Arav Mehta loved the piano more than anything else.
At twenty-eight, he performed at small cafés across Pune, a city of old bungalows and buzzing IT parks.
His special attraction for audiences was unusual: Arav pretended to be blind.

The idea began as a creative challenge.
“Music is stronger when people focus on sound, not sight,” he once told his friend and landlord Tanya, who rented him a room above her art studio.

By wearing dark glasses and using a white cane, Arav created an air of mystery that drew bigger crowds. Only Tanya knew the truth.

One warm evening after a café show, an older man in a designer suit approached Arav.

“I’m Devinder Kapoor,” the man said. “Retired film star. My wife loves music. We’re hosting a private recital for her birthday tomorrow. Would you play?”

Arav hesitated. “I don’t usually do private parties.”

Kapoor smiled. “It’s a small gathering. You’ll be paid well.”

Needing the money, Arav agreed.

The next evening Arav arrived at the Kapoors’ grand bungalow on the city’s outskirts.
Kapoor greeted him warmly but whispered, “My wife is out shopping. Set up in the living room. She’ll be delighted.”

As Arav adjusted the piano bench, a loud thud came from upstairs.
He froze.

Curious, he walked—still using his white cane—toward the sound.

Through the half-open bedroom door he saw something shocking:

Devinder Kapoor lay motionless on the floor.
A gun lay beside him.
Standing over the body was a woman in a silk saree, trembling but alert.

It had to be Mrs. Kapoor.

Arav’s heart raced.
But remembering he was “blind,” he quickly turned and returned to the piano. 

Moments later, Mrs. Kapoor entered the living room, composed, eyes searching his face.
“You must be the pianist,” she said smoothly.

“Yes,” Arav replied, keeping his gaze vague.

She smiled faintly. “Please begin.”

He played a gentle melody while she made a call in another room, speaking in hurried whispers.

Arav’s fingers moved automatically, but his mind screamed: She just killed her husband.

Through the music he heard shuffling noises—dragging, a door closing.
He risked a tiny glance: a man in a police inspector’s uniform had arrived.

The officer, later introduced as Inspector Suresh Patil, helped Mrs. Kapoor carry a heavy carpet out the back door.

Arav kept playing, pretending blindness, heart hammering.

When Mrs. Kapoor returned, she offered him tea.
“Thank you for the music,” she said softly. “Did you… hear anything unusual?”

“No,” Arav said, steadying his voice. “Only the piano.”

She studied him. “Good.”

She paid him generously and watched as he left.

Back at Tanya’s studio, Arav spilled everything.

“This is serious murder,” Tanya said. “We should call the police.”

Arav shook his head. “The inspector was helping her. Who would believe us?”

They agreed to stay silent but alert.

Two days later, a stranger slipped a note under Arav’s door:
“We know you can see. Meet us at the old railway shed tonight—alone.”

At the meeting place, Inspector Suresh appeared.

“You played beautifully that night,” Suresh said coldly. “But the act is over. I know you witnessed everything. Help us keep this quiet, and you live. Otherwise…”

He handed Arav a bag with cash. “This is your silence fee.”

Arav took the money—buying time—but his mind raced for another plan.

Arav remembered the piano had a built-in smart speaker that sometimes auto-recorded practice sessions.
He checked the memory card.

Yes—his entire performance was saved, including faint background sounds of the struggle and dragging.

If analyzed, it could prove there had been a body moved during the recital.

Tanya’s cousin worked at a news outlet.
They decided to share the audio anonymously, claiming it captured a possible crime.

Within a week, a small investigative report aired:
“Unexplained Noises in Musician’s Recording Raise Murder Questions.”

It didn’t name Arav, but social media buzzed.

Mrs. Kapoor was furious.
She and Inspector Suresh stormed Arav’s room.

“We know you leaked it,” Suresh said, waving a gun. “You’re coming with us.”

Arav feigned confusion. “I’m blind. How could I leak anything?”

“Enough games,” Suresh hissed.

They forced him into their car, driving toward a deserted quarry.

Rain began to pour, slicking the mountain roads.

As Suresh rounded a bend, a truck skidded across the lane.
The car spun, crashing into a barrier.

When Arav regained consciousness, the vehicle was smoking.
Suresh lay lifeless. Mrs. Kapoor, injured, had fled into the forest.

Arav staggered out, shaken but alive.

The next day, police discovered Suresh’s body and a trail of blood leading into the hills, but no sign of Mrs. Kapoor.

News channels exploded with questions about corruption and the mysterious disappearance of the commissioner’s favorite officer.

Arav kept quiet. He returned the hush-money bag to the authorities anonymously, claiming he “found it near the crash site.”

Months later, Arav performed at a prestigious Pune concert hall—still wearing dark glasses, but now the blindness was real.

The crash had damaged his optic nerves; he could see only vague shapes.

Before stepping on stage, Tanya squeezed his hand. “You don’t have to pretend anymore,” she said.

“Ironic, isn’t it?” Arav replied with a gentle smile. “I faked blindness to create better music. Now the darkness is real… and the music is all I have.”

As he played the opening notes, the audience listened in perfect silence—never knowing how many secrets the quiet pianist held.