19-02-2026, 07:45 PM
(This post was last modified: 19-02-2026, 08:17 PM by will. Edited 1 time in total. Edited 1 time in total.)
Case 1
I toured the entire office. Case files were piled up everywhere.
I met and introduced myself to the senior officers.
Some were Group A officers, while others had joined Central Investigation like me.
There was budget and authority.
Parandhamam garu, who had come from Andhra Pradesh and was working here—a Group A officer with a higher rank than me.
On the second day, he called me in. I went.
"Sit down, Rahul. There’s a small task you need to handle," he said, blending a request with an order.
"Tell me, sir."
"An officer was murdered in Srinagar. The security officer claim terrorists killed him.
But his family has doubts. They approached the higher court, and the case was assigned to us," he explained.
"OK."
"I’ve gone through the case file—there’s nothing substantial in it. Verify it for me, and I’ll close the file," he said.
I understood: being older, he didn’t want to travel there himself, so he was passing it to me.
"Alright," I replied, took a copy of the file, and boarded a flight to Srinagar.
![[Image: download-2.jpg]](https://i.ibb.co/3mc4bbg5/download-2.jpg)
Three hours later, I landed, hired a car, and headed into the city. I checked into a hotel near Dal Lake.
Kashmiri girls are strikingly beautiful. As I wandered the streets, looking at some filled my heart with joy; others stirred my desire.
On the second day, I visited the security officer station where the deceased officer had worked.
The place was chaotic. No one seemed to be doing any real work.
"My name is Rahul, Deputy Officer, Central Investigation," I announced.
"Tell me," replied the new officer in charge.
"I need details about the murdered officer," I said.
"He was from a nearby village—poor guy, he’s gone," the officer replied, giving me basic information about him.
I noticed some tension among the security personnel there.
I noted down his address, hired a jeep, and drove to the village.
Crops in Kashmir look good, but poverty is widespread.
When I reached his house, his mother, father, and wife were there.
"I’ve come for some details," I explained.
They invited me to sit and offered tea. When I looked at his wife, my body reacted again. I silently scolded myself.
"We had only one son. He joined the security officer. Just a week after his marriage, he was gone," his mother said, breaking into tears. It reminded me of my own mother.
"Why do you suspect something else?" I asked.
"He wouldn’t take even a single rupee as a bribe. He was deeply dutiful. The security officer say terrorists killed him—but why would he go anywhere near terrorists? And where exactly did this so-called encounter happen?" his father asked. He was a farmer. It reminded me of my own father.
"Alright, I’ll verify everything," I said and left. On the main road, I stopped at a shop, bought a cigarette, and lit it.
Just then, the officer’s wife appeared, walking toward the road. She saw me and smiled.
"I need to go into town. The bus stops here," she said.
"I’m heading that way too. Get in the jeep," I offered. She hesitated but eventually climbed in.
While driving, I asked, "What do you do?"
"My name is Razia. I’m a college teacher," she replied with a smile.
"Your smile is beautiful," I said. She gave me a quick, sharp glance, then laughed softly.
"My in-laws are grieving terribly," she said.
"So far, whatever they’ve told the security officer hasn’t been accepted," I replied.
She fell silent. Every time the jeep hit a bump, her breasts swayed, and something stirred inside me.
I pointed out the hotel. "This is where I’m staying," I said, and gave her my phone number. She got out and walked to the nearby college.
Back in my room, I read through the forensic reports and security officer statements.
By lunchtime, I had finished reading everything.
There was no apparent suspicion anywhere; the case seemed ready to be closed. While I was drafting the report, about five minutes in, I suddenly heard a faint "wrong wrong" sound coming from somewhere inside—maybe intuition or a gut feeling.
I didn’t understand it at first. It happened again. My sixth sense wasn’t buying the official story. Something felt off—there was a twist here.
Just then, Parandhamam garu called, asking if the report was finished.
Around 4 p.m., someone knocked on my door. I opened it—Razia.
I toured the entire office. Case files were piled up everywhere.
I met and introduced myself to the senior officers.
Some were Group A officers, while others had joined Central Investigation like me.
There was budget and authority.
Parandhamam garu, who had come from Andhra Pradesh and was working here—a Group A officer with a higher rank than me.
On the second day, he called me in. I went.
"Sit down, Rahul. There’s a small task you need to handle," he said, blending a request with an order.
"Tell me, sir."
"An officer was murdered in Srinagar. The security officer claim terrorists killed him.
But his family has doubts. They approached the higher court, and the case was assigned to us," he explained.
"OK."
"I’ve gone through the case file—there’s nothing substantial in it. Verify it for me, and I’ll close the file," he said.
I understood: being older, he didn’t want to travel there himself, so he was passing it to me.
"Alright," I replied, took a copy of the file, and boarded a flight to Srinagar.
Three hours later, I landed, hired a car, and headed into the city. I checked into a hotel near Dal Lake.
Kashmiri girls are strikingly beautiful. As I wandered the streets, looking at some filled my heart with joy; others stirred my desire.
On the second day, I visited the security officer station where the deceased officer had worked.
The place was chaotic. No one seemed to be doing any real work.
"My name is Rahul, Deputy Officer, Central Investigation," I announced.
"Tell me," replied the new officer in charge.
"I need details about the murdered officer," I said.
"He was from a nearby village—poor guy, he’s gone," the officer replied, giving me basic information about him.
I noticed some tension among the security personnel there.
I noted down his address, hired a jeep, and drove to the village.
Crops in Kashmir look good, but poverty is widespread.
When I reached his house, his mother, father, and wife were there.
"I’ve come for some details," I explained.
They invited me to sit and offered tea. When I looked at his wife, my body reacted again. I silently scolded myself.
"We had only one son. He joined the security officer. Just a week after his marriage, he was gone," his mother said, breaking into tears. It reminded me of my own mother.
"Why do you suspect something else?" I asked.
"He wouldn’t take even a single rupee as a bribe. He was deeply dutiful. The security officer say terrorists killed him—but why would he go anywhere near terrorists? And where exactly did this so-called encounter happen?" his father asked. He was a farmer. It reminded me of my own father.
"Alright, I’ll verify everything," I said and left. On the main road, I stopped at a shop, bought a cigarette, and lit it.
Just then, the officer’s wife appeared, walking toward the road. She saw me and smiled.
"I need to go into town. The bus stops here," she said.
"I’m heading that way too. Get in the jeep," I offered. She hesitated but eventually climbed in.
While driving, I asked, "What do you do?"
"My name is Razia. I’m a college teacher," she replied with a smile.
"Your smile is beautiful," I said. She gave me a quick, sharp glance, then laughed softly.
"My in-laws are grieving terribly," she said.
"So far, whatever they’ve told the security officer hasn’t been accepted," I replied.
She fell silent. Every time the jeep hit a bump, her breasts swayed, and something stirred inside me.
I pointed out the hotel. "This is where I’m staying," I said, and gave her my phone number. She got out and walked to the nearby college.
Back in my room, I read through the forensic reports and security officer statements.
By lunchtime, I had finished reading everything.
There was no apparent suspicion anywhere; the case seemed ready to be closed. While I was drafting the report, about five minutes in, I suddenly heard a faint "wrong wrong" sound coming from somewhere inside—maybe intuition or a gut feeling.
I didn’t understand it at first. It happened again. My sixth sense wasn’t buying the official story. Something felt off—there was a twist here.
Just then, Parandhamam garu called, asking if the report was finished.
Around 4 p.m., someone knocked on my door. I opened it—Razia.
![[+]](https://xossipy.com/themes/sharepoint/collapse_collapsed.png)