TREATISE ON SUCCESSFUL CRIMINAL INVESTIGATION

By Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Monsieur Hercule Poirot, and Father Brown
Jointly Authored in the Year of Our Lord 2025

 

Foreword

It is a rare occasion when three men—differing in temperament, method, and philosophy—unite in pursuit of a singular truth. In the service of justice and the protection of the innocent, we—Mr. Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street, Monsieur Hercule Poirot of Belgium, and Father Brown of Cobhole—herein offer our collective wisdom on the art and science of successful criminal investigation.

This treatise is intended not only for the aspiring detective but for any seeker of truth who seeks clarity amid confusion, and justice amid deceit. Though our methods diverge, our outcomes align. This is the synthesis of logic, psychology, moral intuition, and meticulous observation.

 

Chapter I: The Foundational Virtues of the Investigator

Sherlock Holmes:
The investigator must be, above all, dispassionate. Emotion is the enemy of deduction. In A Study in Scarlet, I made it clear: “It is a capital mistake to theorize before one has data.” A successful investigator keeps his mind blank until facts are assembled. In The Sign of Four, it was only through detached logic and tracking minute movements that the truth emerged beneath a mountain of red herrings, though the misplaced Agra treasure, was lost to posterity in the depths of the Thames.

Hercule Poirot:
But let us not forget, mes amis, the importance of order and method. My “little grey cells” thrive when the facts are marshalled with care and symmetry. In The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, it was not forensic data but inconsistencies in human behaviour that pointed me to the killer. So too in Five Little Pigs, when the memories of five witnesses, diverging ever so slightly, yielded a perfect picture through psychological deduction.

Father Brown:
And I submit, gentlemen, that no crime is understood until the soul of the criminal is understood. In The Hammer of God, I saw not only a bloodied corpse, but a man crushed by pride and hypocrisy. In The Secret of Father Brown, I explained that I get inside the murderer’s mind by imagining myself as the murderer. A true detective is a priest of hidden truths, uncovering not only what a man did—but why.

 

Chapter II: Observation and Inference

Holmes:
Observation is not merely seeing—it is seeing with intent. In The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle, I deduced a man’s occupation and domestic condition from a battered hat. In The Silver Blaze, I uncovered the thief not from what was present, but from what was absent: “the dog that did not bark.” Train your eye to see what others dismiss.

Poirot:
True, but it is often the absence that speaks most loudly. In The Mystery of the Missing Will, a missing piece of paper betrayed a motive far stronger than presence could suggest. In Death in the Clouds, a seemingly untraceable mid-air murder was solved by examining details so banal—a wasp, a blowpipe, a pair of pince-nez—that no one but Poirot could see their significance.

Father Brown:
I would caution both of you that what is seen can be deceptive. In The Invisible Man, the killer was obvious not because he was unseen, but because everyone assumed he was someone else. Likewise, in The Queer Feet, a series of footsteps and clattering trays led to a gentleman thief among the clergy’s guests. Sometimes the key is to look where decency tells you not to.

 

Chapter III: The Criminal Mind

Holmes:
Most criminals are unimaginative. Their errors lie in the illusion of cleverness. Moriarty aside, I have found that guilt leaks from their work like ink from a cracked pen. Observe the pattern of their crimes, and the mind will reveal itself. In The Final Problem, I pursued a mind equal to mine—but most crimes I have solved by mapping routine human folly.

Poirot:
I agree—though I believe every criminal believes themselves to be exceptional. In Evil Under the Sun, the killer performed a theatrical illusion. But emotion betrayed them. In Curtain, my last case, it was the manipulation of others that became the deadliest crime—one born from ego, not passion. Jealousy, fear, pride—these leave fingerprints far more distinct than dust.

Father Brown:
I differ slightly. I’ve found that even the worst criminals are ordinary men who commit extraordinary sins. In The Dagger with Wings, I faced a man posing as an avenging angel—yet underneath was a soul tormented by revenge and false righteousness. They are rarely monsters—they are men who lost their way. Understanding sin, temptation, and repentance has solved more crimes for me than any microscope.

 

Chapter IV: Methodologies in Action – Case Studies

Case I: The Adventure of the Speckled Band (Holmes)

A stepdaughter fears for her life in a locked room. The clue: a mysterious whistle and a bell-rope that leads nowhere.

Method Applied:
• Observation: The ventilator connects to the adjacent room, not outdoors.
• Deduction: The “speckled band” is not cloth, but a snake.
• Action: Lure and trap the serpent, revealing the stepfather’s deadly plan.

Lesson:
The truth lies in mechanical impossibility. When all logical impossibilities are eliminated, what remains—however improbable—is the truth.

Case II: Murder on the Orient Express (Poirot)

A man is stabbed to death in a locked train compartment, with multiple passengers seemingly unrelated.

Method Applied:
• Psychology: All suspects had motive—each a connection to the victim’s dark past.
• Deduction: They all conspired, a communal execution of justice.
• Resolution: Poirot offers two solutions: one official, one moral.

Lesson:
Sometimes the truth is collective. Justice may be a choir, not a solo.

 

 Case III: The Flying Stars (Father Brown)

A thief steals jewels during a Christmas pantomime. Suspicion falls upon the obvious suspect.

Method Applied:
• Moral insight: The criminal was a reformed man torn between his old life and new love.
• Intuition: The crime was staged to cover a return to crime.
• Resolution: Brown offers forgiveness rather than exposure.

Lesson:
The line between crime and redemption is narrow. Investigation is not merely discovery and/or conviction—it is mercy.

 

Chapter V: Pitfalls and Illusions

Holmes:
Beware of the sensational. The bizarre is often camouflage for the banal. In Silver Blaze, the clue lay not in what happened, but what didn’t—the dog that didn’t bark in the night. The absence of reaction was the signal that something deeply ordinary, yet profoundly telling, had occurred. Similarly, in The Adventure of the Copper Beeches, a seemingly theatrical mystery of locked rooms and veiled windows concealed a simple motive: the control of an heiress's fortune. The key is to not be misled by flourish or outlandish theories. Often, the ordinary fact—overlooked because of its simplicity—is the one that unlocks the whole case.

Poirot:
Routine, my friends, can be the most deceptive cloak. In The ABC Murders, it was a seemingly random pattern of killings that masked the killer’s true intention: to eliminate a specific target amidst the confusion. I also recall The Mystery of the Spanish Chest, where an elaborate staging around a dinner party disguised a brutal, personal crime. The murderer relied upon our expectation of logic and narrative—yet true deduction must always question whether the narrative is real, or constructed by the criminal to mislead. The mistake, toujours, is to assume that the story we are given is the story that occurred.

Father Brown:
The greatest danger lies in theories that please the ego. In The Chief Mourner of Marne, the entire village believed in a noble tragedy, yet the truth was much simpler and sadder—a story of pride and concealment. In The Wrong Shape, the presence of poetry and exotic intrigue misled many, but I saw the ordinary jealousy behind the act. The devil, as they say, is not in the drama but in the detail. It is humility—not cleverness—that is our best safeguard. Remember: Evil often enters through the ordinary door. A theory may be elegant, but if it ignores human nature, it is worthless. Evil is often plain and human, not dramatic or devilish. Humility is a safeguard against prideful misjudgement.

           

Chapter VI: The Future of Investigation (2025 and Beyond)

Holmes:
While I have always maintained that the trained human mind is the finest instrument of detection, I concede that we are now blessed—or burdened—with tools that extend the reach of observation. Today, artificial intelligence algorithms can sift petabytes of data in seconds, detecting behavioural patterns and anomalies previously beyond human scope. In collaboration with Interpol and Scotland Yard, AI has been used to pre-empt cyber fraud rings by mapping fraudulent behaviour through metadata analysis. Yet, human logic and observation remain the final arbiters of truth.

