The sun rose over Jodhpur on Sunday morning, burning the last of the monsoon mist off the ancient stones of the city. For most, it was a day of rest. For Neel Verma, it was a day of performance.
He was in his office by 7 AM, a cup of strong, black coffee in his hand. The first call he made was not to his client, but to a number he rarely used.
"Rana-ji," Neel said into the phone, his voice low. "I have a package that needs to be moved. A delicate instrument."
On the other end of the line was the owner of a small, discreet courier service who specialized in transporting high-value art and antiques. He was expensive, silent, and asked no questions—three qualities Neel valued highly. He gave Rana the pickup address for Anjali's apartment and a specific time.
"And the drop-off location?" Rana asked.
Neel looked out his window at the distant, gleaming white marble of the Jaswant Thada, the royal cenotaph. It was a place of quiet beauty, a monument to kings. It was public, yet serene. A perfect stage.
"The main courtyard of Jaswant Thada," Neel said. "11:00 AM sharp."
His second call was to Pandit Uday Mahesh. The maestro picked up on the first ring, his voice frayed with sleepless anxiety.
"Mr. Verma! Have you found them? Do you know where it is?"
"The Nad-Brahma has been located," Neel stated calmly, cutting through the panic. He offered no details, no explanation of dancers or electricians. To do so would be to cede control of the narrative. "The situation is... delicate. The parties involved are not common criminals."
"What do I do? Should I send the police?"
"No," Neel said firmly. "You will do exactly as I say. Be at the entrance to Jaswant Thada at 11:00 AM. Come alone. Do not speak to anyone. I have arranged for the recovery of your property. You are there to witness the final act and confirm it is undamaged."
He could hear the maestro's confused sputtering, but Neel was not interested in a conversation.
"11:00 AM, Pandit-ji," he repeated, and ended the call.
At 10:45 AM, Neel was standing in the shade of a carved marble archway at Jaswant Thada. Tourists milled about, their voices hushed in the tranquil atmosphere. He was invisible in the small crowd, just another man admiring the intricate latticework of the monument. He had a clear view of the main courtyard and the single road leading up to the entrance.
At precisely 10:55 AM, a small, unmarked blue van from Rana's courier service pulled up. Two men in simple uniforms emerged, carrying a large, black sitar case. They walked into the courtyard, placed the case gently on a designated marble bench as instructed, and, without a word to anyone, turned and left.
Moments later, a chauffeur-driven Mercedes arrived. Pandit Uday Mahesh emerged from the backseat, his face pale with a mixture of hope and fear. He scanned the courtyard, his eyes wide, until they locked onto the sitar case sitting alone on the bench. He started to rush forward.
Neel remained in the shadows, watching. The package was delivered. The client was present. The stage was set. But there was one more actor who had yet to make his entrance.
Just as the Pandit reached the case, another car, a sleek black Jaguar, pulled up to the entrance. A tall, imposing man in a sharp suit stepped out, a look of triumphant arrogance on his face.
It was Vikramaditya Narayan. He had obviously been tipped off about the exchange, likely by Anjali, and had come to gloat and claim his prize.
The Pandit saw his rival and froze, his hand hovering over the clasps of the case. Vikramaditya smirked, walking toward him with the confidence of a king who had just checkmated his opponent.
Neel watched the two rivals converge on the sitar case, two powerful men about to collide. He finally stepped out from the shadows, his hands in his pockets. The performance was about to begin.