Chapter 7: Beneath the Surface

Pranav and Thameem had spent the entire day following leads from the list Balan’s daughter had provided, but the investigation had proven largely fruitless. People were either too scared or too vague in their responses, most refusing to even speak to them. But one name kept surfacing in whispers—Govindan. They knew that if anyone could give them the breakthrough they needed, it would be him.

As they approached Govindan’s house, it was clear he lived in dire circumstances. The small, dilapidated building looked like it had barely survived the years. The walls were cracked, and a faint smell of decay lingered in the air. When Govindan opened the door, Pranav immediately noticed the deep scars on his hands, old wounds that looked like they had healed poorly.

The man was frail, his once strong frame now a shadow of its former self. He led them inside without a word, gesturing to a couple of old, creaking chairs.

“Govindan, we’re here to talk about Patel Textiles,” Pranav began, his voice calm but firm. “We need to know the truth.”

Govindan’s face hardened at the mention of the factory. For a moment, he was silent, then he finally spoke, his voice rasping. “Patel Textiles… it wasn’t always the nightmare it became. It was once a good place to work. Mr. Sourav Patel, the founder, treated us like family. Yes, the chemicals we worked with were dangerous, but we had full protection. Masks, gloves, everything. But when his son Manav took over… everything changed.”

Pranav and Thameem exchanged a quick glance. This was the piece they were missing.

Govindan continued, bitterness dripping from every word. “Manav, and his group of friends—business partners, they called themselves—turned the factory into a death trap. They didn’t care about the workers, only about squeezing every rupee out of the place. A few years ago, they started using a new chemical, something they got from China. It was cheap, almost 50 percent cheaper than the chemicals we used before. But it was deadly.”

Pranav leaned forward. “What was the chemical called?”

“Hexachlorine,” Govindan said, his voice trembling. “It was used to speed up the textile processing. But it was poison. At first, they gave us the proper protective gear, but that didn’t last. Soon, they said the cost of the equipment was too high, and Manav—along with his friends—decided to cut corners. The protective gear stopped coming, and we were left exposed.”

Pranav felt a wave of anger rise in his chest. “What happened when you tried to protest?”

Govindan let out a bitter laugh. “At first, they gave money to those who spoke out. Large sums—bribes to keep quiet. And for a while, it worked. But when the health problems started—when the skin on our hands and legs began to peel away—the money didn’t matter anymore. We were dying, piece by piece. We formed a group, started demanding better conditions, but one by one, those who spoke up started to disappear.”

Pranav’s stomach twisted. “Disappeared?”

“Yes,” Govindan whispered. “Some left town, some were fired, and others… just vanished. We never saw them again. Manav and his friends—there’s something dark about them, something that goes beyond greed. They have power, connections, and they’re willing to use them.”

Thameem shifted uncomfortably in his seat, the gravity of the situation settling in.

Pranav pressed on. “And the room? Balan’s daughter mentioned a room in the factory.”

Govindan’s face grew pale. “Yes, the medical room. It wasn’t just for treatment. When our bodies couldn’t take it anymore, when the skin peeled away and the pain became unbearable, we started treating ourselves. There was no one else to help. We amputated our own limbs—hands, legs… anything to stop the spread of the burns. We knew it was too late, but we had no choice. The factory became a graveyard.”

Pranav swallowed hard, the horror of what he was hearing almost too much to bear. “Did anyone outside the factory—police, politicians, media—know what was happening?”

Govindan nodded, his expression darkening. “We tried. We reached out to everyone we could, but it was like talking to walls. Nothing came of it. Manav and his friends had deep pockets, and they made sure the truth never saw the light of day.”

There was a long silence in the room as Pranav and Thameem absorbed the full weight of Govindan’s words.

“We need to check that room,” Pranav said, standing up. “We need to see for ourselves.”

Govindan looked at him with tired, haunted eyes. “It’s all gone now. The factory’s been closed for years. But whatever you find, be careful. Manav and his people… they won’t let you expose them without a fight.”

As Pranav and Thameem prepared to leave, Pranav turned back to Govindan. “One last thing. Hexachlorine… if we were to find traces of it on the hands of workers, would it match?”

Govindan looked down at his own scarred hands, trembling slightly. “If those hands came from anyone who worked with that chemical, you’ll find it. It doesn’t just go away. It lingers, in the skin, in the bones.”

Pranav’s mind was racing as they left Govindan’s house. He immediately called the forensic team.

“I need you to run a test on the severed hands we found. There’s a chemical called Hexachlorine—it’s toxic, and it was used at Patel Textiles. We need to know if it’s present in those hands. It won’t show up in standard tests; you’ll need a specialized analysis.”

The forensic team agreed, and Pranav hung up the phone, his gut churning with a mix of anger and unease.

As they drove toward Patel Textiles, Pranav couldn’t shake the feeling that they were only beginning to scratch the surface of something much darker. The severed hands, the disappearances, the chemical burns… it was all connected. But what lay at the heart of it? And how far would Manav and his group go to keep their secrets buried?

The air grew colder as they approached the abandoned factory, the towering silhouette of Patel Textiles looming in the distance.

Pranav’s heart pounded in his chest. Whatever they were about to find, it would only pull them deeper into a web of deceit and horror.