The night was still. The sounds of the crickets seemed like a racket. And then the occasional howling of a stray dog in the distance. Bharath lay awake. He was drowsy, but his mind was racing. The events of the last week ran over and over in his mind like a commercial. The tragic case. The hopeless financial situation. And then the final straw – the humiliating abandonment by his own family.
Bharath was alone in the dark house. He was alone in his life. The emptiness weighed down on him. He started unblinking into the darkness. And then suddenly he realized it. What was wrong ? Why wasn’t it working ? He tried to get up. But his body was stiff and rigid. As he tried to sit up, he heard it.
A soft creaking sound. Bharath felt the acute sharpness of the sounds. It was as if all his being was focused in his hearing. The soft footfalls came closer. And then he saw him. A stocky guy. He had a long dagger in his hand and a rucksack slung on his back. Bharath was surprised that he felt so calm. For a moment he forgot his life. With one mighty effort he sat upright and shouted.
The startled man pounced on Bharath. He slashed wildly, catching Bharath on his neck. As the weapon sliced his jugular, Bharath collapsed, his blood spouting out all around him.
The police were all over the house. Bharath’s wife stood silently in the corner. She was surprisingly calm. As she started at her husband’s body, lying in the middle of the hall. The blood had hardened and covered almost the entire floor. The police were removing the body. Ratha looked up. And her eyes fell on the unfamiliar bottle standing below the stove platform. It was partly hidden among all the other bottles. But Ratha recognized it immediately. The bottle of weedkiller. It was empty.
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