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समीर वर्मा एपिसोड 1: धुंध में चीख कोलकाता की सड़कों पर सर्दियों की धुंध इस क़दर छाई थी कि सामने चल रही पीली टैक्सी का पिछला नंबर प्लेट तक साफ़ दिखाई नहीं दे रहा था। हावड़ा ब्रिज की रोशनी उस धुंध को काटने की कोशिश कर रही थी, मगर हर रोशनी धुंध में घुलकर जैसे कोई अधूरा रहस्य बन जा रही थी। रात के पौने बारह बजे पुलिस कंट्रोल रूम में फ़ोन बजा। सब-इंस्पेक्टर शेखर चौधरी उस समय अपने डेस्क पर फाइलें पलट रहे थे। फोन उठाते ही उधर से घबराई हुई औरत की आवाज़ आई— “साहब… चीख सुनाई दी…
অর্ণব দত্ত পর্ব ১ — রাতের সেতু হাওয়ায় গন্ধ ছিলো গরম লোহা আর নদীর শ্যাওলার। কলকাতার শহরতলির পুরনো লোহার সেতুটি রাত নামার পর যেন অন্য রকম হয়ে যায়—দিনে সে কত ব্যস্ত, ট্রাক, বাস, ভ্যানগাড়ি সব মিলিয়ে এক বিশৃঙ্খলা। অথচ গভীর রাতে, হঠাৎ করেই যেন সেতুর গায়ে সময় থেমে যায়। বাতাসে ভিজে ধাতব শব্দ বাজতে থাকে, দূরে নদীর স্রোত কালো তেলের মতো ঘন হয়ে বইতে থাকে, আর হাওয়ার ফাঁক দিয়ে মনে হয়, কারা যেন অদৃশ্য পায়ে সেতুর গায়ে হাঁটছে। অনিকেত দাঁড়িয়ে ছিলো সেতুর মাঝখানে। হাতে সিগারেট, চোখ নদীর দিকে। সে একজন সাংবাদিক, তিরিশ পেরিয়েছে, জীবন তাকে খুব একটা সহজ কিছু দেয়নি।…
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…
Meera Chandrani Part 1 — The Envelope The envelope was the colour of old bones—thin, brittle, and unreasonably light. It was waiting on my desk when I returned from a morning beat at the magistrate’s court, wedged under my keyboard as if it had crawled there and died. No sender’s name, no return address, just my own printed neatly in black: ANANYA BASU, CITY CRIME. I rubbed at the fine dust that clung to it and felt a prickle—something metallic shifting inside with the slimmest rattle. “Fans of your work,” said Sayan, the photographer, peering over his camera like an…
Om Jindal Part 1 – The Transfer Order Ooty, 1895. The train hissed as it wound up the Nilgiri mountains, its wheels screeching around narrow curves, as though the very hills resisted intrusion. From his open window, Devendra Nath Rai watched thick clouds drape over eucalyptus trees and tea plantations like a shroud. The air had a peculiar chill—unlike the searing plains of Madras Presidency, where he’d spent most of his career. He was thirty-two, a quiet man with neat handwriting and a taste for facts. The British admired him for his efficiency; Indians called him “Sarkari Sahib” behind his…
Nina V. D’Souza Part 1 The letter arrived on a Monday, folded neatly in an ivory envelope sealed with red wax. There was no return address, only Aria Langford’s name written in elegant cursive on the front. She stared at it for a long minute before tearing it open, curious but cautious. The apartment was quiet—too quiet—save for the hum of her old refrigerator and the distant sound of sirens in the city below. As a freelance historian and part-time archivist, Aria was used to strange documents landing in her hands. But this one was different. The letter inside was…
Aritra Basu No one really knows when the nightmares began. Maybe it was the night Rehan clicked the link. Just a glowing green phrase in a forum full of digital shadows: “The Deepest Link – Do You Dare?” Most would scroll past, but Rehan was no most. Nineteen years old, brilliant with code and reckless with curiosity, he had spent the past few months exploring the surface and submerged layers of the internet. The dark web was his newest obsession. Not for drugs or weapons or conspiracy forums—but for secrets. He didn’t want to buy; he wanted to know. He…
Rudra Ahuja Chapter 1: The Pen in the Attic It was the last stall at the farthest corner of Daryaganj Sunday Book Bazaar—the kind of place where stories go to retire. Beneath yellowing tarpaulin sheets and towers of old files, Neil Das spotted a flicker of brass. He had walked this market a hundred times before. But this morning, the damp October air had pulled him toward the stall like a tug on a forgotten thread. A wrinkled shopkeeper sat cross-legged amidst dusty encyclopedias and cracked leather briefcases. Neil’s eyes drifted past the usual—old college yearbooks, British-era maps, a few…