The recent application of forensic genealogy—a marvel of biological triangulation—has resolved cases that baffled generations. In a 2024 case from Sussex, the cold trail of a child abduction was reignited when a strand of hair led genealogists to an obscure cousin, cracking a case thirty years dormant. Such revelations demand precision, caution, and ethical restraint.

Poirot:
Indeed. Technology must be guided by understanding. Facial recognition may see a face, but not a motive. Let the machine collect, but let the detective interpret.

Digital forensics has opened an entire nouvelle scène of investigation: blockchain transactions, deleted metadata, even biometric logins can betray the criminal as surely as a forgotten glove once did. But we must tread with dignity. Let not the chase become an invasion. In law enforcement across Europe, ethics boards now accompany cyber units to ensure proportionality and justice.

In the modern era, I find the fields of Criminal Psychology and Behavioural Sciences have taken a leap forward—what once were my “little grey cells” have now been supplemented by entire research labs dedicated to profiling and pattern analysis. Cognitive-behavioural theories, for instance, allow us to trace how early trauma and environmental influences shape criminal inclinations. Advances in neuro-criminology even permit imaging of abnormal brain function associated with pathological behaviours. These tools enhance, but never replace, the intuition of a skilled detective.

Contemporary Behavioural Psychology also sheds light on the subtle cues I long observed in my interrogations—body language, micro-expressions, vocal tremors—now codified through machine learning algorithms and affective computing. For instance, emotional deception can be detected with up to 80% accuracy through AI-assisted voice analysis, though it still requires the human touch to discern guilt from fear, or grief from subterfuge.

One cannot ignore the rise of behavioural threat assessment systems, now implemented in public institutions to detect pre-incident indicators. Such systems analyse language, behaviour, and social signals to pre-empt acts of violence—a practical manifestation of the psychological profiling I pioneered in cases like The ABC Murders and Five Little Pigs.

And let us not forget forensic victimology, a developing branch that investigates the victim’s life and interactions to reconstruct motive and opportunity. In truth, mes amis, the victim often tells the story, though in silence.

Yet amid these tools, we must remember: even the most advanced predictive models are statistical. They do not replace the detective’s ability to engage directly with human nature. As I have said often, the motive lies not in data, but in the soul’s geometry—jealousy, fear, ambition, love, greed, lust.

Let the science support us, but never supplant our humanity.

Father Brown:
My dear friends, allow me to turn our attention to the human soul. The future of investigation cannot merely be machine-driven; it must also be morally anchored. A recent Vatican conference on moral theology and artificial intelligence warned of “ethical drift” in criminal investigations. For example, predictive policing algorithms have been shown to have inherit biases from their creators, disproportionately targeting marginalized communities.

As technology grows in power, so too must our conscience grow in clarity. Surveillance may grow omnipresent, but the detective must not become a mere watcher. He must remain a witness—one who sees the soul behind the crime. I recently assisted in a case of corporate suicide—a man driven to end his life under the weight of digital extortion. It was not code that saved his employees from ruin, but compassion.

Theologians today urge us to recognize the dignity of even the accused. As Aquinas once said, justice without mercy is cruelty. Investigators must be not only enforcers, but interpreters—mediators between guilt and redemption.

Joint Reflections:

In the investigation of tomorrow, we foresee a world in which machine learning algorithms offer predictive models, drones map crime scenes, DNA libraries provide ancestral clues, and encrypted communications become as crucial as locked-room mysteries. Criminal law will evolve to govern not only acts, but the algorithms that monitor and interpret them.

Yet, for all this sophistication, the core remains unchanged: the detective’s task is to see clearly, judge fairly, and act justly. The instrument may change, but the hand that wields it must remain steady—and guided by the trinity of our disciplines: logic, empathy, and truth.

 

Conclusion

Though we hail from different lands, wear different hats, and argue over cigar ash, moustaches, and theology—we are united in this:

Successful criminal investigation is not about catching criminals. It is about understanding people.

To detect is to see—to truly see—and to care enough to chase truth, even when it hides behind smiles, science, or sin.

In the service of that eternal truth, we sign this Treatise,

Sherlock Holmes
Hercule Poirot
Father Brown

London, July 2025

~

“The truth is not always where the facts point, but where the heart dares to look.”

An Afternoon @221B, Baker Street: A Story.~By Santanu Ghose

An Afternoon @221B, Baker Street: A Story.

~By Santanu Ghose

                       

The Pipe and the Coffee

The late afternoon sun, filtered through the London grime and the lace curtains of 221B Baker Street, cast long, dusty golden shafts across the familiar chaos of Holmes’ sitting room. Volumes on toxicology lay precariously atop Persian slippers, a violin rested against a stack of newspapers, and the air, thick with the scent of old leather and the lingering ghost of tobacco, was now subtly perfumed by hot tea and something distinctly… Continental.

Sherlock Holmes, a silhouette against the window, exhaled a thoughtful plume of smoke from his old briar pipe; the one he chose when in a contemplative or meditative mood. His hawk-like eyes, usually restless, held a glint of anticipation, a rare softness born of genuine camaraderie. Across from him, ensconced in the most comfortable armchair, M. Hercule Poirot meticulously blotted a minuscule crumb from the lapel of his immaculate suit, his eyes, sharp and intelligent, surveying the room with an air of amused tolerance. A delicate, steaming cup of well-sugared coffee sat beside a plate of perfectly buttered crumpets, from which Poirot occasionally took a precise, deliberate bite, savouring the sweetness.

"Ah, a most congenial atmosphere, Holmes," Poirot purred, sipping his strong coffee. "Even amidst the… organised disarray."

Holmes merely grunted, a flicker of a smile playing on his lips. "Order, Poirot, is a subjective state for the inquiring mind. Though I confess, your presence, and indeed, that of our esteemed Father Brown, lends a certain… geometrical precision to the afternoon." He gestured towards the small, unassuming figure beside Poirot.

Father Brown, his cherubic face serene, sat with his hands clasped over his ever-present umbrella. A modest glass of sherry, scarcely touched, stood beside a cup of Darjeeling tea, offered by their host, and a plate of plump strawberry scones. He took a rare, appreciative sip of his tea, a quiet joy radiating from him. "It is a singular honour, gentlemen, to be among such brilliant company. To collaborate on such a vital endeavour – a true privilege."

A tangible buzz of intellectual energy filled the room. These three titans of detection, each with his unique genius, were at the height of their powers, united by a common purpose: to distil their collective wisdom into the definitive guide for uncovering truth. The prospect of authoring such a Standard Operating Procedure on criminal investigation and crime detection filled them with an almost boyish enthusiasm. They felt a profound appreciation for each other's unique contributions, a rare and cherished sentiment among such formidable minds.

"Then let us begin, gentlemen," Holmes declared, setting down his pipe, the gesture signalling his full engagement. "Our task, as I understand it, is to codify the very essence of successful criminal investigation, leading to detection and, ultimately, conviction. A document, if you will, that transcends mere procedure and delves into the philosophy of truth-seeking. Where shall we commence?"

Poirot straightened, a gleam in his eye. "But naturally, mon ami, with the very bedrock of all inquiry: observation. Yet, it is not merely seeing, is it? It is the application of the little grey cells to what is seen."

Holmes nodded, reflective. "Indeed. The first, and arguably most crucial, step is the cultivation of an 'investigative mindset.' This is not a mere trick of the eye, but a profound shift in perception. One must approach every scene, every piece of information, with absolute neutrality. As I famously posited, 'When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.' This demands a relentless scepticism. Assume nothing. Believe nothing. Challenge and check everything."

He paused, relighting his pipe. "Consider the common man presented with a single brick. He sees only a brick. But to the trained eye, that brick, if properly examined, could reveal the architect, the quarry from which the clay was drawn, the very hands that shaped it, and perhaps even the motive for its placement. So, it is with crime. The world is full of obvious things which nobody by any chance ever observes. The faint scent of a specific pipe tobacco, the minute fleck of unique clay on a rug, the minuscule disturbance in an otherwise impeccably swept hearth – these are the trifles that scream volumes if one has trained his observation to hear them. They eliminate the 'impossible' and point towards a solution, however improbable it may initially seem."

