The Widow

The rain had paused when the kaali-peeli taxi pulled up in front of a cream-coloured apartment building. I reached forward and pressed my palm against the payment reader mounted on the back of the front passenger's seat and felt the haptic pulse and audible ping of transfer success. The taxiwala nodded at me in the rearview mirror.

I climbed out.

Desai stood beside an unmarked police car, arms crossed, while a doorman in a too-large uniform gestured at the vehicle and the blocked footpath. She projected her credentials to the doorman, whose posture changed immediately, and he stepped back, palms up in apology.

"Mehta," she called as I approached. "You're late."

"Traffic."

She turned toward the building entrance. "Come on. Fifth floor."

We walked through a modest lobby, tile floors and a few potted plants. The lift took us up in silence. Desai scrolled through notes in her view, then glanced at me.

"Milind Tamhane, forty-two. Died Monday last week. Seizures, catastrophic brain haemorrhage."

The doors opened on the fifth floor. Desai led the way down a tiled hallway to flat 502 and knocked.

The door opened after a moment. A woman in her late forties stood there, leaning on a steel cane. Dark hair pulled back, simple salwar kameez, exhaustion written in every line of her face. Her left hand trembled slightly where it gripped the cane.

"Mrs. Tamhane?" Desai's voice softened. "This is Inspector Krishna Mehta. I'm Inspector Meera Desai. I called you earlier about your husband."

Sarla Tamhane nodded. "Yes. Please, come in."

"Thank you for seeing us, Mrs. Tamhane," I said.

She turned and walked into the flat, movements careful and deliberate. We followed her into a tidy hall with family photos lining the walls. Milind Tamhane appeared in most of them: broad smile, graying hair, laugh lines around his eyes. In one frame he stood with Sarla at what looked like a hill station, in another a formal wedding portrait. He looked like someone you'd want to know. Two mirrors had cloth draped over them, and a sofa with worn cushions faced the windows. Late morning light filtered in, muted and gray.

"Would you like chai?" Sarla asked, gesturing toward the sofa. "I made some fresh."

"We're fine, thank you," Desai said gently. "Please, sit if you need to. We just have a few questions we'd like to ask."

Sarla lowered herself into an armchair with visible relief, setting the cane beside her. We sat on the sofa across from her. Desai set her point of view to record, while I took out my notebook and pencil.

"Mrs. Tamhane, we're very sorry for your loss," Desai began. "I know this is difficult, but anything you can tell us about the days before your husband got sick might help us understand what happened."

Sarla's hands twisted in her lap. "He seemed fine. Tired, maybe, but he'd been working long hours." Her voice caught. "He had a lot to manage."

"What did he do for work?" I asked.

"Production floor supervisor at the pharmaceutical plant." She looked up at me. "He'd been there fifteen years. Started in the warehouse, worked his way up."

Desai's eyebrows rose. "Oberoi Pharmaceuticals. The plant in Parel?"

"Yes. He was proud of that promotion." Sarla's eyes went distant. "Four months ago they moved him from warehouse management to the production floor. Better pay, more responsibility. He said it was our chance to save for my treatment, maybe move to a better flat."

"The production floor," Desai said, making notes. "What exactly did that involve? What did they manufacture there?"

I let her continue, but "treatment" stuck in my mind.

"Pharmaceuticals. Pills, mostly, I think. Antibiotics, pain medications." She paused. "He wasn't talking much about the work itself. Long shifts, safety protocols, lots of regulations. They were giving him protective gear to wear. He was always careful about following procedures."

Desai leaned forward slightly. "When did his symptoms start, Mrs. Tamhane?"

Sarla's eyes filled. "After I started getting better."

"I don't understand," I said gently. "You were sick first?"

"Guillain-Barré syndrome." She touched her knee, almost unconsciously. "Started about four months ago. My legs went numb, then weak. By the time they diagnosed it, I couldn't walk. Couldn't breathe properly without help."

"How long were you hospitalized?" Desai asked.

"Three months. Malhotra General, neurology ward." Sarla's voice steadied. "Milind was coming every single day. Every day, Inspector. Even when he was working doubles, he'd come straight from the factory still in his work clothes. He'd sit with me, read to me when I was too tired to talk, help the nurses when they'd let him."

In my notebook, I wrote: Hospital visitor. Pattern matches victim #7.

"He was so relieved when I started recovering," Sarla continued. Her voice cracked. "The doctors said I was responding well to treatment. They started talking about discharge, about physical therapy, about me coming home. Milind was happy for the first time in months. And then..."

She had to stop. Her hands gripped the armrests.

Desai reached across and touched Sarla's arm. "Take your time."

Sarla nodded, swallowed. "Then he started showing symptoms. Fatigue at first. He said it was just stress, just all the hours at work and the hospital. But then the headaches came. The weakness. The doctors thought maybe he'd caught something visiting me. Some hospital-acquired infection."

"They admitted him?" I asked.

"Just a few days after I was discharged." Her voice dropped to almost a whisper. "The roles reversed. Suddenly I was the one visiting. Sitting beside his bed. Praying." She looked up at us, eyes red. "I finally get better and then I lose him. What kind of sense does that make?"

None. It made no sense at all.