Half Past 10-Look At My Gun

The rangoli-colored tiles in the Rangoli Police Station hallway looked cheerful in the way a carpet looks cheerful right before someone spills coffee on it. Ram had barely stepped past the “EVIDENCE” placard near the evidence door when the air filled with that sharp, metallic smell of trouble - hot air, cold metal, and somebody’s idea of a weapon demonstration going wrong.

Leena was already there, moving fast in her sensible shoes, her voice clipped and sharp as she talked over the clatter of running sandals and the heavy, annoyed shuffle of boots. “Gun incident at 10:30. Witness called it in. Says the man fired - then the whole corridor went crazy.”

Ram caught the last word and frowned. “Corridor went crazy?”

Leena nodded toward the far end of the hallway, where a knot of people had formed like a traffic jam made of panic. The corridor was narrow; the evidence door sat at one side like a judge who didn’t blink. Someone had taped a flyer to the wall and now the flyer looked damp from sweat and steam, as if even paper was reconsidering its life choices.

Before Ram could get closer, a man shoved through the crowd with the kind of indignation that usually came with loud bills and louder opinions. His shirt was half tucked, his moustache was furious, and he held his hands up like they were innocent. “Detective! Inspector! Look at my gun!”

Ram stared at the hands, then at the gun, then at the man’s face, which had the smugness of someone who’d never been wrong in a courtroom. The gun was real. The way it sat in his palm was also real - too comfortable, too casual, like it was a pet that bit only when offended.

Leena’s eyes narrowed. “Sir, do you understand why we’re here?”

“Because it happened at 10:30!” the man blurted, then immediately corrected himself with a confident wave. “Or maybe 10:31. Time is - time is flexible. But the gun - my gun - misfired, right? That’s what people are saying!”

Ram leaned in. The corridor was loud with overlapping voices: someone insisting the shot echoed, someone else swearing it was a click, and a third person - an older constable with a face like a stapler - shouting that nobody was allowed near the evidence door until they finished “their drama.” The gunman’s fingers kept tapping the grip as if the weapon might hear and behave better if he was friendly.

“Misfire,” Ram repeated. “At 10:30. In a precinct hallway.”

The man’s smile flickered. “Not inside the hallway exactly. I was near it. And then - look! I told them to look at my gun, but no one wanted to see properly.”

Leena stepped closer, her tone turning official in the way a broom turns dust into a problem. “Sir, you’re going to hand it over. Quietly.”

“Quietly?” The man’s voice got louder like the word had insulted him personally. “My gun is not a toy. It is a - ”

Ram held up a hand. “Give it to us. Now.”

The man hesitated, then thrust the gun forward like he was passing a plate of food to a waiter. Ram took it carefully - he’d handled enough evidence to know the difference between a weapon and an argument, and this one was both. The metal felt warm, like it had been thinking about firing and couldn’t decide.

As Ram turned slightly toward the evidence door, there came a sound behind them: a loud, bratty “Ayyy!” followed by two quick footsteps that skidded on tile.

gopu and babu appeared like they’d been summoned by the word “gun.” gopu had a paper file folder in his hand and the expression of a man who’d just discovered a new flavor of trouble. babu wore a look that said he’d already decided who was guilty and was only waiting for the universe to confirm it.

“Look at my gun!” babu announced, immediately mimicking the gunman’s voice with such accuracy that even the gunman blinked.

Leena’s head snapped. “babu. gopu. Not now.”

gopu raised the folder like a shield. “We’re here for official work. We got the call too.”

Ram didn’t even turn fully. “What official work?”

gopu beamed. “Gun work.”

“Gun work,” Ram echoed, then looked at Leena, who looked back with the expression of a person trying to hold back a flood using paperwork. “Is this what your team does when there’s a misfire?”

Leena’s jaw tightened. “My team does not do - ”

babu cut in. “They do. They just do it with extra attitude.”

The gunman cleared his throat as if he was about to deliver a speech. “See? Even these boys understand. My gun - my gun only did what it was supposed to. It got startled. People were yelling.”

Ram checked the gun’s condition with the practiced speed of someone who didn’t want to spend his day in a hallway full of opinions. The corridor noise sharpened: a buzz of whispers, the squeak of someone’s shoe, the distant clank of a door somewhere else trying to pretend it wasn’t involved.

“What exactly happened at 10:30?” Leena demanded, already angling her body to block the gunman from moving again.

The man lifted his chin. “I was holding it. I said, ‘Look at my gun.’ Then someone said, ‘Don’t show it!’ And then - click....