"Ah, observation!" Poirot interjected, his eyes gleaming. "It is the raw material, n'est-ce pas? But raw material, without careful collection and organization, is but chaos. Every detail, however seemingly insignificant, holds potential. The wrinkle in a coat, the particular dust on a shoe, the subtle hesitation in a voice – these are the brushstrokes of human character and circumstance. Upon arrival at a scene, the paramount duty is to secure it. No detail must be disturbed, no footprint obliterated. A meticulous visual scan, from the periphery inwards, is essential. Note the overall atmosphere, the arrangement of objects, anything that feels out of place. And then, the detailed photography and sketching. Digital cameras are a gift, capturing minute details with astonishing clarity. Every angle, every potential clue, must be photographed. Accompanying sketches, with precise measurements and annotations, provide crucial spatial context. Remember, a picture paints a thousand words, but a precise drawing defines their grammar."

He took a bite of a crumpet, chewing thoughtfully. "And the humble notebook! Never underestimate the power of the written word. Every observation, every impression, every time stamp – meticulously recorded. It is the repository of your 'little grey cells'' initial impressions, which, while subject to later analysis, are invaluable."

"Indeed," Holmes agreed, exhaling a blue cloud. "The silent witnesses. Modern science has amplified their voices beyond anything I could have dreamt in my Baker Street rooms back in the day. DNA technology, forensic genealogy – from a single strand of hair, a drop of blood, the identity of an individual can be revealed. The advent of forensic genealogy, matching crime scene DNA to public databases, has cracked cases dormant for decades. Digital forensics, too, is paramount. The digital footprint of a criminal in this modern age is often more revealing than their physical one. Emails, social media interactions, GPS data, deleted files – all leave an indelible trace. Specialists in this field can resurrect conversations, map movements, and reconstruct entire narratives from the ethereal realm of cyberspace. Ballistics, tool mark analysis, trace evidence – these are the irrefutable facts."

Poirot nodded, taking a final sip of his coffee, putting down the dainty cup on its plate, he dabbed his well waxed moustaches with a fine cream silk handkerchief and put it back in the breast pocket of his peacock blue suit. "But even the most precise facts require interpretation, n'est-ce pas? This brings us to the human element. Ah, the human element! The most complex and often the most rewarding. People, they are like books, no? Some open, some closed, some filled with half-truths and deliberate omissions. The art lies in turning the pages, one by one, with care and precision, until the true narrative unfolds."

He leaned forward, his eyes twinkling. "The gentle art of conversation. Begin with empathy. Establish rapport. Allow the individual to speak freely, without interruption. Observe their body language, their vocal inflections, the subtle shifts in their gaze. Truth has a certain rhythm, falsehood a discordant note. And then, targeted questioning. Once the initial narrative is laid bare, begin to probe. Use open-ended questions to encourage elaboration. Employ the 'double-edged' question, a technique where a question can elicit a truthful or a deceptive response, depending on the individual's guilt or innocence."

"And the power of psychology," Poirot continued. "Understand motives. Fear, greed, jealousy, love, lust, ambition – these are the common springs of human action. Consider the suspect's personality, their background, their relationships. A crime is often an echo of a character flaw. I recall a sophisticated financial fraud case this past year. It was unravelled not solely by following the money, but by understanding the lead suspect's deeply ingrained narcissism. By appealing to his desire to appear intelligent and superior, he unwittingly revealed crucial details during a seemingly informal conversation, believing he was outsmarting his interrogators."

"And the absence of an expected element," Holmes added, "as in the case of the vanishing emeralds and the dog that did not bark. While the local inspector might focus on forced entry, your attention, Poirot, would be drawn to the dog. Its silence is not an absence of evidence, but evidence in itself. If a dog does not bark, it knows the intruder."

"Precisely, mon ami," Poirot beamed. "It is the why that often illuminates the how."

 

The Soul of the Matter

Holmes turned to Father Brown, a respectful silence falling over the room. "Our meticulous survey, M. Poirot, has covered the tangible and the inferential, the physical evidence and the logical conclusion. Yet, I feel there remains a dimension we have not fully explored. The labyrinth of the human heart, the subtle currents of sin and restitution and redemption, which often underpin the most perplexing crimes."

"Exactly, mon ami!" Poirot exclaimed, gesturing towards the priest. "It is why I have taken the liberty of inviting a most discerning colleague, one whose understanding of human foibles and virtues often penetrates to the very core of a mystery in ways that our more scientific or psychological approaches might miss. Pray, Father Brown, do share your most astute observations on what we have discussed."

Father Brown offered a gentle smile, adjusting his umbrella slightly. He took a small, almost imperceptible sip of his sherry, then set it down. "My dear Mr. Holmes, M. Poirot, you both possess truly formidable intellects, dissecting facts and motives with surgical precision. Your methods, I must admit, are marvels of observation and logic. But I have found, in my small way, that the most vital clues are sometimes not found in what is present, but in what is absent, and not so much in what a man does, but in what he thinks he can hide."

He paused, his gaze thoughtful. "Criminals, you see, often believe they are being clever, but the very act of evil, being a perversion of the natural order, tends to introduce a subtle illogic into their plans. They will overlook the simplest, most human detail because their minds are warped by their intent. I recall a case where a thief, meticulous in every other aspect of his breaking and entering, left a single, perfectly ordinary common prayer book open on a table, a detail completely out of place in the secular study he had ransacked. The police dismissed it as irrelevant. But it was too ordinary, too misplaced. It spoke not of carelessness, but of a deliberate, perhaps even subconscious, attempt to mislead, to make it seem as if the homeowner had simply forgotten it. A conscious attempt at throwing a red herring; a subconscious desire to be discovered and saved from the burden of one’s guilt. It was this subtle disruption of the natural order, rather than a blatant clue, that eventually led to his undoing."

"Then there is the weight of the conscience. Every man, no matter how depraved, carries a spark of the divine, or at least a shadow of what is right. This can manifest in strange ways. The most hardened criminal might leave a tiny, almost imperceptible clue – a half-forgotten token, a seemingly pointless action – that is born not of malice, but of a subconscious need to confess, to leave a breadcrumb for justice. It is the human element of guilt, even if unacknowledged."

He recounted, "In a seemingly cold-blooded poisoning, the perpetrator had meticulously cleaned every surface. Yet, she had compulsively re-arranged a small, framed photograph of the victim, placing it face-down. This was not a necessary act for the crime itself, but a profound, almost ritualistic gesture of turning away from the image of the person she had wronged. It was a clue to her internal struggle, rather than an external one, and provided the first hint of a deeply personal motive that had been obscured by the carefully constructed facade."

"And finally," Father Brown continued, "the power of the obvious lie. Often, the most complex criminal plots are undone by the most simple, transparent falsehoods. The criminal, so focused on the grand scheme, neglects to build a truly convincing basic narrative for their own actions or whereabouts. A man vehemently denied ever having visited a certain address, yet his shoes, while clean, showed the distinct red dust from a recent construction site directly opposite that address. He had lied about the simplest, most easily provable fact. His elaborate alibi for the murder then crumbled, for if he would lie about so small a thing, what else was he concealing?"

"In essence, gentlemen," Father Brown summarized, "while you seek the material evidence of a crime, I often look for the spiritual evidence of a sinner. The two are, more often, than not, intertwined. For every lock picked, there is a heart hardened; for every false alibi spun, there is a conscience wrestling. To truly understand the crime, one must attempt to understand the man who committed it, not merely as a collection of motives, but as a soul adrift."

