Click! Flash! Click! Click!
The flashes, the clicking of cameras, and the loud cries of journalists left me disoriented. By noon on the day Zara died, reporters from every major Delhi newspaper and TV channel had swarmed the Hauz Khas police station. Around thirty journalists were crowding the entrance, piecing together information in fragments. Inspector Rana refused to speak, and no constable dared address the media without permission.
When I stepped out around noon to grab something to eat, they pounced.
"Are you Keshav Rajpurohit?" one of them asked.
I gave a small nod. That was all it took. They went wild, fighting to get their microphones closer to my face.
"Did you find the dead body?"
"Did you break into the girls' hostel?"
"Are you her ex-boyfriend?"
I was dazed. I didn't know what to say or who to respond to.
"Please, let me go," I said, raising my hands.
"I haven't done anything. I don't know anything."
I don't know why I said that. It only made things worse. The questions became louder, more aggressive.
"Are you saying you could be a suspect?"
"No," I said quickly. "Nothing like that. I never said that."
"Were you still physically involved with Zara Lone?" said one reporter wearing thick glasses.
I wanted to punch his smug, bespectacled face. But I controlled myself. Punching a journalist inside a police station wasn't going to help. I clenched my jaw.
"I need to get out of here. Let me go," I said again.
"Did you murder Zara Lone, Mr. Keshav Rajpurohit?" he asked next.
"No!" I screamed.
With no way to push past them, I turned around and ran back into the station. Hunger could wait. I wasn't ready to be eaten alive by this madness.
I went straight to Saurabh, ignoring the inspector's orders to stay away. He was dozing on a wooden bench. My brain had shut down completely. No sorrow, no fear, not even exhaustion. I couldn't sleep like Saurabh. I noticed a small TV mounted high on a dusty shelf. A news channel was running.
After a few commercials, a red banner flashed:
Breaking News: Kashmiri Muslim Girl Murdered in IIT Delhi Hostel
A reporter stood at the IIT gate, near the security checkpoint where I had shown my outdated ID earlier that day. Several other reporters were stationed outside. The campus administration must've denied them entry—only shots of the IIT Delhi signage were being aired.
The volume was low, so I stepped closer to listen.
The reporter, one finger in his ear, spoke to the anchor in the studio.
"Arijit, what we know so far is that the victim is Zara Lone, a PhD student at IIT Delhi. Her body was discovered in Room 105 at Himadri Hostel around 3 a.m. Her ex-boyfriend, also a former IIT Delhi student, broke into her room to wish her on her birthday—and found her dead."
"Wait a minute," Arijit interrupted. "Did you say he broke in?"
"Yes, Arijit. His name is Keshav Rajpurohit. He graduated five years ago. He and Zara were in a relationship back then. She did her undergrad at Delhi College of Engineering before joining IIT for her PhD. They broke up a while ago, we hear."
Great. I was now famous. Not for building billion-dollar startups or launching political movements like other IIT grads—but for breaking into a girls' hostel.
"But can you explain how he broke in?" Arijit asked. "Aren't boys strictly prohibited from entering girls' hostels at IIT?"
"Yes, IIT Delhi has a strict policy. Keshav climbed in through a window using a mango tree. Unfortunately, we weren't allowed inside to film the tree."
Yes, truly unfortunate. The nation couldn't witness the sacred mango tree. Or the mangoes.
"Go on," Arijit said, shaking his head as if the world was collapsing.
"So he climbed up to wish her and found her dead. That's his version."
"Exactly—his version. So what are the police doing?" Arijit asked.
"It's early in the investigation. Keshav is currently at Hauz Khas police station. He seems confused—or maybe angry. We have visuals."
Suddenly, I was on screen—looking completely unhinged.
"No!" I screamed, over and over. They looped it five times like a daily soap drama.
"I must add," the reporter continued, "that Keshav is from Rajasthan, and his father, Naman Rajpurohit, is a senior member of a right-wing organization there. A politically connected family."
Why bring my father into this? I checked my pockets. My phone was missing. I found it on the chair where I'd been sitting earlier. Thankfully, nobody had stolen it—it was a police station, after all.
Ten missed calls from home. Four from Chandan Arora. Two from Sexy Sheela—probably on Chandan's behalf.
Before I could return the calls, I heard my name again.
"So have the police arrested Keshav Rajpurohit? Or is he being protected by political connections?" Arijit asked, raising eyebrows.
What political connections?! I hadn't called anyone. I hadn't done anything. And I certainly didn't want my father knowing about any of this.
"No arrests yet," the reporter said. "Keshav is cooperating or maybe being detained—we don't know. The police are exploring all angles. They'll speak to other hostel residents soon."
"Why haven't they arrested the ex-boyfriend?" Arijit persisted.
Because I freaking didn't do it!
Within ten minutes of the news breaking, this guy wanted someone locked up. And just when I thought it couldn't get worse—
"See, Arijit," the reporter added. "There's also speculation—though we can't confirm—that there might be a terrorism angle. You see, Zara Lone was a Kashmiri and a Muslim."
Of course. That's all it takes—being a Kashmiri Muslim—to land in that box.
Arijit forgot about me in a heartbeat.
"A Kashmiri Muslim girl. Mysteriously killed. Is there a larger conspiracy?" he asked the air.
"We can't confirm that yet," the reporter mumbled.
But Arijit wasn't having it. He leaned in dramatically.
"Ladies and gentlemen, a major story is unfolding. And your channel is the first to bring it to you."
Total lie. I'd seen thirty other reporters. Everyone was on it.
"And before the break, the big question is—Has terror reached India's elite institutions?"
Cut to a Patanjali toothpaste commercial, with smiling sages lost in peaceful meditation. Compared to the chaos of the studio, Baba Ramdev's grin was oddly comforting.
Of course, the break ended, and Arijit returned—this time with his "esteemed panel" of six. A socialite, an ex-cop, a Kashmir think tank analyst, and a retired IIT professor filled six windows on the screen. Arijit had his own, twice the size.
He opened the discussion dramatically:
"The question is—has extremism reached our elite campuses? Is this a terror case? And is anyone safe in the capital?"
"I don't know about the terror angle—" the think-tank guy began.
"Forget terror!" the socialite interrupted, her bindi as big as a ten-rupee coin. "What about campus security? This is Hauz Khas, an upscale area. If this place isn't safe, what is? Is Delhi a capital or a crime zone?"
"Exactly! If even the rich aren't safe, what's the police doing?" Arijit chimed in.
The ex-cop tried to defend the investigation, but the panel silenced him. The ex-IIT professor didn't say a word.
A constable finally came up and tapped my shoulder.
"Come on, Rana sir is calling you."