In dreams, I exist without proof,
without explaining my worth.
There, I am content
As it is just me, mom and nature thatz all.
The knock came again.
Soft. Polite.
The kind that asked permission but didn’t really wait for it.
“Munna?” the voice repeated.
It was Narayan Rao.
Munna’s knees turned into soft dosa batter.
“I am… not available,” he whispered.
Meera grabbed his arm. “Shhh!”
Ravi signaled everyone to stay still.
The radio outside turned on again.
Low volume.
Background noise.
Cover.
Narayan Rao chuckled softly.
“I just wanted to talk,” he said through the door.
“You children are very… active these days.”
Karthik felt a chill.
Too casual. Too timed.
Ravi took a breath and opened the door halfway.
“Good evening, uncle.”
Narayan Rao smiled, eyes moving quickly inside the room.
“Just checking on Munna,” he said.
“Police were asking about him. I thought he might be scared.”
Munna, unable to control himself, blurted,
“I am not scared. Only slightly dead from inside.”
Narayan Rao laughed.
A little too loudly.
Narayan Rao’s gaze fell on the table.
On the cassette player.
Without thinking, he said,
“So… did you listen to the whole recording?”
Silence.
Complete.
Dead.
Meera’s eyes narrowed.
“Whole recording?” she asked sweetly.
“We never told you what was recorded.”
Narayan Rao’s smile froze—just for a fraction of a second.
Long enough.
Karthik noticed his fingers tighten around the doorframe.
Narayan Rao cleared his throat.
“People talk,” he said quickly. “Society is small.”
Ravi nodded slowly.
“Yes, uncle. Very small.”
As Narayan Rao turned to leave, Munna suddenly pointed.
“What is that in your bag?”
Everyone looked.
A thin notebook peeked out—edges worn, corners bent.
Narayan Rao clutched the bag.
“Just… accounts.”
Anjali stepped forward.
“Like the maintenance register?”
For the first time, Narayan Rao’s voice sharpened.
“That is society property.”
“And what about personal notes?” Karthik asked quietly.
Narayan Rao’s eyes flashed.
He turned and walked away—fast.
Too fast for a man who was “just checking.”
They didn’t speak for a full minute after he left.
Then Munna said softly,
“I think he knows we know.”
“And I think,” Meera replied,
“we don’t have much time.”
Ravi straightened.
“We need that diary.”
“How?” Anjali asked.
Munna raised his hand again.
“I have an idea,” he said.
“Which is brave. And dangerous.”
Everyone groaned.
“Tomorrow is Sunday,” Munna said.
“Ramayan time. Entire society will be in front of TV.”
Narayan Rao too.
“I will pretend to fix his antenna,” Munna continued.
“I am known for such nonsense. Nobody will question.”
Karthik hesitated.
“And the diary?”
Munna grinned.
“I already know where he hides things.”
“How?” Meera asked.
Munna shrugged.
“He once asked me to help clean his store room.”
Everyone stared.
“You didn’t tell us this earlier?” Ravi said.
“No one asked,” Munna replied innocently.
That night, as Ravi locked the door, he noticed something on the floor.
A loose page.
Torn from a notebook.
He picked it up.
Written in neat handwriting:
“Monday – Krishnamurthy asked too many questions.
Must silence him before others listen.”
Ravi’s blood ran cold.
This wasn’t suspicion anymore.
This was a confession.
The radio across the lane crackled.
“Yeh shaam mastani…”
The song floated through the night, cheerful, careless—completely wrong for the fear curling inside Ravi’s house.
Meera slowly pulled the curtain aside.
The radio was coming from Narayan Rao’s veranda.
And it was playing exactly the same Monday evening program that Mr. Krishnamurthy used to listen to.
“Coincidence?” Anjali whispered.
“In 1994,” Ravi replied grimly, “there is no such thing.”
They checked again.
The cupboard lock was still intact—but the door had been slid open from the inside.
Karthik crouched near the window.
“Mud,” he said. “Fresh. Someone entered through here.”
Munna looked offended.
“That is impossible. Only I know how to enter through that window.”
Everyone turned.
“You… know how?” Meera asked slowly.
Munna shrugged.
“I once lost the key and didn’t want to wake my mother.”
