Where Had I Seen It Before?

I reached home past midnight, paperwork finally filed and submitted. The flat lay dark except for the small diya Ma always kept burning in the prayer corner. I kicked off my shoes at the door and lingered, eyes adjusting to the dimness.

Ma had saved dinner on the stove. Rajma and chawal, the pots still warm under their lids. I ate standing at the counter, not bothering with a plate, scooping it up with a spoon while rain tapped against the kitchen window.

I dropped the pans in the sink to soak and headed to my room.

The bed creaked as I slumped on the edge, still in my work clothes, and stared at the wall. That sheen. The one I'd seen on the dead man's forehead. On four others in the waiting room. On Desai.

I flopped back onto the mattress. Where had I seen this before?

My eyes drooped as I thought back.

Last Wednesday. The funeral.

We stood in the municipal crematorium hall in our dress uniforms. Constable Ravi Patil's body lay on a raised platform at the front, draped in white cloth with marigold garlands arranged across his chest and the Indian national flag folded at his feet. I'd worked with him once, a theft case in his chowki area last monsoon. Sincere fellow, always first to volunteer. "I'll handle it, saheb. Leave it to me, saheb." His widow sat in the front row, her son beside her, both staring at his still form. The speeches blurred together. Dedicated officer. Exemplary service. Left behind a loving family.

Afterward, Desai and I approached them in the lobby. "We're so sorry for your loss," Desai said, her voice formal but sincere. The widow looked up at us with red-rimmed eyes.

"Will you go to temple? To pray for Ravi?"

Desai answered for both of us. "Of course we will."

I nodded. The widow smiled gratefully and turned to receive others waiting to offer their condolences.

We walked out into the evening. Just down the street, a Hanuman temple sat with its entrance lit by oil lamps. Desai headed toward it. I hesitated. This would be my first time inside a temple since my own father's funeral. I followed anyway. It wasn't as if it meant anything.

The temple blazed with evening lights, bells chiming as devotees entered and exited. We removed our shoes at the entrance and shuffled through the darshan line, our formal uniforms out of place among the colourful saris and kurtas. Incense smoke hung thick in the air, mixing with sandalwood, hibiscus and marigold.

At the garbhagriha, Desai bowed her head. I copied her, folding my hands the way I learned as a child. The priest stood before us in saffron dhoti and sacred thread, shikha knotted at his crown, forehead marked with sindoor. He beckoned us forward. When my turn came, he dipped his thumb into a small brass container and pressed it to my forehead, right between my eyes. The tilak powder felt cool and grainy against my skin. Sandalwood paste with something gritty mixed in.

"Jai Hanuman," he murmured, moving on to the next person.

That night, washing my face before bed, my antenna glitched. In the bathroom mirror I'd caught something beneath the smeared orange powder. I'd scrubbed harder, thinking it was residue. When the mesh reconnected, there was nothing. Just clean skin.

I'd brushed it aside then. Forgotten it entirely until now.

The mark had been there, on my own forehead. Was it still? My connection had stayed up all the next morning, so I wouldn't have seen it even if...

My thoughts dissolved and sleep took me.

***

I woke to the smell of chai and the sound of devotional music drifting from the kitchen. Grey light filtered through the curtains, dimmed by the monsoon clouds. My mouth tasted stale and my clothes clung to me, wrinkled from sleeping in them.

Nine o'clock. I'd slept hard, dreamless.

I pushed myself up and shuffled into the hall. Through the kitchen doorway, Ma stood at the stove, her back to me, stirring something in a steel pot.

"Krishna, uthla ka?" Ma said without turning around. "You came in so late last night. Always working, always forgetting to eat properly."

"I ate, Ma. You left rajma."

She turned, wooden spoon in hand, and gave me a look. "Eating straight from the pot. No plate used." She came out to the dining table and waved me toward it. "Sit. Nashta tayaar ahe."

