The Murder at 100 Feet Road - PART 1
Asha had always believed there were three kinds of people in Bangalore. People who complained about traffic. People who caused traffic. And people who claimed they didn't mind traffic, which was simply another way of saying they were liars. She belonged firmly to the first category. On a particularly damp Tuesday evening, she was sitting in an Uber that had moved exactly 300 metres in twenty-seven minutes when her phone buzzed. MAYA: Are you still coming? Asha looked at the road ahead. A BMTC bus, two autos; a delivery bike, a water tank lorry, a cow jaywalking and a man inexplicably carrying a sofa. ASHA: I'm practically there. It was a lie, but Bangalore had taught her that distance was a philosophical concept. Maya was throwing a small dinner at her apartment in Indiranagar. Small, in Maya's vocabulary, meant twelve people, three bottles of wine, an artisanal sourdough nobody touched, and one person who would inevitably announce that they were ...