The Case of the Untouched Coffee - CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 1       

                            At exactly 6:12 a.m., Asha Krishnamurthy opened the lid of the pressure cooker and leaned in not curiously, but with the quiet seriousness of someone who understood that small details mattered. The steam rose in a soft cloud, carrying with it the smell of toor dal, tamarind, and roasted spices. She dipped the ladle in, stirred once, and paused. Too thin. She added a spoon of mashed dal, stirred again, and nodded to herself. Perfect !!

Life – she learnt rarely reached perfection before someone interrupted it.  

Right on cue— “Asha!” came Raghavan’s voice from the hall. “My Coffee?” 

She poured it into a stainless-steel tumbler, lifted it high, and let it stream into the davarah (saucer), frothing into a rich, brown foam. The Smell alone could have fixed most problems in the world, if the world had better priorities.

Raghavan took a sip and frowned immediately. “A little strong today.”

Asha blinked slowly. Not angry. Not surprised. Just… assessing. 

Behind him, Karthik shuffled with his hair resembling a failed science experiment.

“Amma what’s for breakfast?”

“Idli,” Asha replied.

He sighed as though she had personally ruined his future. “Again?”

From the corner, Keerthi half-present, half-absorbed into her phone murmured, “It’s fine, Mom.”

Asha served them all without comment. But inside her mind, something clicked into place. People always noticed what displeased them. Rarely what didn’t.

                 By 9:30 a.m., Asha had completed what her family considered “nothing much”—which included cooking, cleaning, organizing, packing lunches, reminding Karthik about assignments, and locating three missing items no one had tried to find properly. She had just settled with her second cup of coffee when the gate creaked open.  

That sound meant only one thing. Sundari.

“Asha!” she called, already halfway inside. “Did you hear?” Asha placed her tumbler down carefully. “Hear what?”

“Varadarajan—dead!”

There are people who deliver news and there are people who perform it. Sundari belonged firmly in the second category. Asha’s face remained neutral. “Oh.”

“Police have come,” Sundari added, lowering her voice unnecessarily. “Something is not right.”

Now that was interesting.

Asha stood up, adjusted her saree pallu, and reached for a steel container.

“Murukku?” Sundari asked. “For them,” Asha said simply.

Because in any crisis death, wedding or argument, someone had to bring snacks.

Varadarajan’s house stood like its owner had lived structured and slightly intimidating. Even in death, he seemed to be maintaining discipline. Asha entered quietly, blending into the background with the ease of someone who had spent years being overlooked. The air felt wrong. She scanned the room. The cushions were aligned perfectly. The curtains were drawn just enough to let in light.  The newspaper folded in exact halves. Nothing was out of place. Which, to Asha, meant something was very out of place. And then she saw it. A stainless steel tumbler sat on the table. Coffee….. Untouched. Asha’s fingers tightened slightly around the container she was holding. In Coimbatore, people forgot birthdays but never hot filter coffee. 

Back home, Asha resumed cutting vegetables, but her mind stayed in that room. Untouched coffee. It wasn’t just unusual but unnatural too. She began reconstructing the morning. Varadarajan wakes up. He makes coffee. He sits down and then… doesn’t drink it?  Impossible. Unless, Someone else made it.

“Amma! Charger!” Karthik shouted again from the bedroom. “Behind the TV,” she replied instantly.

She continued chopping. People missed things not because they were hidden, but they don’t bother looking.

              By afternoon, details began trickling in. “There was shouting,” Sundari reported, now fully invested in the role of investigative journalist. His nephew came yesterday. Money issue.” Asha stirred her coffee slowly. More than money it was about control. And Varadarajan; if reputation was to be believed he liked to be the one in control.

“Did anyone see them this morning?” Asha asked. “No… but the nephew left early.” Of course he did. People always left early when they didn’t want to answer questions.

 Inspector Ravi stood outside the house, mentally preparing himself for paperwork, statements, and relatives who would suddenly remember important details three days later. Then Asha approached. “Coffee?” she offered. He hesitated, then accepted. Good coffee softened people. It also made them talk. “Did he drink it?” she asked. “Who?” “Varadarajan. His coffee.” The inspector frowned. “No.” Asha nodded once. “That’s the problem.” The inspector looked at her more carefully now. “Why?”

Asha met his gaze calmly. “A man like him wouldn’t leave coffee untouched. Unless…..”

“Unless?”

“Unless something about it was wrong.”

The inspector’s expression shifted. For the first time that day, the case felt… alive.