As the cold wind blew towards India’s western coast, the hill town of Lavasa was in the grip of the worst storm it had ever witnessed. The river that cut deep into the town roared and furled its steel-grey waves. The scenic hills became a dull green backdrop as mist rose to cover them. It was twelve noon, but it felt like dusk. The sky was veiled with monsoon clouds. Distant lightning made them glow fiery red at intervals, like the slow pulse of a beast of prey.
Journalists held their mikes tight, some struggling to keep their hair from whipping into their eyes, as they reported live from the scene. Camerapersons struggled to keep their equipment steady. Standing on the bridge, one could hear the wind whistle through the gaps between the hills.
‘This is the third suicide reported in Lavasa, and the second from this bridge, within three months,’ a reporter pointed behind her as she spoke loudly over the mourning wind. ‘The bridge you see behind me connects the two sides of Lavasa, crossing the river Mutha. This is the spot where the victims jumped to their deaths. Though there has been a lot of speculation about the victims and the possible crime scene itself, the police are yet to comment on these theories. There are also reports of a gunshot being heard by several people last evening. The police have assigned divers to recover the body of the latest victim. However, given the extreme weather conditions, the search has been put on hold. The worst of the storm has passed but for the residents of Lavasa, it’s not over yet. What happened here? The whole town is eagerly awaiting an answer, after a series of tragic incidents disrupted its peace—’
The reporter broke off when she spotted the chief of the Lavasa police department arrive at the bridge. He walked briskly, his men keeping the horde of reporters at bay, towards a horrified-looking man standing at the edge of the bridge.
Blood seemed to have left his face. He was staring at the bridge, silent. The senior officer called out to him.
‘Inspector Suresh Mohite!’
‘Yes, sir,’ the inspector responded in a voice his superior barely recognised.
‘Let’s have a look. Take me to the spot.’
The inspector led his senior to the entrance of the bridge where some trainee officers had been posted to cordon the scene off. They saluted as the two men walked past. Usually, Mohite would return their salute. In that moment, however, he couldn’t see anything but the bridge in front of him. It looked so normal and innocuous, as if nothing had happened there. His stomach turned as he approached the scene. It was still so vivid in his mind … all of it was.