"Uday," Vikramaditya Narayan said, his voice dripping with false sympathy as he approached the bench. "Fancy meeting you here. I heard you had... misplaced something." His eyes glinted with triumph as he gestured towards the sitar case. "It seems you've found it. Or rather, it has found its way to a more deserving home."
Pandit Uday Mahesh turned, his face pale with rage. "You! This was your doing, Vikramaditya. You arranged this whole thing to humiliate me."
"Arrange? My dear Uday, I am merely a patron of the arts," Vikramaditya purred, moving to place a hand on the case. "And this particular piece of art has yearned for a worthy owner for decades. I believe its journey is finally over."
Before his fingers could touch the case, a calm voice cut through the air.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you, Mr. Narayan."
Both men turned. Neel Verma stepped out from the shade of the archway, his hands still in his pockets. He looked entirely unremarkable, a stark contrast to the two wealthy, powerful men, yet his presence instantly shifted the balance of power in the courtyard.
"And who are you?" Vikramaditya demanded, his eyes narrowing.
"He is my investigator," the Pandit said, finding a sliver of courage.
"Neel Verma," Neel introduced himself, his eyes fixed on Vikramaditya. "You and I have a mutual acquaintance, it seems. A very talented dancer named Anjali Sharma."
Vikramaditya's smirk tightened almost imperceptibly at the mention of the name. He had been played.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he scoffed.
"Don't you?" Neel said, taking a step closer. "You hired her to retrieve the sitar. A brilliant plan, I must admit. But you made one mistake. You underestimated your instrument. You thought she was just a key, a tool you could control. But artists, Mr. Narayan, have their own sense of loyalty. And her loyalty was not to you."
Neel turned his attention to the Pandit. "Please, Pandit-ji. Open the case. Check your property."
With trembling hands, Uday Mahesh undid the latches and lifted the lid. There, nestled in the velvet lining, was the Nad-Brahma, gleaming and unharmed. The maestro let out a choked sob of pure relief, running a reverent hand over the polished wood.
Vikramaditya stared, his face a mask of disbelief and fury. "She was supposed to deliver it to me."
"She did," Neel said calmly. "She delivered it to the person who could best appreciate her art. She knew you only wanted a trophy. She also knew I would understand the performance." He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, clear plastic bag. Inside was a single, half-smoked cigarette butt.
"The police will find this very interesting," Neel said, holding it up. "It was found in the ventilation shaft of the Pandit's studio. It's a rare, imported Egyptian brand. The same brand you happen to smoke, Mr. Narayan. It seems the electrician you hired to cause the power flicker got careless. A disgruntled student from the academy, I believe. He was more than happy to give a statement in exchange for immunity."
It was a complete fabrication, a perfectly constructed lie. But Vikramaditya didn't know that. All he knew was that his clean, clever plan had just exploded in his face, leaving him covered in evidence. The color drained from his face.
Neel turned back to Pandit Mahesh, who was now looking at his rival with newfound contempt.
"You have a choice, Pandit-ji," Neel said, his voice low and final. "You can take your sitar and go home. I will give this evidence and the witness's statement to the police, and they will deal with Mr. Narayan quietly. Or, you can make a scene, and the newspapers will have a wonderful time talking about how the two greatest musicians in India are fighting like street dogs. The choice is yours."
He had given him the sitar. He had given him his rival. He had given him victory.
Uday Mahesh looked at his gleaming sitar, then at the defeated face of Vikramaditya. He closed the case with a quiet, decisive click. "I am a musician," he said, his dignity restored. "Not a brawler." He picked up the case, gave Neel a deep, meaningful nod of gratitude, and walked toward his car without a backward glance.
Vikramaditya stood frozen, humiliated and trapped.
Neel pocketed the bag with the fake evidence. "I would suggest you leave Jodhpur, Mr. Narayan," he said softly. "Before a police report gets officially filed."
Without waiting for a reply, Neel Verma turned and walked away, melting back into the crowd of tourists. He had found the sitar, honored the artist's legacy, and dismantled a king. The case was closed. But as he walked down the hill, he knew the quiet satisfaction of the victory was fleeting. A performance like this would not go unnoticed. And the anonymous invitation, the symbol from his past, was still waiting for him back in his office. His own story was far from over.