 

 

 

Drafting the Standard Operating Procedure: The Unveiling of Truth

The three detectives then turned their attention to the practical drafting of their collaborative masterpiece. Holmes, ever the architect of logical frameworks, took up a pen. Poirot, with his meticulous eye for detail, adjusted the paper. Father Brown, in his quiet way, offered profound insights that shaped the very spirit of the document.

"Our Standard Operating Procedure," Holmes declared, "must be divided into clear, actionable sections. From the initial response to the final presentation of evidence."

"Precisely," Poirot affirmed. "It must be comprehensive, yet concise. A guide for both the seasoned investigator and the aspiring mind."

Father Brown nodded. "And it must never forget the human element, for that is where the true mystery often lies."

Together, they began to outline the SOP, their voices weaving a tapestry of logic, psychology, and spiritual insight –inasmuch as the aroma of pipe tobacco, coffee and Darjeeling wove their personalities.

 

As the final points were etched onto the page, a comfortable silence settled over the room, broken only by the crackle of the dying fire. Holmes leaned back, his pipe now cold, a rare expression of profound satisfaction on his face. Poirot, his crumpets long forgotten, sat with a quiet intensity, his gaze fixed on Father Brown.

"A most comprehensive document, gentlemen," Holmes finally said, his voice softer than usual. "A testament to the combined might of logic, psychology, and science."

"Indeed, mon ami," Poirot agreed, a sigh escaping him. "It is a framework, precise and orderly. But, Father Brown, your insights… they add a dimension that goes beyond the measurable. They touch upon the very soul of the matter."

Father Brown, who had been quietly observing them, now spoke, his voice gentle, yet resonating with a wisdom that seemed to fill every corner of the room.

"My esteemed colleagues have spoken eloquently of the intellect and the science required to uncover truth. But allow me a final, perhaps humbler, observation. For years, I have listened to the confessions of men and women, both great and small, and in that sacred trust, one learns much of the intricacies of the human heart, where all crime truly begins."

He continued, his eyes reflecting the flickering firelight. "The criminal, you see, often starts by committing a sin in his or her mind long before his or her hand reaches for the knife or their fingers tap at the keyboard. It is this internal corruption, this twisting of right reason, that sets them on their destructive path. We detectives, in our pursuit of facts and motives, are often merely tracing the outward ripples of this inner turmoil."

"Consider the nature of sin itself, for it is often the very simplification of complexities that leads to wickedness. The murderer, convinced that one life stands between him and happiness, reduces a fellow human being to a mere obstacle. The thief, blinded by avarice, sees property not as the fruit of honest labour, but merely as something to be taken. This narrowing of vision, this self-deception, is the true root of their undoing, and it often leaves a mark more profound than any fingerprint."

"My acquaintance with Hercule Flambeau, that remarkable, if wayward, genius of crime, taught me much about this. He was a man of immense talent, capable of orchestrating the most elaborate deceptions. Yet, his grandest schemes often contained a tiny, almost childish, flaw – a signature of his own unique character, a challenge, or even a subtle boast that, when truly observed, gave him away."

"For instance, in the affair of 'The Invisible Man,' Flambeau's disguise was so perfect, so utterly unremarkable, that it became the most remarkable thing about him. He relied on people not seeing what was right in front of them, on their assumption of normality. But the sheer completeness of his disappearance from the expected indicated a master criminal's hand. It was his pride in his own cleverness that, paradoxically, made him visible to one who looked beyond the obvious. It was the sin of pride, subtly manifest."

"Again, with 'The Sins of Prince Saradine,' Flambeau's intricate plot to steal precious jewels was undone not by a broken lock or a dropped glove, but by the psychological strain it placed on a man already wrestling with a profound sense of injustice. The act of theft, though meticulously planned, exposed the inner wounds and grievances of those involved, creating a subtle discord in the perfect orchestration. The crime, while outwardly about jewels, was truly about a deeper moral imbalance. Flambeau, in his brilliance, accounted for every physical detail but sometimes underestimated the moral weight that even a seemingly innocuous deception could carry. He often left a philosophical fingerprint, if you will, even when the physical ones were meticulously removed."

"And what of redemption? Ah, that is not our earthly task, yet it colours the landscape of detection. Sometimes, a criminal will, almost unconsciously, leave a clue not to escape, but to be caught. It is a desperate cry for an end to their torment, a subconscious desire for the burden of their secret to be lifted. Flambeau himself, in his later life, found his path away from crime, drawn by an almost magnetic pull towards the very truth he once sought to obscure. It was not mere capture that changed him, but the quiet confrontation with the inherent wrongness of his actions, a confrontation that perhaps began with the very pursuit of those who saw through his cleverness. He understood the inevitability of truth, not just as a logical outcome, but as a spiritual force."

"They may feign cunning," Father Brown concluded, his voice soft but firm, "but their soul yearns for the truth to be known. It is a paradox, this human capacity for both profound evil and a flicker of yearning for absolution."

"We must remember that every criminal is still a human being, capable of the same fears, the same loves, the same potential for good, however deeply buried. To understand the crime, we must attempt, however briefly and cautiously, to understand the sinner. Not to condone, but to comprehend. For it is in grasping the full tragedy of the fall that we truly appreciate the light of discovery and the restoration of order."

"So, when you analyse the fibres, consider the threads of a twisted life. When you decipher the digital code, ponder the misguided impulses behind it. And when you identify the culprit, remember that you have not just found a name, but a soul that has strayed. The detection of criminal activity is, in its deepest sense, a profound study of the human condition itself – its darkness, its hope, and its relentless pursuit of a truth that, in the end, cannot be gainsaid."

A profound silence followed. Holmes sat utterly still, his pipe forgotten in his hand, his gaze distant, as if contemplating the vast, intricate tapestry of human existence that Father Brown had just unveiled. Poirot, usually so animated, was equally motionless, his eyes wide with a deep, uncharacteristic reverence. The meticulous detective and the logical consulting detective were, for a rare moment, simply men, deeply moved by the quiet priest's words. The afternoon light softened further, painting the room in hues of twilight, but the intellectual and spiritual glow within remained undimmed, a silent promise of the profound and insightful document they would soon unveil to the world.

 

Next – Treatise

  

Dreams from the Mango Tree A Short Story by Santanu Ghose

 

Dreams from the Mango Tree

A Short Story by Santanu Ghose

 

While Aritra Dey and Riku Sato, like lost puppies, found a kennel—a home—in each other’s arms, somewhere far away, deep in the flat belly of India, another story was taking shape.

Fourteen-year-old Rishu—short for Rishav—dreamed Delhi dreams in his nameless village in eastern Uttar Pradesh. There was no city for over a hundred kilometres in any direction. Only green and gold paddy fields stretching endlessly under the sun, dotted with the odd neem or mango tree, and the buzz of crickets that never truly stopped.

Rishu was no ordinary village boy. He was a computer wizard. A hacker in the making. A self-taught coder who’d cracked Python scripts before he'd finished his half-yearly exams. And he had never seen Delhi.

He hung from the topmost branches of the mango tree behind his house, holding his cheap Android phone in one hand, clinging to the branches with the other. His copper-toned skin glistened under the filtered sunlight, his black shorts dusty, bare feet gripping the warm bark like claws.

This was the only spot in the village that caught a decent 3G signal.

“Daddy!” he shouted into his phone, breathless. “Yesterday you were driving through Chanakyapuri?”

His father’s voice crackled through. “Haan beta. Why do you keep asking about it? You've asked ten times! How do you even know? I haven’t told you yet where I was.”

“Because,” Rishu said, eyes dreamily scanning the open sky through the mango leaves, “it’s where the embassies are. Where people from all over the world live. I read on Google Maps. I followed your route on my tracker.”

His father, Rajendra, a personal chauffeur to an ultra-high net worth businessman, stepped away from the circle of suited chauffeurs and pantry staff on break, holding his phone to his ear. “Beta, why does it matter to you so much?”

“Because I want to go there. I want to see those flags. I want to see the people. Daddy, did you know the Japanese embassy has its name written in Japanese?”

