The rain had finally come to Jodhpur.
It wasn't the furious, cleansing monsoon of July, but the tired, humid drizzle of late August. It clung to the air, slicking the blue-washed walls of the old city and drawing out the rich scents of cardamom from the spice shop below. From his second-floor window, Neel Verma could see the majestic, floodlit walls of Mehrangarh Fort, a dark giant sleeping against a bruised purple sky. Down below, the labyrinthine alleys around Ghanta Ghar were emptying, the sizzle of frying kachoris giving way to the gentle hiss of rain on hot stone.
It was 9:32 PM on a Saturday. The city was winding down. Neel was not.
He sat at his heavy rosewood desk, not looking at the view, but at the object in his hands: the intricate inner mechanism of a 1940s German clock. With a pair of fine-tipped tweezers, he nudged a minuscule gear into place. It was a puzzle of springs and brass, a perfect, logical system. Unlike people.
Neel Verma, age 45, was a man who preferred logical systems. It showed in the organized chaos of his office—books on forensic science stacked neatly next to ancient Rajasthani folklore, yellowed case files from a past life forming precise towers on the floor. It didn't show on his face. His features were sharp, intelligent, but softened by a weariness that had settled deep into his bones. Only his eyes, dark and still, held the unnerving focus of the genius he once was.
A sudden, frantic pounding on the wooden door at the bottom of his staircase shattered the calm. It was the sound of a man who did not live in this part of the city. The footsteps that followed were heavy, expensive leather slipping on the worn stone.
The door to his office swung open without a knock.
The man who stood there was Pandit Uday Mahesh. Neel didn't need to be a detective to know that; the musician's face was plastered on billboards across the country, his fingers insured for a sum that could buy this entire city block. Tonight, however, the maestro's famous serenity was gone. His silk kurta was rumpled, his brow slick with a mixture of sweat and rain, and his eyes were wide with a cultured terror.
"You are Verma? The one they talk about?" the Pandit asked, his voice strained.
Neel didn't stand. He placed the clockwork mechanism carefully onto a velvet cloth and looked up, his expression unreadable. "I am Neel Verma. Whether I'm the one they talk about depends on the story."
"They say you see things no one else does," the maestro pressed, stepping inside. "They say you were the best at the CBI."
"The CBI and I parted ways a long time ago," Neel said, his voice a low baritone, calm and steady. "I am a private investigator. I find things. What have you lost, Pandit-ji?"
Pandit Uday Mahesh ran a hand through his damp hair. "My soul," he whispered dramatically, before catching himself. "My sitar. The 'Nad-Brahma'."
Neel remained silent, letting the name hang in the air. He knew of the instrument. A national treasure, passed down through the maestro's family for seven generations, carved from a single piece of Burmese teakwood.
"It was stolen tonight," the maestro continued, his voice cracking. "From my home studio. During my weekly live-streamed concert."
"You were in the room when it was stolen?" Neel asked, his interest still not visibly piqued.
"I was the only one in the room!" the maestro exclaimed. "The studio is soundproof, built like a vault. The door was locked from the inside. There are no windows. The police have been there for an hour. They are calling it impossible. They are looking at my rivals, my students... they are fools! It was impossible!"
He slumped into the visitor's chair, the fight going out of him. "It's gone, Mr. Verma. Vanished into thin air on a live broadcast with fifty thousand people watching."
Neel watched him for a long moment, his gaze taking in every detail—the state of his clothes, the tremor in his hands, the faint, sweet scent of jasmine that clung to him. The puzzle was laid out. An impossible crime. A locked room. A priceless artifact. It had all the hallmarks of a case he would have relished in his younger days.
He leaned forward slightly, his first real sign of engagement. He ignored all the details of the theft, the value of the sitar, and the fame of his client. He asked a single, quiet question.
"Pandit-ji," Neel began, his voice barely above the sound of the rain. "What brand of polish do you use on your studio floor?"