Twenty-four-year-old Ramesh, a migrant worker from the eastern part of the country was apathetically scrutinizing the frenzied girl in the restaurant. On the other hand, his friend and fellow worker Varun was pitifully adoring the beauty. He said empathetically, "It's heart-breaking that she lost her husband at such a young age. Especially like that . . . " He shuddered, unable to say the word 'murdered.' "But she's so pretty, any man would be lucky to have her. Within months, she'll have a line of men ready to court her." Then he sighed dreamily, leaning his head on Ramesh's shoulder. "I would join that line if I wasn't stuck in this dreary place."

Ramesh stroked his shaven chin, narrowing his sharp eyes at her. The first suspect of the police was Ramesh since he woke up before the cocks' crowing and had established cordial relations with the victim. He had been remotely involved in violent riots and was arrested once due to which he left his state. And to add a glazed cherry on top of a cake, he resembled the stereotypical image of a criminal with his protruding eyes, lanky body and skin which was a darker shade of brown.

He had wearily maintained his composure during the police interrogation while all he wanted to do was go raving, shake their shoulders and scream at them to stop focusing on an innocent. He vaguely remembered the sound of bangles clinking when he had welcomed Sheila's husband back from his stroll, a few minutes before he was coldly stabbed to death. When he had voiced his recollection, implying the possibility of a woman, more specifically of Sheila being the culprit, he was offensively dismissed.

He had discreetly overheard their conversations during dinners when Sheila and her husband were always found in disagreement with each other and had caught her eyes blazing at her husband when he was ignorantly gobbling up food. He had noticed the timidity she portrayed today which was previously absent in her. With nervous excitement, he continued inspecting her like a fisherman eager to catch a fish in his hook.

He felt a smack on the back of his head and he turned around to find the displeased manager barking at them, "Is she a tv? What are you both looking at? Go, do your duties!"

Varun groaned, reluctantly leaving with the manager and Ramesh was about to join them when he saw Sheila excusing herself. Immediately, he started to follow, guided by his instinct which was blaring loudly inside him like sirens. The moment he turned around the corner, the manager bumped into him, blocking his path.

"Didn't I tell you to go with Varun?" he asked testily, trying his best to contain his bubbling anger. 

Ramesh silently nodded and started pacing back till he could no longer feel the manager's eyes on him. He waited fretfully behind the door for a few, torturous minutes before he set off again, this time jogging to the direction in which he last saw Sheila disappear. Unable to find her, he ran in hysteria, stomping over the guests' feet and blatantly ignoring their orders. He heard the familiar, faint clinking of bangles and peeking from behind the wall, he saw Sheila observing herself in the small, cracked mirror in the corridor of workers quarters.

'What was she doing here?" he thought, holding his breath as Sheila deliberately smeared the kohl from her eyes, pinched her cheeks to bring out the colour and smirked in satisfaction at how broken she appeared.

Their eyes briefly connected in the mirror before Sheila left with a confident gait, leaving Ramesh befuddled. He stalked cautiously to his own room as if expecting to fall for a booby trap any second. Once inside, he plonked on his cot, burying his face in his long hands.

That cunning look! That wicked smile! He was sure that she had killed him, but how would he prove it? He had tried plainly stating it once, but the officers became indignant as if he had accused their own mothers. A thin streak of smoke wafted in the tense air and he glanced at the agarbatti lighted in front of God Krishna's framed picture. He then decided firmly to not get involved and leave it completely in God capable hands.

However, the discomfort lingered in his chest like the agarbatti smoke in the room and he reached for the drawer, to scour for some stray pills for his growing headache. Goosebumps rose on his dark skin as he stared in horror at the kitchen knife stained with blood in the drawer. He promptly got up and again being guided by his instinct, he shakily removed the drawer and dropped the knife in a grocery, cloth bag.

"That little bitch!" he swore to himself and clutched the bag with trembling hands. No one would believe him, a misunderstood boy who used to get caught in school for other classmates' mischief. The only option was to return the knife to the criminal who had generously bestowed the honour of her crime on him.

He started speedily to Sheila's room, his breathing out of control. All the surroundings- the cheap furnishing formed one blanketed mass of an absurd, dark colour while his focus was on one goal, to get rid of the weapon as soon as possible. He felt a hand grasp his thin arm to which he conspicuously flinched and stopped.

Varun gaped in amazement at him. "Where were you with so much work to do? Never mind, now that I have found you . . . " He trailed off and his eyes fixed inquisitively on the bag. "Did you go to the market?"

"Y-Yes," he replied with an urgency that felt strange to Varun and having sensed that he feigned calmness which felt even stranger. "Saab called me in the lobby to help him sort out some payments."

"But that's already---"

With a reassuring hand on Varun's shoulder (which Varun didn't understand what he was reassuring him for), he hurried to the path that he had grimly undertaken. He heedlessly walked over the blood-stained carpet and flung open the door. The room was eerily tranquil and cold as if he had stuck his head in the refrigerator. A sudden gust of wind blew, causing the casement windows to shut and he pulled out the knife from the bag.

Just then, he heard a frightened voice, "What did you do?"

"Varun . . . It's not what you think . . . " he whispered, his voice as low as the sound of the wind outside. He dropped the knife to the floor as if surrendering to the ruinous, inevitable fate that he couldn't escape from the day he had been born. Still, he couldn't help, but feebly defend himself, "It was her . . . She did it . . . I swear . . . "

His words fell to deaf ears because Varun sprinted away, feeling that the noblest thing to do was to turn his dear friend in. Ramesh blankly viewed the magnificent, white mountains through the window, their beauty not failing to stir his weak, common heart. With newfound contempt towards his own self, he purposefully stooped down to pick the knife.

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