CHAPTER 2 — The Man Who Forgot the World

Puzhal Central Prison stood like a fortress chiseled into time — ancient, grim, and unmoved by the chaos of the outside world. As the monsoon clouds swirled above, Inspector Pranav stepped past the security gates, the cold steel groaning shut behind him. Mitra, Thameem, and Murali followed in silence.

They were led through a series of long corridors — some quiet, others echoing with the distant shouts of inmates. The scent of rust, disinfectant, and stale sweat clung to the walls like ghosts.

The jailer on duty, a young man barely in his thirties, met them in the administrative office. He saluted crisply.

“We’re here to see Raghavan,” Pranav said, showing his ID.

The jailer hesitated. “Sir… he’s not in a state to speak. He hasn’t held a proper conversation in years.”

“That’s alright,” Pranav replied calmly. “We’re not here for answers. We’re here for understanding.”

The jailer led them deeper into the high-security wing — a place untouched by sunlight and seemingly forgotten by time. They stopped outside Cell 32C.

Inside sat Raghavan.

Once a literature professor with sharp eyes and quiet brilliance, he now resembled a forgotten relic. His hair was white and wild, beard matted and unwashed. His body had shrunk into itself, frail and fragile, like a paper boat lost in a storm. He rocked slightly, murmuring something under his breath, again and again.

Pranav leaned closer.

“Lakshmi… Lakshmi… Lakshmi…”

He kept repeating the name, his voice dry like sand. It was the only word he seemed to remember.

Thameem looked away, visibly unsettled. Even Murali, usually impassive, had trouble holding his gaze.

Pranav turned to the jailer. “How long has he been like this?”

“Sir, I’ve only been here for six years. He was already like this when I joined. Completely withdrawn. Doesn’t react to visitors. Sometimes eats, sometimes starves. The doctors just say he’s ‘mentally compromised’. That’s the official term.”

“Was anyone here from the beginning? When he first arrived?” Pranav asked.

The jailer nodded. “Sub-Jailer Ramalingam. He’s been here over two decades. Saw everything from the day Raghavan was brought in.”

“Call him. Immediately.”

The jailer stepped away.

Pranav turned to Thameem. “I want you to check his cell. Every corner. Photograph everything — the walls, floor, ceiling, under the bedding, behind the toilet, anywhere he might have written or hidden something.”

Thameem nodded and left with Murali.

Pranav then looked at Mitra. “We’ll need an appointment with a government-authorised psychiatric specialist. Not someone the prison already works with. Fresh eyes.”

“On it,” she said, already dialing contacts.

Soon, Sub-Jailer Ramalingam arrived. A wiry man with tired eyes, a crooked spine, and a notebook tucked into his waistband, he saluted Pranav respectfully before sitting opposite him in the visitor room.

“You remember Raghavan?” Pranav asked gently.

“Of course, sir. How can I forget?”

“What was he like… in the beginning?”

Ramalingam’s expression darkened. “Shattered. That’s the only word for it. From the first day, he kept saying the same thing — ‘I didn’t kill her. I didn’t do anything.’ He wasn’t violent. Just… desperate. Confused. Haunted.”

“He maintained his innocence?” Pranav asked.

“Over and over. For months. He wrote letters — to the judge, to the press, to human rights officers. All saying he was innocent. That he’d come out of the bathroom and found her bleeding. Tried to save her. That she was alive for a few seconds before she went cold.”

Pranav’s eyes narrowed. “What happened after that?”

“They didn’t believe him. Everyone said the evidence was clear — his fingerprints on the murder weapon, blood on his clothes, the lack of any forced entry. And slowly… the silence crept in.”

“He gave up?”

Ramalingam nodded. “One day, he just stopped. Stopped writing. Stopped talking. It was like his mind shut down to protect whatever was left of him. Some days he’d scream her name. Some days he’d write her name on the floor with chalk. And one day… even that stopped.”

Just then, Thameem returned with a camera and a small bundle of printouts. He looked tense.

“Sir,” he said, placing the photos on the table. “There’s something odd.”

The team gathered around.

In the photos, the cell appeared normal at first glance. But in the far right corner, partially under a loose cement slab, were faint etchings — almost invisible to the naked eye. Like something scratched over months, maybe years.

Three words:

“I didn’t do it.”

Same spot. Etched again and again — hundreds of times. Some clear. Some half-faded.

On another wall, behind a layer of peeling plaster, were odd lines — scratched patterns, maybe poetic fragments. One said:

“The sky never forgave the innocent.”

On the floor near the toilet, faded chalk marks — maybe equations, or rambling thoughts. None of it coherent. But all of it pointing to one thing.

Raghavan hadn’t forgotten. Not completely. Something inside him was still screaming.

“He’s been saying the same thing for seventeen years,” Mitra said quietly.

“Yes,” Pranav replied. “But no one ever listened.”

He turned back to Ramalingam. “Do you believe him?”

The sub-jailer didn’t answer right away. Then he looked straight into Pranav’s eyes and said, “Sir… guilt looks different. Raghavan didn’t look guilty. He looked broken.”

As they exited the prison, the sky opened above them — not a downpour, just a thin mist, soft and cold against their faces.

The first clues had begun to form.

Not in blood.

But in repetition.

In silence.

In the spaces between what was said and what was ignored.

And now, Pranav knew this:

This wasn’t just about proving Raghavan’s innocence.

It was about discovering a truth that someone had buried — seventeen years ago — and made sure no one ever dug up again.