Ravi closed his eyes.
Just then, a torch beam flashed across the room.
“Open the door.”
Police.
Inspector Shankar Rao stood outside, eyebrows already raised.
“Interesting,” he said, stepping in. “Window open. People nervous.”
Then his eyes fell on Munna’s muddy slippers.
“Mud,” the inspector said. “Same type as outside.”
Munna panicked.
“This mud is very common mud, sir,” he blurted.
“Government-supplied mud.”
Meera facepalmed.
The inspector folded his arms.
“You were last seen near House No. 24 multiple times.
You admit you enter houses through windows.
And now, important evidence goes missing.”
Munna’s voice cracked.
“I am innocent,” he said.
“Also very afraid.”
The inspector softened slightly—but only slightly.
“Until further notice,” he said, “don’t leave the society.”
Munna looked at the others.
“If I get arrested,” he whispered,
“please water my plants.”
Later that night, they sat quietly.
“We have to find proof,” Ravi said.
“Before Munna becomes headline news.”
“But Narayan Rao is careful,” Anjali said.
“He controls records. He knows police timing.”
Karthik suddenly remembered something.
“Monday,” he said. “That word on the cassette.”
Meera snapped her fingers.
“Maintenance collection!”
Every Monday evening, Narayan Rao went house to house collecting money—entering houses, noting details, learning routines.
“And Krishnamurthy uncle,” Ravi added slowly,
“had once refused to pay extra charges.”
The room went silent.
Munna blinked.
“So this is about… money?”
“No,” Karthik said.
“It’s about control.”
They made a decision.
They would trap Narayan Rao.
How?
By using the one thing he couldn’t resist—
Society records.
Anjali smiled nervously.
“If we alter a fake entry… he will come.”
Munna raised his hand.
“I can act as bait,” he said proudly.
Everyone shouted at once.
“No!”
But Munna continued,
“He already suspects me. What more can happen?”
Outside, the radio switched off.
Footsteps echoed in the corridor.
Slow.
Measured.
Someone stopped near Ravi’s door.
A soft voice called out.
“Munna?”
Everyone froze.
ಕಾಣದ ಕಡಲಿಗೆ ಹಂಬಲಿಸಿದೆ ಮನ, ಮನ…
ಕಾಣದ ಕಡಲಿಗೆ ಹಂಬಲಿಸಿದೆ ಮನ
ಕಾಣದ ಕಡಲಿಗೆ ಹಂಬಲಿಸಿದೆ ಮನ
ಕಾಣಬಲ್ಲೆನೆ ಒಂದು ದಿನ
ಕಡಲನು ಕೂಡಬಲ್ಲೆನೆ ಒಂದು ದಿನ
ಕಾಣಬಲ್ಲೆನೆ ಒಂದು ದಿನ
ಕಡಲನು ಕೂಡಬಲ್ಲೆನೆ ಒಂದು ದಿನ
ಕಾಣದ ಕಡಲಿಗೆ ಹಂಬಲಿಸಿದೆ ಮನ ||
ಕಾಣದ ಕಡಲಿನ ಮೊರೆತದ ಜೋಗುಳ
ಒಳಗಿವಿಗಿಂದು ಕೇಳುತಿದೆ
ಕಾಣದ ಕಡಲಿನ ಮೊರೆತದ ಜೋಗುಳ
ಒಳಗಿವಿಗಿಂದು ಕೇಳುತಿದೆ
ನನ್ನ ಕಲ್ಪನೆಯು ತನ್ನ ಕಡಲನೆ
ಚಿತ್ರಿಸಿ ಚಿಂತಿಸಿ ಸುಯ್ಯುತಿದೆ
ಎಲ್ಲಿರುವುದೋ ಅದು ಎಂತಿರುವುದೋ ಅದು
ನೋಡಬಲ್ಲೆನೆ ಒಂದು ದಿನ
ಕಡಲನು ಕೂಡಬಲ್ಲೆನೆ ಒಂದು ದಿನ ॥೧॥
ಕಾಣದ ಕಡಲಿಗೆ ಹಂಬಲಿಸಿದೆ ಮನ.
