Amit arrived home just after the sun dipped.
He called out as he unlocked the gate, "Priti! Riya! I have the hibiscus and the chanachur!"
No answer.
The door was ajar, not locked, which was immediately unsettling. Priti was meticulous about security. "Priti? I'm home," he called again, stepping inside.
The hibiscus slipped from his hand and landed silently on the tile floor.
The small living room was perfectly ordered, yet utterly wrong. A chair was overturned, and a few drops of water—or something darker—marked the cement near the kitchen door. He noticed the wall calendar, where Riya had circled the date of her school play in bright red crayon.
His rational mind, trained in bureaucratic procedure, forced him to act. He searched the neighborhood, running in circles, asking frantic, meaningless questions. The neighbours reported seeing nothing unusual.
By 9 PM, he was at the Nalbari Sadar police station, a picture of desperate, raw fear.
The Police View:
Sub-Inspector Sengupta, a bloated man behind a desk piled high with dusty files, sighed heavily, annoyed by the interruption to his dinner. "A missing persons report, is it? Two people? Sir, they are women. Wives and daughters often go to visit relatives in another district without telling the men. You are a Revenue man, you know procedure. Wait twenty-four hours."
Amit's pleas were desperate. "Priti would never leave without a note! Riya would never leave her doll! Please, S.I., check the house! There is something wrong!"
Sengupta filed the report under 'Domestic Disappearance,' ranking it lowest priority. Amit was left sitting on the hard bench until the next morning, when the twenty-four hours were officially up. The bureaucracy had failed him before the crime had even been fully realized.