Bombay, 1982 – City of Dreams, and Secrets
The scent of talcum powder, pomade, and paan drifted through the humid air of Chowpatty as the city’s upper crust rolled up in Ambassadors and Fiats. Inside the city’s first air-conditioned salon, Kishan, the golden-handed barber, adjusted his cufflinks. Fresh from Dubai and adorned with a golden Rolex—a tip from an Arab businessman—Kishan was the toast of South Bombay.
He had worked for six years in a luxury salon in Dubai, mastering the styles of royalty and the affluent. He returned not just with wealth, but with a vision—to bring Middle Eastern luxury to Bombay’s bustling elite.
Back in Azamgarh, his marriage had been arranged with Reshma, a graceful, educated woman who complemented his calm, professional demeanor. Together, they shifted to Bombay and began their new life. Success followed like a loyal shadow. In just a year, Kishan’s AC salon became the talk of town.
But every shadow lengthens. Especially in twilight.
The Reunion
Every evening, after snipping away worries and styling dreams, Kishan would unwind with his childhood friend Raghu, a cloth trader who sold fabric door to door in the lanes of Dadar and Kalbadevi. Raghu lived alone in a rented kholi. Orphaned and unmarried, his world was compact—his ledger, his cloth bundle, and a radio.
Despite the difference in lifestyle, their bond had not thinned. Kishan admired Raghu’s street sense, and Raghu envied Kishan’s fortune.
One night over chai, Kishan proposed an idea. “Why don’t we join hands? You understand fabric. I have contacts in Dubai who’re craving Indian cotton and silk. You handle procurement; I’ll handle exports.”
Raghu’s eyes lit up. His mind, however, lit up darker corners.
Threads of Trust
Within weeks, the newly formed duo began sourcing fabric from Surat. Kishan arranged the capital—starting modestly with ₹50,000. Their first export fetched double the profit. Their second, triple.
Raghu tasted a world he had only imagined. Factory visits. Countless calls. Urdu-speaking middlemen in Dubai. Dinner with Kishan’s affluent clients.
Soon came a giant order—₹500,000 worth of fabric.
Kishan, cautious but confident, said, “I’ll accompany you to Surat with the money. Let’s finish the deal personally.”
Raghu nodded. But his mind was calculating something else. ₹500,000. More than he’d earn in decades. A shortcut to freedom.
A plan began to stitch itself in his mind.
Surat – The Final Night
They reached Surat in the afternoon and checked into a local hotel. Raghu watched as Kishan carefully locked his briefcase with the cash, placing it beside his bed. The evening passed with factory visits and a simple dinner.
Back in the hotel room, Kishan dozed off early, worn from the travel. But Raghu lay wide-eyed in the dim light, heart pounding like a trapped bird.
At 3:13 a.m., he made his move.
A pillow over Kishan’s face. A struggle. A muffled cry. Then—stillness.
By sunrise, Raghu was gone—along with the money, Kishan’s Rolex, and a suitcase of samples.
The Second Con
Back in Bombay the next day, Raghu reached Kishan’s house. Reshma, in a yellow cotton saree, opened the door with a smile.
“Kishan said we got another big order,” he lied smoothly. “But his back gave out. He asked me to collect ₹300,000 from you.”
Reshma hesitated.
“He told you yesterday?” she asked.
“Yes. He even booked a trunk call to Dubai last evening for some supplier confirmation.”
That was true. Kishan had indeed made the call. Raghu hadn’t expected her to verify anything. She nodded slowly. “I’ll try to arrange it. Come tomorrow morning.”
“Perfect,” he said.
The Body Speaks
Back in Surat, the hotel manager discovered the body.
Panic ensued. The local police arrived. No ID card. Just a name in the register: Kishan Yadav, Bombay. One of the staff mentioned the guest had made a trunk call to Dubai the previous night. It was the only solid lead.
The inspector dialed the number. A man in Dubai answered. “Yes, Kishan was my friend. He moved back to Bombay a year ago. He owns a salon near Chowpatty.”
That clue unraveled the silence of the corpse.
The Setup
Bombay Police arrived in plain clothes at Reshma’s house. After a short conversation, she narrated Raghu’s visit and the request for money. The officers exchanged glances.
“Madam, please be strong. Kishan is no more,” one of them said.
Reshma collapsed.
Once composed, she agreed to help trap the killer.
Next morning, Raghu arrived, dressed better than usual. Smiling.
As he stepped inside to collect the money, plainclothes officers closed in behind him.
Raghu froze, turning pale.
The pillow was gone, but the crime suffocated him.
In the Court of Greed
The trial lasted six months. The prosecution presented iron-clad evidence—Kishan’s call logs, Raghu’s sudden affluence, the missing items, and most damningly, his lies.
The judge, unmoved by Raghu’s plea, announced, “For the murder of Kishan Yadav and theft of ₹500,000, the court sentences Raghu Mishra to life imprisonment with rigorous punishment.”
The courtroom remained silent, except for Reshma’s quiet sobbing.
A City Remembers
The salon at Chowpatty changed owners. But old clients still remembered Kishan.
“He gave Bombay luxury before anyone else did,” one said.
Reshma returned to Azamgarh. She never remarried.
The cloth business died with the partnership.
But the story of betrayal lived in whispers—in chai stalls, barber shops, and textile godowns across the country.
Moral of the Story:
Greed may offer a shortcut, but it always ends in a dead end. True success comes from trust, not treachery.
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