ಸಾವಿರ ಹೊಳೆಗಳು ತುಂಬಿ ಹರಿದರೂ
ಒಂದೇ ಸಮನಾಗಿಹುದಂತೆ
ಸಾವಿರ ಹೊಳೆಗಳು ತುಂಬಿ ಹರಿದರೂ
ಒಂದೇ ಸಮನಾಗಿಹುದಂತೆ
ಸುನೀಲ ವಿಸ್ತರ ತರಂಗ ಶೋಭಿತ
ಗಂಭೀರಾಂಬುಧಿ ತಾನಂತೆ
ಮುನ್ನೀರಂತೆ, ಅಪಾರವಂತೆ,
ಕಾಣಬಲ್ಲೆನೆ ಒಂದು ದಿನ
ಅದರೊಳು ಕರಗಲಾರೆನೆ ಒಂದು ದಿನ ॥೨॥
ಕಾಣದ ಕಡಲಿಗೆ ಹಂಬಲಿಸಿದೆ ಮನ.
ಜಟಿಲ ಕಾನನದ ಕುಟಿಲ ಪಥಗಳಲಿ
ಹರಿವ ತೊರೆಯು ನಾನು
ಎಂದಿಗಾದರು, ಎಂದಿಗಾದರು, ಎಂದಿಗಾದರೂ
ಕಾಣದ ಕಡಲನು ಸೇರಬಲ್ಲೆನೇನು
ಜಟಿಲ ಕಾನನದ ಕುಟಿಲ ಪಥಗಳಲಿ
ಹರಿವ ತೊರೆಯು ನಾನು
ಎಂದಿಗಾದರು ಕಾಣದ ಕಡಲನು ಸೇರಬಲ್ಲೆನೇನು
ಸೇರಬಹುದೇ ನಾನು, ಕಡಲ ನೀಲಿಯೊಳು ಕರಗಬಹುದೆ ನಾನು
ಕರಗಬಹುದೆ ನಾನು, ಕರಗಬಹುದೆ ನಾನು ॥೩॥
Karthik’s heart did a small, unnecessary sprint.
The neighbour—Mr. Narayan Rao—stood there with a polite smile, the kind that never quite reached his eyes. He was the sort of man who always greeted everyone, always asked about marks and salaries, and somehow knew things before they happened.
“Just… evening walk,” Karthik said quickly.
Narayan Rao nodded.
“Good habit. Fresh air helps clear the mind.”
His eyes flicked—just for a second—toward House No. 24.
Too long a glance.
Karthik walked away, every step measured, the cassette tape burning like a secret in his pocket.
That night, the gang met again. No TV. No snacks. Just tension.
Karthik placed the cassette on the table.
“I found this near Krishnamurthy uncle’s window.”
Munna gasped.
“Is it a horror story?”
“It’s labelled,” Meera read aloud, squinting,
“‘Monday – 7:30 PM’”
“In the 90s,” Anjali said slowly, “people recorded things only if they were important.”
Munna brightened.
“My cousin records songs from radio. Very important.”
“Not that kind of important,” Ravi said.
They stared at the cassette player.
Then at each other.
“No,” Munna said immediately. “I’m not pressing play.”
The tape whirred.
First came static.
Then the familiar click of a recorder being adjusted.
A voice filled the room.
It was Mr. Krishnamurthy.
“If anyone is listening to this… something is wrong.”
Silence.
The gang leaned forward.
“I have noticed someone watching my house every night after 9.
I don’t know why.
I don’t feel safe anymore.”
Anjali covered her mouth.
“If anything happens to me, please check… the society records.”
The tape ended abruptly with a loud click.
No dramatic music. No explanation.
Just silence.
Munna whispered,
“He should have continued the recording.”
“What society records?” Meera asked.
Ravi’s face changed.
“The maintenance register,” he said.
“Visitor entries. Complaint notes.”
“And guess who manages that?” Anjali asked quietly.
Everyone knew the answer.
Mr. Narayan Rao.
Munna suddenly stood up.
“I knew it,” he said.
“I never trusted people who wear slippers with socks.”
The next day, the gang observed.
Narayan Rao spoke kindly to the police.
Brought tea.
Smiled politely.
Too politely.
Karthik noticed something else.
Narayan Rao’s radio was always on—loud—especially after 9 PM.
