Late that evening, he found himself in his living room, sitting across from Vikram on the sofa. Hiya lay sprawled beside him, her head on Ruban’s lap as she snuffled quietly in her sleep.

Simani sat on the other end of the sofa, sipping tea. Her state-of-the-art carbon fiber crutch stood propped against the armrest, beside her.

Sri had folded himself onto the window ledge behind Simani, eyes fixed on the game he was playing on his father’s phone.

They’d just finished dinner. The lingering warmth and delectable flavors of the meal still clung to Ruban’s tastebuds.

Across from him, Vikram licked his lips. An attempt to chase the delightful aftertaste of the most satisfying dinner any of them had had in over a month.

The enticing aroma of freshly-made rice pudding drifted in from the kitchen. Ruban savored it. If only because the thought of dessert was a welcome distraction, from the dismal topics they’d been discussing all through dinner.

“So, you think he was driven by some sort of psychosis?” Simani drained her teacup and set it aside, turning to Ruban. “That’s going to completely alter the course of the investigation.”

“It doesn’t have to be one thing or the other,” Vikram pointed out, his shoulders relaxed and limbs loose as he reclined on the plush sofa chair. “Just as likely he was taken in by HAVA because of his delusional thought process. They do seem to attract the unhinged, paranoid types.”

“That may be,” Simani said. “But just because he’s delusional about some things doesn’t mean he couldn’t be right about others. Especially if he was the one to smuggle that reinforced sifblade to HAVA, the one Ruban recovered during the Kanla Park lynching. Something like that would require strategic, clear-headed planning. Not to mention nerves of steel.” She paused momentarily, biting her lower lip. “What if we consider, just for a moment, that Siyal knows exactly what he’s talking about? Where’d that lead us?”

“To some sort of shadow establishment that wields both political and financial power in this country. And yet, that nobody’s ever heard of.” Ruban shook his head. “If it walks, talks, and looks like a conspiracy theory, Sim…that’s probably what it is.”

Simani huffed. Raising her voice, she summoned Ashwin from the kitchen.

For a few seconds, the clinking of utensils was the only answer she got. Then, Ashwin sauntered into the living room, a pudding-smeared ladle in one hand and a dishrag in the other.

He came to stand beside Vikram, hip propped casually against the backrest of his chair.

Abandoning the window ledge, Sri hopped over to perch on his father’s lap.

Ashwin extended the ladle, allowing him to taste some of the creamy pudding that clung to it. Which resulted in the boy getting pudding all over his mouth, nose, and chin.

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Valiantly, Ruban fought the urge to click a picture. But Simani beat him to it.

Sri yelped, indignant, and leapt out of Vikram’s lap.

All this commotion woke Hiya, who also wanted a taste of the half-cooked pudding. Admittedly, it did smell delicious.

“You called?” Ashwin prompted Simani, as Hiya tried to clamber up his torso to reach the ladle.

“Ah, yes.” Simani pocketed her phone, holding Sri at bay with her other hand. “It’s just…we want your opinion on a small matter.”

Giving in, Ashwin handed the ladle over to Hiya. “My opinion?” He turned to Simani with a raised eyebrow. “What about?”

Simani repeated Siyal’s words, glancing at Ruban to fill in where necessary.

Ashwin listened, attentive.

When she was done, she leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “If you had to take a guess, would you say he’s delusional? Siyal, I mean.”

“It’s useless for me to conjecture. I’d never seen him before that evening at the fair, and I haven’t met him since. But what makes you think he’s—” Ashwin paused, as if trying to find the right word.

“Paranoid?” Vikram prompted. “Losing touch with reality?”

“Unreliable?” finished Ashwin primly.

“You really have to ask?” Ruban scoffed.

“Humor me.”

“The fact that our Central Bank is autonomous, to begin with. And the only TV channel owned by the government is the one that nobody watches,” Ruban deadpanned. “There’s no single entity controlling the media, the government, and the banks in this country. If there was, we’d have heard of it by now. Might even make life a bit simpler.”

For a moment, Ashwin said nothing. Pursing his lips, he stared ponderously out of the window. “What if the lieutenant wasn’t talking about a single entity? What if he meant a group of individuals?”

“A group?” Vikram repeated. “Like the cults?”

Ashwin shrugged. “Ruban believes it unlikely any single entity can control every important institution in this country. And I do agree with him. But it doesn’t have to be a single entity, does it? And Siyal didn’t say anything about the Central Bank, specifically.” He paused, as if trying to find a way to better articulate his thoughts. “What if he wasn’t trying to spin any grand tales of conspiracy?

“What if he meant exactly what he said? That Simani’s accident was orchestrated by a group of people. A group of individuals who each control a bank, a media company, and a particular department of the government, respectively. Independent of each other.”

Vikram exhaled sharply. “Well, it does sound slightly more plausible when you put it like that. Emphasis on slightly.” He tipped his head back to look at Ashwin. “But why’d such a group even exist? Why would such pre-eminent personalities, from such disparate fields, come together to…”

“Murder your wife?” Simani chuckled, her eyes twinkling. “What more compelling evidence of the fact that you’ve married way beyond your league?”

In a swift motion, Vikram snatched the dishrag from Ashwin’s hand and chucked it at Simani.

She caught it mid-air and hurled it back at him, laughing.

Right before it smacked Vikram in the face, Ashwin intercepted the ill-used piece of cloth. “Clearly, you two need something to occupy your hands while you talk.”

He swept into the kitchen, trailed by Hiya and Sri, who were giggling uncontrollably. A few minutes later, the three of them emerged with several bowls of fragrant rice pudding.

Not being the type to look a gift horse in the mouth, Ruban dug in. And after another minute of bickering, Simani and Vikram followed suit.

Fueled by dessert, they hashed out every aspect of the case, painstakingly unraveling the tangled, incomprehensible mess of Siyal’s tirade earlier that day.

It was tedious work, often confusing. “Certainly, nobody at the IAW has sufficient financial leverage to bankroll a cult like HAVA.” Vikram scraped the bottom of the bowl with his spoon, savoring every last bit of the pudding. “Never mind influencing powerful media personalities like Viman Rai to echo their rhetoric.”