I took a seat at the table. The walls were thin enough that I could hear Mrs. Chauhan's feeds through the plaster and the sound of someone's pressure cooker whistling two floors up. Nothing had changed since I moved us here after my father died. Prayer corner by the east window. His photo in its silver frame. The same worn cushions on the sofa, the same crocheted doily under the lamp.

Ma set a plate in front of me: upma with fresh coriander, a side of yogurt, two elaichi bananas. She placed a steel tumbler of chai next to it, steam rising from the surface.

"Eat," she said, settling into the chair across from me with her own cup.

I took a spoonful. The upma was piping hot, and I realised I was actually hungry. Ma watched me over the rim of her cup, some bhajan streaming softly in the background.

"Mrs. Ghoshal called yesterday," she said.

I kept eating.

"Her niece is visiting from Pune. Very nice girl, teaches at a good school. English literature. Proper family, good background."

"Ma."

"Just chai, Kanha. Just meet her for chai. What's the harm?"

"I'm working a case."

"You're always working a case." She set her cup down, leaned forward slightly. "You're thirty-six. How long will you wait? Until I'm gone? Until you're alone in this flat with no one?"

The words hit harder than she probably meant them to. I set my spoon down and looked at her. More grey in her hair than last year. Lines around her eyes that deepened when she smiled. When had she gotten older?

"I'm not waiting," I said. "I just... it's not a good time, Ma."

She studied me, then reached across and squeezed my hand. "It's never a good time, beta. That's what you learn when you get old. Life happens anyway."

I picked up my chai instead of answering.

"Juhi Raina." Ma continued, undeterred. "Very educated. Modern girl, has her own career, but knows how to keep a home too. Just chai, beta. One meeting."

"I'll think about it."

"You always say that."

"And I always mean it."

She sighed, but I caught the small smile at the corner of her mouth.

I finished the upma and started on the bananas. The music shifted to an advertisement for some mesh gaming platform, tinny and overproduced. Ma stood and cleared dishes, movements practiced and efficient.

She came back to the table with a damp cloth, wiping down the surface around me. "Go shower. You smell like yesterday."

I laughed despite myself and stood. "Yes, Ma."

In the bathroom, I stripped off my wrinkled shirt and looked in the mirror. Dark eyes, once-broken nose, the scar above my left eyebrow. Black hair kept short. Lean build, shoulder tight on the left.

I grabbed my toothbrush and started brushing, waiting for my antenna to glitch.

My connection stayed stable through the whole routine. I spat, rinsed, kept waiting.

Eventually, the faint overlay with temperature, time and news ticker on the mirror vanished. I leaned closer, tilting my head to catch different angles of light on my forehead, angling myself toward the window.

Nothing. Just my forehead, unmarked. If there had been a shimmer after the temple blessing, it was gone now.

But Desai's forehead had glinted last night. And those four people in the hospital waiting room.

Why them and not me?

My spine twinged, and the overlay reappeared. I turned away from the mirror and stepped into the shower.

Ma's words echoed. Thirty-six. Until you're alone in this flat with no one.

I thought about Ravi Patil's widow, eyes red in the crematorium lobby, her son beside her. What kind of husband would I be, with this job, this broken antenna?

I scrubbed shampoo through my hair and tried not to think about it.

When I finished, I dried off and checked my messages. One from Desai, sent twenty minutes ago: Meeting at the second victim's place. Worli. The message had a map pin attached.

I sent back: On my way.

I dressed quickly in clean trousers and a button-up shirt, and headed back to the hall. Water ran in the kitchen, Ma washing dishes, music still playing.

"I'm going, Ma," I called to her.

The water shut off. Ma appeared in the doorway with a small cloth bag in her hands, already packed. "At least take some fruit for the road." She pressed it into my hands and I glanced inside. Two apples and a handful of cashews. "Eat something other than street food."

"Thanks, Ma." I kissed her cheek and she smiled.

"Give my regards to your partner, Meera."

"I will."

I slipped on my shoes at the door and headed out.