“Maybe,” Karthik whispered, “he uses the radio to cover sounds.”
Munna nodded seriously.
“Yes. Like my mother uses pressure cooker whistle to shout at my father.”
Despite the fear, laughter escaped again.
But danger was close.
That evening, Ravi went to hide the cassette inside his cupboard.
It was gone.
The cupboard door was open.
The cassette player had been moved.
Someone had been inside the house.
Meera’s voice shook.
“Only one person knows about the tape.”
Outside, a radio began playing an old song.
Too loud.
Too close.
Munna whispered,
“Why do I feel like the murderer knows our timetable?”
The song on the radio changed.
To Monday’s program.
No one slept that night.
In the 1990s, news didn’t spread through WhatsApp.
It spread through windows, whispers, and walking back and forth in nightgowns.
By 10:30 PM, the entire Shantivana Layout stood outside House No. 24. Someone had switched off the TV inside. The blue glow that usually leaked through the curtains was missing. That absence itself felt frightening.
Mr. Krishnamurthy lay still, eyes half open, spectacles broken beside him.
“Maybe he slipped,” an uncle suggested, hopeful.
“Slipped on what? Air?” Meera snapped.
Munna stood near the gate, trying to look brave but failing terribly.
“I told him last week,” Munna whispered, “not to use that chair. Very dangerous chair.”
Everyone turned to him.
“You went inside his house?” Ravi asked sharply.
Munna swallowed. “Only once. To return his The Hindu newspaper. I accidentally read half of it also.”
Suspicion hung in the air like humidity before rain.
The police jeep arrived with a sound that felt too loud for the silence.
Inspector Shankar Rao stepped out—thick moustache, tired eyes, and the confidence of a man who had seen too much human foolishness.
He scanned the crowd.
“Alright. One by one. Nobody leaves.”
That sentence alone made the aunties gasp.
Statements began.
“Nice man.”
“Very quiet.”
“Never fought.”
“Paid maintenance on time.”
Inspector Rao scribbled and frowned.
“People who are very quiet,” he muttered, “usually have very noisy secrets.”
Karthik noticed something odd.
The TV in House No. 24 was unplugged.
“In 1994,” Karthik whispered to Ravi, “who unplugs a TV at night?”
Ravi nodded slowly. A thought formed—but he pushed it away.
Inspector Rao turned to Munna.
“You. What were you doing at 8:30 PM?”
Munna straightened proudly.
“I was teaching mathematics to children.”
The inspector raised an eyebrow.
“Teaching?”
“Yes, sir. Division.”
“Did you divide anyone’s head?” Meera muttered.
Munna ignored her.
“I even wrote on the blackboard. Ask anyone.”
The children nodded enthusiastically. Munna looked relieved—until the inspector asked:
“And after that?”
Munna froze.
“After that… I went home… and ate dosa.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“Anyone saw you?”
Munna’s confidence deflated like a punctured cycle tube.
“I waved at Mrs. Gowramma while chewing,” he said weakly.
Mrs. Gowramma squinted.
“I thought he was choking.”
The inspector sighed.
By morning, Shantivana Layout felt different.
Doors stayed closed. Smiles disappeared. Kids weren’t allowed outside.
The TV volume in every house was lower than usual, as if laughter itself had become risky.
The gang met near House No. 17—but this time, no one turned the TV on.
“We should stop the evening classes,” Anjali said softly.
“No,” Ravi replied. “If we stop now, fear wins.”
“But what if the murderer is one of us?” she asked.
That question sat heavily between them.
Munna broke the silence.
“If the murderer is one of us,” he said thoughtfully,
“then at least we already know his weaknesses.”
Everyone stared.
“For example,” Munna continued, “if it’s me, I can’t run fast.”
Despite themselves, they laughed. Just a little.
Later that evening, Karthik went back near House No. 24.
He wasn’t sure why. Something pulled him there.
Near the window, under the sill, he saw it—
A broken cassette tape.
The label was half torn, but one word was still readable:
“Monday…”
Footsteps approached.
Karthik quickly pocketed the cassette.
From behind him, a voice said calmly,
“Looking for something?”
Karthik turned around.
It was Mr. Krishnamurthy’s neighbour.
And he was smiling.