Rajendra chuckled. “You and your computers. Hamesha kuch na kuch naya.”

Back in the mango tree, Rishu balanced himself with expert grace. This wasn’t just his network tower. It was his portal to the world. From up here, he had watched YouTube videos of TED Talks, learned HTML basics, downloaded pirated e-books on JavaScript, and watched walkthroughs of code competitions he couldn’t even pronounce.

But more than anything else, he wanted to escape. Not out of hatred for his village—but because his dreams were too big for the one-room mud hut he called home.

He spent nights coding on a scavenged second-hand laptop powered through solar panels his uncle had fixed. He learned to build bots. He created an auto-responder bot for his uncle’s kirana shop and added a voice assistant in Hinglish, which became a hit among customers.

At school, he was “mad Rishu.” The teachers ignored his questions, most of which they couldn’t answer anyway. “Computer toh hai par chalata kaun hai?” they’d mutter.

Rishu had always been different.

While the other boys in his village school scraped by with rote learning, Rishu asked questions. “Why does the moon look bigger near the horizon?” “How does a computer know what to do when you click?” “Why can’t we have a science fair in our school?”

His questions were met with either scowls or silence.

“Don’t ask nonsense,” the science teacher once barked. “Focus on your textbook. That’s all that matters for exams.”

The other children called him “Google Baba.” Some teased him for speaking strange English words he picked up from YouTube tutorials. The girls giggled when he once wrote a poem for one of them—Kajal—with metaphors about stars and galaxies. She returned it to him torn into pieces.

“You're weird,” she had said, and walked away.

That rejection stung more than he admitted. But what hurt more was feeling invisible. Misunderstood. In a school where the highlight of the week was a cricket match or a broken fan getting fixed, Rishu dreamt of satellites and string theory, of JavaScript libraries and the poetry of Rabindranath Tagore.

His teachers often ignored him. Not out of cruelty, but out of fatigue. They were overworked, underpaid, and barely able to teach from the book—let alone guide a boy who asked about encryption algorithms.

At night, under the dim glow of a solar lamp, he devoured pages of translated science fiction—Asimov, Satyajit Ray’s Professor Shonku, and Carl Sagan’s Cosmos. His mother would bring him warm milk and gently run her fingers through his hair as he read aloud to her from whatever had caught his mind that day.

“She never understands the science,” he would later say, “but she always listens.”

His Ma was his anchor. While the village scoffed at his habits and the teachers rolled their eyes, she never once told him to stop dreaming. She even sold a pair of her gold bangles once to repair the laptop he’d salvaged from a city junk dealer.

“Your brain is too big for this place,” she said once, folding his washed school uniform. “But remember, your heart must stay gentle.”

His father, loving but distant, worked twelve-hour shifts in Delhi. He sent money home every month, and missed every school play, every annual function. But Rishu forgave him. Because every day, like ritual, at exactly 7:15 p.m., his father would step away from his employer’s bungalow, sneak behind the servant quarters, and answer his son’s call.

“What building today, Papa?” Rishu would ask. No, don’t say, I know. I saw you drive. I have you on my tracker.

And Rajendra would describe the high-rises, the embassy gates, the roundabouts and rows of diplomatic flags like a storyteller feeding a hungry audience. “Today I drove past the German embassy. Big lion statue outside. Tomorrow, maybe Japan.”

These calls weren’t just conversations. They were oxygen.

Between patchy signals and long stretches of solitude, Rishu’s lifeline was the internet. He taught himself HTML, then Python. Then basic ethical hacking. He joined Discord servers filled with coders from Brazil, Poland, and South Korea. He wrote long Reddit posts under the handle @BanyanRootDreamer asking for advice on scholarships and competitions.

The world out there felt close. But still far.

“I’m going to leave this place one day,” he told his banyan tree once. “I’ll take Ma to a real apartment. And I’ll have internet that doesn’t depend on monsoon winds.”

He said it with fire. With faith.

Because no matter how far Chanakyapuri seemed, no matter how strange English sounded when spoken fluently, Rishu knew in his bones that he belonged to the world.

Not just the village that raised him.

But the universe that called to him from behind screens, behind poems, behind every phone call with Papa was always just a little too far away.

And until that day came, he kept climbing his mango tree.

Kept holding on with one hand, and dreaming with the other.

­­­­­Every time his dad sent him a voice note from Delhi, he would study it like a documentary. He’d ask questions about roads, zones, government buildings, diplomatic codes. He dreamed of getting into IIT Delhi—not just to study, but to arrive.

To be seen.

He imagined the day he’d step out of a cab wearing jeans, laptop slung across his back, into a glass building where people spoke in clean English and sipped bad coffee. He’d be the best coder in the room. Maybe someday he'd build the next version of Google Translate—but for heartache, for distance, for longing.

And yet, every day before dinner, he’d climb the mango tree and call his father.

Just to ask: “Kahan ho, Papa? What does it look like?”

And Rajendra, tired but smiling, always replied, “Beta, it's big. It’s clean. It’s full of foreigners. And one day, maybe, it’ll have you.”

Rishu smiled, dangling from his green perch in the sky.

And kept dreaming.

Rain in Manju Ka Tilla~ By Santanu Ghose

 

Rain in Manju Ka Tilla

~ By Santanu Ghose

The first time Riku Sato and Aritra Dey met, it was at a painfully formal corporate dinner in a central Delhi hotel ballroom that smelt faintly of old money and over-polished cutlery.

They were mid-tier executives in their respective firms celebrating the start of a new chapter in their firms’ corporate journey. Riku, 28, was from Tokyo but had spent the last three years in Bangalore. Aritra, 32, a Kolkata boy with the old-school charm of Durga Pujo pandals and yellow taxis, was now working in New Delhi.

They were assigned adjacent seats by some HR intern who probably didn’t know they were about to launch a friendship rooted in unspoken symmetry.

“Do you like Indian food?” Aritra asked with a polite grin as the first round of drinks came in, swirling his glass of Indri, an Indian single malt, touted to be a drink for the gods.  Riku was nursing his glass of Akashi 5-Year-Old sake cask.

“I do,” Riku replied, his English clear and careful, with a slight lilt of Japanese “But I like Bengali food more. Mustard fish, Ilish, to be precise. The smell reminds me of miso.”

That was the spark.

Two hours later, they were ignoring their bosses’ speeches and trading childhood memories instead. Riku told Aritra about his grandmother’s quiet Shinto rituals, the first time he learned to fold a paper crane properly, how his Otōsan, father —tall, strict, distant—taught him to tie a fishing knot before he taught him to shave. He had passed when he was 21. Riku had to drop a semester to sort out hospital bills and family papers.

Aritra shared how his Ma would wake him up on Saraswati Pujo mornings with the fragrance of sheuli phool (night queen), mild and dreamy hanging in the air, sandalwood paste and chalk powder on the floor. How he’d spent a decade in a strict boarding school in Darjeeling, where boys cried at night but never in public. His father, too, had died young—cardiac arrest they had told him –a third attack was fatal, just before Aritra could finish his law degree, a career path of his father’s choosing, a burden he did not want to carry.

Both had learned to cook out of necessity. One enjoyed, one didn’t. Both had filled that hollow space with long hours and longer commutes, slowly climbing the same kind of rickety ladder.

They exchanged numbers. Soon after WhatsApp texts and senseless forwards graduated to phone calls.

⸻

Two months later, to escape a Delhi deluge and weeklong fatigue they were sitting cross-legged on the floor cushions of a Korean restaurant at Majnu Ka Tilla, a vibrant New Delhi neighbourhood of exiled Tibetans. Rain drummed hard against the window panes. The smell of gochujang and grilled pork filled the warm, close air.

“Soju?” Aritra grinned, pouring them each a shot.

“Dangerous,” Riku smirked.

“That’s why it’s good.”

They toasted to rain, to Friday, to memories they’d already begun sharing more often than they meant to.

