[POV: Rajesh]
My phone was a war room. Notifications were enemy combatants to be neutralized. Emails were logistical puzzles to be solved. Grief was a server that had to be kept offline, or the whole system would crash.
I sat in my home office—the one my dad had designed to look "disruptive" and "innovative" with a stupid glass desk and uncomfortable chair—and I managed the single worst project of my life.
To-Do List:
1. Contact Bansal & Sons Funeral Services. (Blocked 9 AM - 9:30 AM.
The man's voice was syrup-thick with pity. "A tragedy, young sir. So young." I gave him Amit's full name, date of birth, his grandparents' address. I requested the simplest, most dignified package. "He wouldn't want a circus," I said, my voice flat. "Just… fire and flowers.")
2. Secure Venue for Antim Sanskar at Nigambodh Ghat. (Blocked 9:30 AM - 10:15 AM.
A bureaucratic maze of permits and time slots. My voice took on the cold, impatient tone I use with incompetent suppliers. "No, the 2 PM slot is unacceptable. We require the first morning slot. Yes, I understand there's a premium. Bill it to Malhotra Holdings." My father's money, finally good for something.)
3. Draft Obituary & Notify Delhi University. (10:15 AM - 11:00 AM).
The cursor blinked on a blank document. Amit Sharma, beloved… I deleted it. Amit Sharma, a light in our lives… Delete. My hands shook. I typed four words: Amit Sharma. Artist. Friend. Gone. Sent it to the university newsletter admin with a terse: "Please run this. No further comment.")
4. Handle Media Inquiry. (11:02 AM).
A reporter from a local tabloid called. "We understand you were close to the deceased. Can you confirm rumors of a depressive episode?" My knuckles went white around the phone. "The 'deceased' has a name. Amit Sharma. And if you print a single speculative word about his state of mind, my family's lawyers will sue your paper into a pulp so fine you could use it as confetti. Are we clear?" I hung up. The CEO was useful. The CEO could threaten. The CEO didn't cry.)
My mom glided in at 11:30, holding a smoothie she probably didn't make. She was dressed for a board meeting that wasn't on my shared calendar. "Rajesh, darling. This is… unfortunate. Your father and I have wired the necessary funds. Do you require a PR firm to handle the… fallout?"
She said "fallout" like it was a minor stock dip.
I didn't look up from my screen. "No. I require you to leave."
"Darling, there's no need to be hostile. We're trying to help."
"By offering a PR firm?" My head snapped up. "He's not a scandal, Mother. He was my best friend. He's dead. The help I need is for you to not be here."
She flinched, a rare crack in the marble facade. She placed the smoothie on the glass desk with a definitive click. "Very well. We're leaving for Singapore tonight. The Liang merger can't wait. Call if you need… anything."
She left. The silence she left behind was worse. It was the silence of my entire childhood.
I picked up the smoothie and threw it against the wall. Green goo slid down the pristine white paint. It was the most emotion I'd allowed myself all morning.
The hardest item on the list.
5. Visit Dada-ji and Dadi-ji. Sharma Grandparents.
Their house was a time capsule of love. Faded photos, crocheted blankets, the smell of camphor and slow-cooked lentils. The air was thick with a grief so profound it had a weight, a smell of its own.
Dadi-ji opened the door. She looked smaller, like her bones had shrunk overnight. Her eyes, usually bright with mischief when Amit was around, were two pools of utter devastation.
"Beta Rajesh," she whispered, and her voice broke. She pulled me into a hug. She felt like a bundle of delicate bird bones. She smelled of sandalwood and tears.
I held her, stiffly, patting her back. The CEO didn't have a protocol for this.
Dada-ji sat in his armchair, staring at Amit's graduation photo. He didn't look up. "They say he jumped," he said, the words like stones dropped into a still well.
"They're wrong," I said immediately, the words out before I could think. I guided Dadi-ji to the sofa and knelt in front of Dada-ji. "Listen to me. He didn't. Amit would never."
