Fiction: Madhu is brutally murdered in his home on a regular evening, shattering the peace of a city

The television played a slow-motion shot of a fielder sprinting to catch the ball. As he ran across the pitch, his hands cupped, the telecast cut to his wife sitting in the stands, her face taut in anticipation, her fists balled tightly. It cut back to the player who caught the ball and fell down, rolling to safety. A split second later, he stood up, holding the ball over his head, waving his arm in triumph.

Madhu slapped his knee and yelled, “YES!”

In his excitement, he ended up spilling some of his drink. The floor would be sticky tomorrow. He knew she would hate to clean it up.

He hadn’t noticed her yet. She had been careful to keep her movements quiet. She stood there, holding a knife that she’d brought from the kitchen.

He poured more rum into his glass and then reached for the water bottle lying on the floor next to him. He topped it off with water, his hands shaking slightly as he did it. He was too drunk to defend himself properly. The pills she had mixed into his biryani had started working. She could do this. She could. And just as he was about to place the bottle back down, she...

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