Chapter 7: The Musicians’ Fate

The year was 1980, and the world seemed to be at their feet. Gokulnath and Selvarathinam, two of the most skilled violinists India had ever known, stood side by side, their instruments cradled in their arms as they prepared for their first major concert. Their music was a perfect harmony, a blend of passion and precision that left audiences mesmerized. They were not just musicians; they were the embodiment of friendship, brotherhood, and an unspoken understanding that transcended words.

Gokulnath was quiet and introspective, often losing himself in the intricacies of the music he created. Selvarathinam, on the other hand, was the charismatic face of the duo—outgoing, a natural performer who drew people to him. Together, they were unbeatable, their bond stronger than the music they played. Their music was unique, with a distinct style that became the talk of the country. Their small-town concerts grew into large-scale performances, attracting crowds that adored their skill and their humility.

For seven years, they lived their dream. Their personal lives were simple, with no drama or egos to get in the way of their success. It was all about the music, and the two men knew that nothing could ever come between them—until 1987, when Gokulnath met Amaravati.

Amaravati was an orphan, a quiet, reserved woman who had caught Gokulnath’s eye at a charity concert for the orphanage where she lived. She was beautiful, kind, and full of grace, and Gokulnath fell deeply in love with her. Their courtship was brief, and soon, they were married. Gokulnath was overjoyed, convinced that he had found the love of his life. He showered Amaravati with affection, love, and care. They lived a quiet, peaceful life, and within a few years, Amaravati gave birth to two beautiful daughters.

But beneath the surface of their happy marriage, something darker was growing. Selvarathinam, Gokulnath’s closest friend, had also fallen in love with Amaravati, though he never said a word. He had watched from the sidelines as Gokulnath courted her, keeping his feelings hidden out of loyalty to his friend. However, after the marriage, Amaravati and Selvarathinam’s paths crossed more frequently, and their unspoken attraction began to deepen. What had once been a silent admiration turned into something more—a secret affair that neither could resist.

For a while, they thought they could keep it hidden, but rumors began to spread. Gokulnath was a kind man, but he wasn’t blind. The whispers in town about his wife and his best friend started to reach his ears, but he refused to believe them—until 1989.

It was the day of a major concert, one that would mark a new milestone in their career. But at the last minute, Gokulnath canceled the event. No one understood why, but he had his reasons. That afternoon, he came home early and walked in on a sight that would haunt him for the rest of his life—Amaravati and Selvarathinam, in his own home, locked in a passionate embrace.

Gokulnath didn’t scream or shout. He didn’t confront them. He quietly left the house, his mind racing with thoughts of betrayal and anger. He wandered the streets aimlessly, his heart shattered by the sight he had witnessed. As the hours passed and the night set in, something dark awoke within him. His love for Amaravati and his friendship with Selvarathinam had both turned to ash, consumed by the flames of his rage.

That night, while everyone slept, Gokulnath returned to the house. He crept into Selvarathinam’s room, where his old friend lay sleeping. With a surgical precision born of years of dissecting animals—a morbid hobby Gokulnath indulged in as an animal lover—he slit Selvarathinam’s throat. It was quick, clean, and without a sound. The man who had once been his closest friend bled out in silence.

With the lifeless body of Selvarathinam on his shoulder, Gokulnath carried him through the dark, deserted streets. He walked until he reached the riverbank where their musical journey had begun so many years ago. It was there, at Erattinpuram Riverbank in Kerala, that Gokulnath dumped Selvarathinam’s body, letting the river carry him away.

The next morning, Gokulnath, Amaravati, and their daughters were gone. They vanished without a trace. There were no clues, no witnesses, no explanation. The band disbanded that year, and within months, all information about the musicians, their families, and their lives was erased from the public eye. It was as if they had never existed.

Back in the present day, Pranav sat across from Moorthy, his mind reeling from the story he had just heard. Moorthy, the retired sub-inspector who had once worked with Pranav’s father, handed him a small bundle of case files and old photographs.

“Your father, Lakshmi, was a great man,” Moorthy said, his voice tinged with respect. “He was the one who handled the investigation back in 1989. He knew something was off, but without any leads or evidence, the case went cold. The disappearance of Gokulnath, Amaravati, and their daughters was a mystery that he never managed to solve.”

Pranav’s hands shook slightly as he flipped through the old files. The black-and-white photos showed a much younger version of Moorthy and his father standing by the riverbank where Selvarathinam’s body had been found. The case had haunted his father for years, and now it was starting to haunt him.

“Do you have any photos of the riverbank?” Pranav asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Moorthy nodded, pulling out an old, faded photograph. “This is the Erattinpuram Riverbank where we found the body.”

Pranav’s heart skipped a beat as he stared at the picture. There, in the corner of the image, was the same riverbank that he had seen on the wall in Ashok’s apartment. The exact same spot where Selvarathinam’s body had been dumped.

It couldn’t be a coincidence.

Pranav’s mind raced. “Do you have any other information about Gokulnath, Amaravati, or their daughters?”

Moorthy shook his head sadly. “No. After the murder, they vanished. Some people said that Amaravati was pregnant with Selvarathinam’s child, but we never found out for sure. There was no sign of them anywhere. It was like they disappeared into thin air.”

Pranav sat in silence, his mind piecing together the clues. There was a connection between the murders happening now and the events of 1989. The violins, the riverbank, the secret past of Gokulnath and Selvarathinam—it all tied back to the present. But what was the link?

“Thank you, Uncle,” Pranav said, standing up. “I need to follow this lead.”

Moorthy handed him the files and the photos. “Be careful, Pranav. This case… it’s dangerous. There’s more to it than what meets the eye.”

Pranav nodded, tucking the files under his arm. As he walked out of Moorthy’s house and into the night, he knew that the next step in his investigation would take him to Kerala. To the riverbank where it all began.

The answer lay there, in the shadows of the past.

And Pranav was ready to uncover it.