Dada-ji's watery eyes finally met mine. "The police showed us the report. No signs of a struggle. Just… him. On the ground."
"That doesn't mean he wanted to be there!" I heard the desperation in my own voice, the CEO slipping. "Think. Was he sad? Depressed? Did he say anything strange?"
Dadi-ji started crying softly. "He was so excited for the party. He asked me to iron his best handkerchief. He was… luminous."
"Exactly!" I stood up, pacing their small living room. My brain was connecting dots, building a case. "He was luminous. He was painting a new series. He was in love. He was terrified of stepping on Divya's feet during a waltz, for god's sake! Does that sound like a person who buys a one-way ticket off a roof?"
"Then what, beta?" Dada-ji asked, a flicker of something—hope? anger?—in his tired eyes. "What happened to our boy?"
The seed of doubt, planted at the scene, sprouted thorns. It wasn't just a feeling. It was logic.
"I don't know," I said, stopping my pacing. "But I'm going to find out. I need you to think. Did he have any problems? Money? With anyone?"
The old couple looked at each other. A silent communication passed between them. Dada-ji sighed, a long, weary sound. "There was… the thing with Vikram."
Vikram. Amit's uncle. His father's younger brother. A slick ghost who showed up for holidays with expensive whisky and empty promises.
"What thing?"
"Amit… he was asking questions," Dadi-ji said, twisting the edge of her sari. "About the family trust. Vikram manages it, you know, since my son… since Amit's father passed. Amit thought some payments were… irregular. He was going to look into it after his finals."
My mind clicked. A motive. A possible motive that wasn't "crippling despair."
"Did he confront Vikram?"
"I don't know. He didn't want to worry us," Dada-ji said. "He said he would handle it. He always said he would handle things…" His voice broke off.
He would handle it. Like I was handling the funeral. Like we all tried to handle things for the people we loved.
I took their frail hands in mine. My own were ice-cold. "Don't talk to Vikram. Don't talk to the media. Let me handle the arrangements. Let me… look into this."
"The police said it was over," Dadi-ji whispered.
"The police are wrong," I said, with a certainty that felt like the only solid thing left in the universe. "Amit didn't jump. Someone pushed him. And I'm going to prove it."
Saying it out loud made it real. It turned the vague, churning horror into a mission. A project plan. Item 6 on the to-do list: Find the Killer.
I stayed an hour, going over the funeral details with them. The priest, the time, the flowers (white marigolds, Amit hated the orange ones). I used my CEO voice, calm and assured. It seemed to comfort them, this illusion of control.
As I was leaving, Dadi-ji caught my sleeve. "That poor girl. Divya. How is she?"
The image of her on the floor of my car, clutching the bracelet, flashed before me. "She's not… good."
"You look after her, Rajesh," Dada-ji said, his voice firm for the first time. "Amit would want that. You two… you're all each other has now."
The statement was a punch to the gut. All each other has. Me and Divya. The archenemies. Bound together by the black hole where Amit used to be.
"I will," I lied, because what else could I say?
Driving home, the robotic focus dissolved. The lists faded. All that was left was the echoing silence of the car and the screaming, looping thought:
Amit was investigating his uncle. Amit is dead. The police call it suicide.
Coincidence?
My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.
Unknown:Condolences for your loss, Mr. Malhotra. A terrible tragedy. Some things are better left as tragedies. Less messy for everyone. Consider this friendly advice.
I stared at the screen. My blood went from cold to frozen.
It wasn't signed. It didn't need to be.
I typed back, my fingers steady. Rajesh: Who is this?
The reply was instant. Unknown: Just a well-wisher. Focus on grieving. Not on questions that have already been answered.
They were watching. They knew I was asking questions.
Instead of fear, a cold, furious clarity settled over me. It was a cleaner emotion than grief. More useful.
I didn't delete the texts. I screenshotted them. I backed them up to a secure cloud drive my father's tech guys had set up for "sensitive mergers."
Item 6 was no longer just a thought.
It was a war.
And I had just received my first shot across the bow.