Riku’s cheeks were flushed, his collar slightly damp from the humidity. Aritra’s shirt clung to his back. The first bottle was empty. They lingered, because the rain refused to let up and because neither wanted the night to end.

They were well into their third bottle when the stories deepened. Layers stripped away.

“My first crush,” Aritra said abruptly, staring at his chopsticks, “was my senior at school. We used to play the flute together. I never said anything. He got married last year. I saw it on Facebook. His flute notes stayed on.”

Riku nodded slowly. Something in made his heart ached. A pain he knew too well.

“There was a boy in high school,” he said. “He was in the kyūdō club—archery. I admired how quiet he was. Precise. I lent him my umbrella one day. He returned it the next morning with a thank you note and never spoke to me again.”

A silence hung between them, soft and heavy.

“I used to think,” Riku said, “maybe I imagined it all. That I saw what I wanted to see.”

“I still do that sometimes,” Aritra said quietly. “It’s safer.”

Lightning flashed. Rain roared harder.

Something stirred in Riku. He looked into Aritra’s lowered eyes. He leaned in.

He kissed him.

A soft, unsure kiss. Quick. Warm. And full of panic.

Aritro’s eyes widened. Breath gasped. Heart skipped a beat or two.

Riku pulled back immediately. “Gomen’nasai!” he groaned. “I’m sorry, I’m drunk. It’s the soju. I don’t—Japanese sake… less… reckless… is much more dignified—I didn’t mean to.”

Aritra didn’t speak. He reached out and took Riku’s hand. It was trembling slightly.

He pulled him forward, gently, until Riku’s forehead rested against his chest. Aritra’s hands ran through his damp hair. The moment was quiet, sacred, and trembling.

“You don’t need to apologise,” he whispered, like a balm, “Not when we both wanted it."

Riku looked up, eyes searching. “You mean it?”

Aritra nodded.

Their fingers locked. There were no more words.

⸻

The rain hadn’t let up. Water slid down the frosted glass ceiling that served as the roof of the restaurant, pooling along the edges, pattering like a thousand tiny fingers. Caressing.

Inside, the warmth of grilled bulgogi and kimchi mingled with the sweet burn of Korean soju.

Riku and Aritra were cross-legged on the floor cushions, their jackets now hung on the back wall, both a little more drunk, but not on soju, a little more flushed, and perhaps, more honest than they meant to be.

“You know,” Aritra said, tracing a bead of condensation down his glass, “I hated myself for years.”

Riku turned, slowly. “Why?”

“For feeling things I wasn’t supposed to. For wanting things that weren’t in the movies I grew up watching. You grow up in a boys’ boarding school in Darjeeling, where the dorms smelt of moist wool and old books, you learn to blend in. Be invisible. Make sure your eyes don’t linger too long in the locker room.”

Riku nodded, eyes soft. “In my high school, we had silence drilled into us. Boys didn’t talk about emotions. If you liked someone, you folded it into a paper crane and hid it in your desk.”

Aritra smiled, sadly. “First time I kissed someone was when I was 19. A college fest. He was my senior. We were drunk on cheap rum and hormones. Afterwards, he looked at me like I’d ruined his life.”

“And did you?” Riku asked gently.

“I didn’t even kiss back,” Aritra said. “I froze. I hated myself for wanting it, and for being too scared to want it properly.”

Riku looked down. “First time I kissed someone was at 21. In Kyoto. A foreign exchange student. He kissed me in a temple garden. I pushed him away before anyone saw. Then I cried. I thought I’d defiled the space.”

There was a long silence.

“You ever feel,” Aritra asked, “like you’re living two lives at once?”

“All the time,” Riku said. “There’s the good son. Polite. Respectful. Career-driven. And then there’s… the one who aches. Who dreams. Who stares too long at strangers on the train.”

Aritra stared at his empty glass. “I spent years thinking it was a phase. Then thinking I was cursed. Then thinking I’d just stay alone forever.”

“And now?” Riku asked.

“Now,” Aritra said slowly, “I think I deserve someone. Not a hookup. Not a secret. Just… someone who doesn’t flinch when our fingers brush in public.”

Riku nodded, his voice quieter. “I want someone who knows what I’m thinking without asking. Someone I can pray next to. Sleep next to. Grow old next to.”

Their eyes met again. Something in the silence cracked open.

“You know what’s strange?” Aritra said. “How similar we are. Cultures apart. Yet…”

“My Tōsan, dad,” Riku said, “used to say “No” before I finished a sentence. No late nights. No earrings. No hangouts at the malls. No questions.”

“Mine too,” Aritra murmured. “No long hair. No talking back. No drama. I cried inwardly.”

They laughed.

Riku smiled faintly. “My mother never said much. But when I was fifteen, she bought me a book of haikus about love. She never said why. But she left it on my desk.”

Aritra’s eyes lit up. “My Ma used to say, ‘You’re different. That’s not bad. That’s rare. A shoulder to cry on, to lean on in your weakest moments, is what all one needs.’”

Riku raised his glass. “To the mothers who saw us.”

Aritra clinked. “And didn’t look away.”

They sipped.

Then Aritra said, more softly now, “You know that myth about the missing rib? How God made man, and then woman out of his rib?”

“I always wondered,” Riku said, “what if the rib wasn’t meant to be a woman at all? Just someone who fits. Someone who filled the quiet. The void.”

Aritra smiled. “Maybe some ribs curve toward other ribs. Doesn’t make them less real.”

They stared at each other for a moment longer.

Rain fell louder outside. Thunder cracked.

And then, without asking, without warning—Aritra leaned in.

And kissed Riku.

Soft. Hesitant. Real. This time Riku did no gasp or apologise. He melted.

His lips trembled slightly against Aritra’s. He tasted of rice wine and something deeper. Longing. Love.

Then he pulled away, eyes aglow. Yet awash with a love and acceptance that had washed away the shame that his Japanese upbringing had beaten into him.

Riku took Aritra’s hand.

Held it.

Then gently pulled Aritra forward, until his forehead rested against his chest, his shirt buttons unbuttoned God-knows-when! Aritra snuggled in like a lost puppy.

“There’s nothing to feel the way you are feeling,” Riku said quietly, running a hand through Aritra’s hair. “Not when we’re both looking for the same thing.”

Aritra looked at Riku, breath shallow. “You mean—?”

“I mean,” Riku said, “maybe the rib finally found its match.”

Their fingers laced together on the warm wood of the table.

And this time, no one looked away.

⸻

Later, in the small guesthouse across the alley, they lay on a thin mattress under a whirring AC. The room was barely lit, the yellow light pooling in soft circles.

They held each other like survivors of some long, invisible war.

“I was always scared of being alone,” Riku said, his voice muffled into Aritra’s neck.

“I thought loneliness was safer,” Aritra replied.

Their kiss now was different—slow, confident, reverent.

They undressed without urgency. Each touch was a question. Each gasp, a yes.

It wasn’t about lust. It was about recognition.

It was about finding a mirror in a stranger. A second heartbeat.

And when the rain finally stopped outside, there was still the sound of breathing.

Soft. Steady.

Together.

The Black Panther of C R Park~By Santanu Ghose

 

The Black Panther of C R Park

~By Santanu Ghose

They call him The Black Panther of K Block. Jet black from nose to tail, sleek as a freshly ironed sari, arrogant as a politician before elections. He isn’t just a cat—he is a legend. He prowls the alleys, climbs trees like a ninja, darts across rooftops like a furry Batman, and every squirrel within a five-kilometre radius has PTSD because of him.

But he wasn’t born a loner. Oh no. He was the second of four siblings, all jet black, little carbon copies of their mama. Now, their mama? A queen. Not metaphorically. Literally. One dark night she walked straight into my neighbour’s house, four kittens in tow, looked up at him with those glinting emerald eyes, gave a commanding purr that said, “You’re mine now, human.”

