by Pallavi Tripathi, Durg

Mumbai never rests, they say, and Shruti Thapar realized it was valid. As a columnist, she blossomed with the city’s interminable energy. The neighborhood trains were her help, winding through the city’s veins. She had expounded on them on many times — their disorder, their appeal. However, she had never envisioned that the trains would maneuver her into the core of a secret she could always remember.

It started on a damp Monday morning as Shruti boarded the 8:14 Churchgate quick train. The compartment was pressed to no one’s surprise, a whirlwind of voices, the clack of steel, and the shriek of brakes. She fit into a corner close to the window, gripping her camera pack firmly.

Her task that day was to cover Dharavi, the rambling ghetto known for its differences — coarse endurance close by dynamic business. Be that as it may, her day veered off in a strange direction when she saw a man across the compartment. He was tall, with a scar running down his left cheek, his eyes shooting apprehensively. In his grasp was a folded piece of paper.

Shruti’s senses kicked in. Something didn’t add up about him. As the train moved toward Mahim Intersection, the man stood unexpectedly and pushed his direction to the entryway. He dropped the paper in the rush, and it shuddered to the floor close to Shruti. She delayed the slightest bit, then got it.

The note was hurriedly jotted: “Meet me at Dharavi bridge. 12 PM. Come alone.”

Shruti’s heart dashed. Who was he meeting? Why Dharavi, and why at 12 PM? Her columnist impulses encouraged her to explore. She chose to follow him, getting out at Mahim and following him at a protected distance.

The man strolled energetically, winding through thin paths until he arrived at Dharavi. The sun cast long shadows over the maze of shanties and studios. Shruti kept her camera prepared, catching the striking existence of the ghetto while keeping her eyes on him.

He halted close to a little calfskin studio, traded speedy words with somebody inside, and vanished into a rear entryway. Shruti wavered yet chosen not to follow him further. She noticed the area and got back to her task, her brain humming with interest.

That evening, Shruti couldn’t shake the picture of the man or the note’s secretive message. Contrary to what she would usually prefer, she chose to get back to Dharavi. Furnished with her camera, an electric lamp, and a pepper splash, she advanced toward the scaffold.

The ghetto was shockingly calm at 12 PM, the standard clamor supplanted by shadows and murmurs. Shruti arrived at the scaffold and paused, her nerves nervous. At 12:15, she heard strides. She dodged behind a point of support, her camera prepared.

(To be contd. …)