Pandit Uday Mahesh left Neel's office in a daze, the small piece of paper clutched in his hand like a holy scripture. He had arrived in a state of chaotic despair and was leaving with a thread of impossible logic. It was, he would later tell his manager, like watching a magician explain a trick that still felt like real magic.
Left alone, Neel did not immediately celebrate his deduction. The intellectual thrill was there, a familiar current humming beneath his calm exterior, but the work was not yet done. A theory, no matter how elegant, was only a theory until it was anchored to the stone-cold ground of fact.
He walked back to his desk, the scent of rain and cardamom mingling in the air. He moved with a quiet economy, tidying the German clock mechanism back into its case. The puzzle was solved; it was time for it to be put away. His mind was now entirely on the new system, the new disruption: The Case of the Silent Sitar.
He pulled a large, worn leather-bound journal from a drawer, along with a fountain pen. He didn't use computers for his case notes. He believed the physical act of writing slowed the mind to the proper rhythm of thought. On a fresh page, he wrote the date: August 30, 2025.
Below it, he drew a simple diagram. A square for the studio. A circle for the sitar. An arrow coming from the ceiling labeled "Dancer." Another arrow pointing to a flickering lightbulb labeled "Electrician?" He connected them with a third arrow to a name: "Vikramaditya Narayan." It was a web of silk and wire, of art and sabotage.
An hour bled into the next. The rain outside softened to a fine mist. The sounds of the old city faded completely, leaving only the lonely hum of the single tube light in his office. At 10:45 PM, his phone, a simple, non-smart model from a decade ago, buzzed on the desk.
He answered. "Verma."
It was the maestro's manager, a man named Prakash, whose voice was a frantic mix of awe and disbelief.
"Mr. Verma... it's exactly as you said," Prakash began, his words tumbling out. "We got the list from the academy. There are three students with a background in gymnastics. But one of them... her name is Anjali Sharma. She was a national-level gymnast for six years before a knee injury forced her to switch to classical dance."
Neel was silent, listening. He could hear papers rustling on the other end.
"But that's not all," Prakash continued, his voice dropping. "Her older brother. His name is Rohan Sharma. We checked his employment records. He's a licensed electrician. And for the last three months... he's been on a contract basis with the very same company that handles the electrical maintenance for the Pandit's entire estate."
Neel closed his eyes. The web was complete. The final thread had been pulled taut.
"Anjali Sharma," Neel repeated the name softly. It felt real, solid. "Where does she live?"
"A small flat in the Ratanada area. We have the address."
"Good," Neel said. He could picture the next steps clearly. He would give the address to the police, along with his theory. They would be skeptical at first, but the evidence would be undeniable. They would find the sitar, arrest the girl and her brother, and the case would be closed. It would be neat, efficient, and entirely unsatisfying.
He looked at the diagram in his journal. The motive was humiliation, but the execution... it was art. A performance meant for an audience of one: him. Or someone like him. Someone who could appreciate the sheer audacity of it.
"Mr. Verma? Are you there?" Prakash asked. "Should I call the police?"
Neel looked out the window at the silhouette of Mehrangarh Fort, a bastion of old warriors and forgotten kings. The police were a tool. A blunt instrument. This case required a different touch.
"No," Neel said, a decision forming in his mind. "Not yet. I have one more question to ask our dancer."
He ended the call, leaving a stunned manager on the other end. He walked over to a tall wooden almirah in the corner of his office and opened it. Inside hung a single, well-maintained black coat.
He slipped it on. For the first time that night, Neel Verma prepared to leave the logic of his office and step into the rain. The puzzle was solved, but the story was just beginning.