And that was that. The human bowed down. The kingdom was established. She took over his bed, his food, his slippers, his dignity. Her kittens? Tiny terror units. Chaos in black fur.

As the kittens grew, things changed. Mama left one morning—probably in search of a new baby-daddy for her next royal litter. The eldest kitten eloped with some slick tom from N Block. The youngest got adopted by another foolish human who didn’t realise she had been the one adopted as lifelong servant. That left two brothers: our Panther bhai and his twin.

They were inseparable. Roaming together, chasing squirrels together, running from rabid, slobbering, dumbass colony dogs together. You couldn’t tell them apart. If one was missing, the other would search until he found him.

Until one day… Panther’s brother didn’t come home.

Dinner time rolled around. Panther waited. “Bro? Oi? Where you at?” Meowed into the night. Sniffed every trail. Climbed every tree. Searched under every Maruti 800 and Kia Seltos and BMW.

The next morning, they found his brother. Squashed flat under a Mercedes.

“Ah well,” the human sighed, “At least it was a Mercedes. Not bad for a send-off. Went out in style.”

Panther didn’t care for style. He sat by the road for hours, tail wrapped around his paws, staring at the spot. His emerald eyes scanning for a brother who wasn’t coming back.

He stopped roaming. Stopped climbing. Just sat under his favourite tree, quiet as a dead leaf. The wise old crow cawed from the branch above: “Oi, bro. Life goes on. Get your fluffy ass moving.”

Panther flicked an ear. “Bugger off.”

The humans were worried. They tried everything. Milk, fish, boiled chicken (yes, boiled, the sacrilege). Nothing. Meanwhile the mice declared a bloody festival in their kitchen. Tiny squeaks of revolution echoed through the cupboards.

Then came Ashtami night. The para was buzzing. Drums, lights, chaat stalls, aunties in heavy Benarasi saris. And amidst the chaos, she appeared.

She.

Black as the night. Amber eyes that gleamed like smouldering charcoal. Fur polished like black granite. And oh—the paws. Snow white. Dainty. Perfect.

She walked in like a diva entering a fashion ramp. Meowed once. Claimed the territory. Panther sniffed the wind. His ears perked. His tail stood up like an antenna catching lost radio signals.

He approached her slowly. “Hey there, gorgeous.”

She narrowed those golden eyes. “Stay outta my face, mister.”

Panther was smitten. He trailed her all night, singing mournful ballads only a lovesick tomcat can compose. High-pitched mewls, low-pitched wails. The humans cursed from their windows.

“Ei! Shut up! We’ve got work tomorrow!”

“Kalke Nobomi! Ebaro shute debe na?”

Someone even dumped a bucket of water on him.

