Hills The storm came down like a curse upon the hills, lightning tearing jagged lines across the charcoal sky as the wind screamed through the cedar trees of Dharamshala’s outskirts. Rain lashed against the windows of an old guesthouse nestled precariously on a rocky slope, its pale stone façade flickering in the electric light like something pulled from a fevered dream. Inside, the air smelled of damp wood, old secrets, and the faintest trace of blood. At the top of the narrow staircase, in Room 5, Dev Rana’s body lay sprawled across…
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Akash Tripathi 1 The salty breeze of the Arabian Sea drifted through Girgaon Chowpatty, curling around sizzling pans and the spicy perfume of crushed coriander and garlic chutney. Tara Joshi stood behind her grandfather’s chaat stall, apron tied around her waist, expertly arranging plates of sev puri with the finesse only years of helping at the stall could teach. The sky had turned a buttery orange, and the usual crowd of couples, college kids, and beach walkers had begun to gather around the row of food carts. Dattatray Joshi—Dada to everyone—stood beside her, his wrinkled hands moving steadily, his voice…
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Mukund Tiwari 1 The village of Gopalpur, tucked between the dry hills of Chhatarpur, had a peculiar glow that night. Not from electricity—no, that was a rare guest—but from a string of solar-powered panchlights flickering weakly along the dusty lane that led to the banyan tree near the temple. Beneath its sprawling roots, the villagers had gathered for the annual shukravaar bhoj, hosted as always by Sarpanch Ramesh Tiwari. Plastic chairs were arranged by caste rank, older men chewed pan and gossiped in Bundeli, and a cauldron of steaming dal bafla perfumed the air with spices. Nakul Pandey, the newly…
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Pratap MIshra 1 Arjun Desai stepped off the sleek black car and onto the dew-covered ground of the luxury resort, nestled in the misty hills of Mussoorie. The crisp mountain air filled his lungs, fresh and raw, as the early morning fog wrapped around the colonial-style buildings like a secret waiting to be uncovered. It was the perfect retreat, or at least, that’s what his manager had promised. After the public scandal—the rumors, the tabloid frenzy, the endless online mockery—Arjun needed peace. He needed to be far away from the chaos of Mumbai and its relentless pressure. The resort was…