A Stranger with a Gun
Ravi was sitting alone on the sofa in his mezzanine-level drawing room, flipping through a magazine. The room, separated from the rest of his rented flat on the first floor, was a calm space, with the stairwell door to his left and a second door on the right opening onto a spacious terrace lined with the potted greenery of his cherished garden.
The warm afternoon was still, almost drowsy, until the door on the left opened abruptly.
A man stepped in. Well-built, just under two meters tall, dressed in plain clothes. But what froze Ravi mid-turn wasn’t the man—it was the gun loosely hanging from his right hand, pointing downward.
“Don’t panic,” the man said in a firm but composed tone. “Tell me—are you the owner of the house?”
Ravi’s heart pounded in his chest. “N-no,” he stammered. “I’m a tenant. The owner lives on the ground floor.”
The man nodded, said a quick “Thank you,” and turned to go—but paused halfway.
“Has any new tenant moved in recently? Within the last month or two?”
Ravi, still shaken, answered, “Yes, a young man—about thirty-five. He rented the third-floor flat last month.”
The man nodded again and left quickly down the stairs.
Still trembling, Ravi walked to the balcony on the other side of his flat. The view that met his eyes made him stiffen again: the building was surrounded. Policemen were everywhere—on rooftops, crouched behind water tanks, stationed on nearby streets and balconies. Rifles, binoculars, radios—it was an airtight operation.
His anxiety doubled. Neha, his wife, had gone out nearly an hour ago for groceries and a quick stop at the nearby beauty parlour. She hadn’t returned yet.
A short while later, the same stranger, now accompanied by the house owner and two uniformed officers, one of them a woman, climbed the stairs toward the third floor.
Ravi stood silently by the landing, trying to make sense of what was happening.
The building owner later revealed the story to him: the man with the gun was Ramesh, an STF (Special Task Force) officer. They had been hunting Rakesh, a notorious kidnapper from a well-off family who had eluded capture for months. Recently, they had traced him to this very building.
Rakesh had rented the third floor under a false identity, living with his wife and a four-year-old daughter. He maintained a low profile—leaving early, returning late. His wife didn’t mingle either.
Ravi’s small piece of information had confirmed the information that the STF had about Rakesh’s location.
Rakesh was confronted. He knew he was surrounded with no escape route. It was his bad luck that today he came for lunch, which he had never done in months since he had been hiding here. He and his wife were searched, and a pistol was found hidden beneath her blouse by the female officer.
As they escorted Rakesh away, the operation ended just as quietly as it had begun.
Later that evening, Neha returned. She’d finished her shopping and her parlour visit.
At the salon, she had heard a disturbing detail from the beautician: the house owner was charging Rakesh almost three times the usual rent. He knew something about his background and had taken advantage of it.
When Ravi told her what had happened, Neha was visibly shaken.
“That poor woman and her daughter,” she said. “Maybe I should go see them. Just… to show I care.”
Ravi raised his eyebrows. “Are you mad? These are dangerous people, Neha. Let the police deal with it. They can manage.”
A week passed. Life resumed its pace, though the memory of that day still lingered.
Then one morning, Ravi received a call from the STF. Officer Ramesh wanted him to record his statement regarding the Rakesh case.
Ravi went to the STF office, gave his testimony, and was just about to leave when Ramesh, leaning back in his chair, asked casually, “How’s your house owner’s son, Raman, these days?”
Ravi was caught off guard. “Must be okay,” he replied. “I haven’t seen him since he came back from his grandfather’s place last week.”
Ramesh gave a small, knowing smile. “Looks like you don’t know.”
Ravi frowned. “Know what? Please explain.”
Ramesh’s voice lowered a little. “I think you should be aware. Your house owner’s son, Raman, was kidnapped by Rakesh. That’s how Rakesh got to live in that third-floor flat—as ransom.”
Ravi stared at him, stunned.
Ramesh continued, “Rakesh blackmailed the owner into offering him a safe hideout in exchange for his son’s life. After we arrested Rakesh, we found Raman in a small, hidden location near the Nepal border. He’s safe now.”
Ravi, “Now I think, why would Raman, a school-going boy would go to his grandparents’ place in mid-school session. This is what our house owner had said about the absence of Ramn to us, the tenants.”
Ravi left the STF office in silence, reeling. The events of that week—so calm on the surface—were now revealed to be only the tip of a far darker story. A criminal hiding in plain sight. A father silently pays ransom with shelter. A child rescued from the shadows. And a stranger with a gun who had stepped into Ravi’s home not to threaten, but to bring justice.
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