Still Panther sang. Still Panther panged. Still Panther pined.

~~~~~~~~~~

And then, at dawn, there they were. Strutting side by side, tails entwined, whiskers brushing. White Paws had given in. Panther looked smug. The para aunty sighed from her balcony. “Oof! Ki mishti jora re! What a romantic couple!”

Days passed. The Pujo lights came down. Life returned to normal. Or so the humans of K block thought. But no.

Soon the nights were filled with… noises. Purrs. Growls. Thuds. Moans.

“Eta bhodroloker para! This is a respectable neighbourhood!” shouted Uncle from two houses down.

“Get a room!” someone yelled.

But Panther and White Paws didn’t care. They sealed their love under moonlight, under starlight, under streetlight, under that big neem tree that had witnessed everything.

And then came the kittens. Four little black-and-white balls of chaos. White Paws looked regal. Panther looked exhausted. The humans resigned themselves to life with seven freeloading felines.

Months passed.

One night, I spotted the pair on my neighbour’s terrace. White Paws stretched, yawned, looked at Panther and said, “Darling, soon it’ll be time for me to go. The kits are growing. I must move on. You know how it is.”

Panther stared at her, eyes wide, heart sinking. “Must you?”

She sighed. “Such is the way of cats.”

He sighed. “Damn humans. I’ve been living too close to them. They’ve infected me… with… love.”

White Paws kissed his nose. “Silly boy. It’s not the humans. It’s just life, what’s love got to do with it!?”

And under the silver moon, the Black Panther of C R Park watched the love of his life disappear into the night, a soft meow fading into the darkness.

He sat there a while, tail curled around his feet. Then he stood, stretched, and leapt down into the shadows.

Tomorrow there would be mice to hunt. Trees to climb. Kittens to teach.

The jungle of K Block awaited. The Circle of Life continued.

Dhosha: A Short Story By ~ Santanu Ghose

Dhosha: A Short Story

By ~ Santanu Ghose

The fan above stirred the sour air slowly, mixing steam with spice, sweat with the warm tang of tamarind. The boy sat still, almost too still, watching a crisp golden crescent arrive on a steel plate that shimmered like a mirror. His mother nudged it gently toward him.

“This is Dhosha,” she said, a soft smile trying to rise on her tired face.

Not Dosa. Never Dosai. Not in this part of the city. In north Calcutta, tucked just off Bidhan Sarani near the Shyambazar five-point crossing, it had always been Dhosha—foreign yet familiar, southern yet soaked into the Bengali tongue.

The boy was ten. Or maybe eleven. At that age where boredom feels like suffocation and every "No" from a father feels like a brick in the wall. He had felt caged lately. Tightly watched. Carefully controlled. His father said no to everything—no football in the rain, no school picnics or a family visit to the zoo, no roaming in the lanes with the other boys, no racing the bicycle to the top of the road where the tram line meets his neighbourhood lane, no to laughter if it got too loud.

Maybe that’s why his Ma brought him here today.

It was just a short walk from their two-storied house—a damp, dim place in a narrow lane where the walls always smelled of last year’s rain. But today, this place with its tiled floor, its harsh tube lights, its laminated menu, felt like a passage to something bigger, something better, something newer, something or someplace far away from his cramped life.

The boy stared at the Dhosha. What was it made of? Who thought to make something like this—crispy on the outside, soft inside, with that strange, glowing yellow filling? Who eats it every day? Where do they live? What do they wear, sound like, believe in?

A single plate had opened a thousand questions; a Universe in itself.

Across the table, his mother watched him.

Her smile this time was real; faint, but real. For a few minutes, her son was not crouched under the weight of his father's rules. He was exploring. Becoming. Be-ing. Stretching his mind beyond their damp corner of Calcutta. She had given him that. If only this. She felt guilty. She felt responsible.

But as he tore off a corner of the Dhosha, dipping it carefully in sambar, she drifted.

Back to her own youth. Back to the boy she once loved with the recklessness only sixteen-year-olds know. The boy who walked miles in shirts soaked in sweat to meet her outside her hostel, on the same road, under the same lamppost, at the same time each week, when she was doing her Masters and he was doing a job and also studying LLB in Calcutta. Who brought alur chop wrapped in newspaper, sneaked into curtained cabins (it was Basanta Cabin? She tried to remember…) where all they could afford were two cups of cha.

She remembered the weight of the chop in her hand. Still warm. She had broken it in half and placed it in his palm before the waiter could return. Their fingers had touched. Electricity passed between them like a secret vow.

He had been everything then—mild, studious, gentle. A quiet boy who taught tuitions to pay for her books, her meals, her dreams. A boy who once stood like a guardian at the gate of her life.

Now he rode through the city in a spanking new white Ambassador Mark III with plush maroon leather upholstery. He was a very successful advocate of Calcutta High Court. “He is an institution in himself,” one senior advocate had told her. The little boy heard it too, as he held onto his Ma’s little finger. On his way back home from the court he would joke with his lawyer friends, mostly lackeys: “Checking out chicks through the tinted glass of the car is fun isn’t it, they can’t see you and you can see them. The price of women has never gone up in this country. All in good fun, of course” he’d say, “men will be men…ha ha!!! Nothing serious, all in good humour.” Young lady lawyers, juniors and not-so-juniors, swarmed around him like bees around the honeycomb.

Something inside her crumbled each time. She did not understand what that fully meant: He is an ‘Institution.’  All she wanted was the young man whom she loved to love her back, the boy for whom she too gave up a promising career. Because he wanted her to.

As for the little boy he did not understand what that meant either: “Your dad is an Institution.”  All he wanted was his famous father to be his loving Baba, who understood his little heart. He did not need an ‘Institution.’

Was it love, really, she thought? Or was it a conquest, masked as love? Had she fallen in love with a face, the apparent behaviour and not the man behind?

She blinked. The restaurant came back into focus. Her son was staring at her, eyes wide and dark, a question trembling in his lips.

“Ma… are you crying? Again?”

She wiped her cheek without answering.

He hated seeing her like this. Lately she cried more than she smiled. And his father—so warm and jovial outside—only wore scowls and sharp tones at home. Why was everything upside down? Why were grown-ups so confusing? Why did joy live in public and silence stalk the home?

But he took another bite. It was still warm. Still different. Still wonderful.

And she watched him, her heart a silent sculpture—frozen in grief, longing, confusion. She had once been a girl in love. Now she was a woman staring across the table at a boy who would one day be a man, and she silently begged the world: Let him be gentler. Kinder. Let him remain curious. Let him be –all that he wants to be.

They met eyes across the steel plate. For a second, no words were needed. His question, her answer, her question, his pain—they all sat there between them, warm and quiet like steam from a bowl of sambar.

Life never answered anything, she thought. It just layered questions over questions, like the folds in a paratha. And all one could do was keep chewing.

Still, today, even with all the ache, she had given her son something new.

And as he chewed, his mind wandered again—past Bengal, past Bidhan Sarani, into places where Dhoshas were everyday things and boys like him didn’t feel so small.

 

What Remains? By~ Santanu Ghose

What Remains?

By~ Santanu Ghose

Callum’s aunt had always been strange. She lived alone on John Street, just past the edge of Worksop, in Nottinghamshire, where the town started to forget itself—where back gardens gave way to trees, and narrow terraces turned to moss-choked stone. Her house was the last on the row, its windows forever dark, as if even daylight refused to go inside.

After her body was found—split open in the woods beyond the canal, no blood, no footprints, no logic—Callum inherited the house. And with it, The Lodestone Codex.

He didn’t tell Jamie about the book at first. Just asked if he’d come help sort the place out. Jamie said yes, because Jamie always said yes when it came to Callum. They’d been each other’s constant since Year Ten (something like class 8 or 9 in India): best friends, first kisses, first fights, and something deeper after that. Something stronger.

But when Jamie followed Callum down into the basement and saw what was etched into the floor, he stopped cold.

It was a circle, nearly two metres across, carved into the concrete. Inside it, a star. At the very centre, dried blood. And beside it, drawn in rust-coloured chalk, a crude stick figure with arms bent wrong.

The basement smelled like damp stone and rot.

It was the kind of place you’d expect to find rusted tools and dead rats, not hand-drawn occult symbols carved into the concrete with obsessive pressure. The pentagram inside the circle was jagged—not artistic. Desperate. Beside it, a crude stick figure with limbs bending the wrong way.

“Tell me this is a joke,” Jamie said, his voice a whisper.

Callum didn’t answer right away. He crouched by the symbol, his fingers hovering above the jagged lines.

“It’s the same one from the Codex,” he said finally. “The Circle of Return,” almost to himself.

The book was black, leather-bound, and deeply wrong. Half the writing was in Latin. The other half—messy English notes—felt like the scribblings of someone losing their mind. Jamie had wanted to burn it. Callum had read it cover to cover.

“She was trying to bring someone back,” Callum said. “She never finished it.”

“Maybe that was a good thing,” Jamie muttered.

But Callum wasn’t listening. He was already lighting candles in the four corners of the room.

“Callum—”

“If it works,” Callum said softly, “we can understand death. Maybe even conquer it.”

Jamie wanted to leave. Every instinct screamed at him to run. But Callum was scared, hurting, and Jamie loved him too much to let him face this alone.

So, he stayed. Because love makes us stay.

JAMIE, 19, holds the torch, nervous. CALLUM, 18, crouches near the symbol, fingers just above the lines. They had found the book—The Lodestone Codex—buried in the crawl space of Callum’s late aunt’s terrace house.

Callum pricked his finger, let the blood drip into the centre of the star. He whispered the words from the book. For a moment, nothing happened.

Then the air thickened, grew heavy.

The circle darkened, like something was soaking up the light from beneath. The stick figure twitched. Not the chalk drawing—the thing beneath it, pressing up against the floor like cement was glass.

Jamie stumbled back.

A shape began to form inside the circle. Tall. Bent. Limbs too long; long limbs bent too many times. No face. Just a black shimmer where a face should be. A human shape gone wrong. It slams against the circle. The lines flicker. The lines glow.

“That’s not her,” Callum whispered; gasped.

The thing slammed itself against the inside edge of the circle. The lines flickered. Again.

Jamie grabbed Callum’s arm. “We have to stop it.” His voice hoarse and dry.

But the figure wasn’t looking at them. It was looking at the sigil beside the circle—the anchor. The stick figure. That was the weak point. That’s what the book had meant.

And then the thing smiled.

And stepped through.

---

Three days later, they were hiding in a motel near Retford, almost 10 miles from the smoking wreck of the house on John Street.

The papers blamed a gas leak. No one knew what really happened.

Jamie couldn’t sleep. When he did, he dreamed of the thing with no face—wearing Callum’s voice. Watching.

He woke up gasping, drenched in sweat. Callum sat beside him, silent, calm in that strange, shaken way people get when they’re past fear.

“I’m sorry,” Callum said.

“You should be.”

“I thought if I could understand death,” he went on, “I wouldn’t be afraid of it.”

Jamie looked at him, still trembling. “You nearly brought something through.”

“I know. And it wasn’t death I saw. It was absence. It was nothing. It didn’t love. Didn’t want. It just… was.”

Jamie pulled the sheets around them. “So, what now?”

Callum reached for his hand.

“I don’t want to chase the dark anymore. I don’t want to open doors that aren’t meant to open. There’s no book, no ritual, no power stronger than what we have right here.”

God gave us life. Not so we’d fear death— but so we’d live. Love. Be.

Jamie studied him, wary. But there was no madness in Callum’s eyes anymore. Just guilt. And something softer.

Hope.

Something stronger.

“I used to think I needed answers,” Callum said. “But I don’t. Not anymore. Life isn’t a puzzle. It’s a gift.”

“And love?” Jamie asked. “Yes, love like this… that’s the only real magic,” whispered Callum.

And he kissed him.

It was quiet at first. Then deeper. More urgent. Not an escape. A remembering. That they were alive. That love was still theirs. That even after all they’d seen, they were still here.

Jamie kissed back—deep and slow. Be-ing real. Because to ‘Be’ is to be alive.

They shed their clothes like skin they no longer needed. They worshipped each other in touch, in sighs, in murmured names. There was no magic in the room—no symbols, no books, no ancient forces. Just two boys in a motel bed, wrapped around each other like the world might end if they let go: To be alive. To feel skin against skin. Soul against soul.

To worship what they almost lost—and what they found in each other.

When it was over, they lay tangled in the warm silence, sweaty, breath slowing, hearts still racing. Quiet.

“I love you,” Callum whispered.

“I know,” Jamie replied, brushing a thumb over Callum’s cheek. “And maybe that’s enough.”

They stared at the ceiling. No shadows now. No marks. Just cracked plaster and the hum of night.

The air changed. Again. This time a breath of freshness was filling the motel room as a new dawn shone through the curtains.

Two hearts were beating as one with a fire that burned brighter and with more heat than the one that burned down the house, with enough warmth to keep the two boys warm in each other’s love all their lives.

That's what remains. 

~The End