THE LAST TIFFIN
At exactly 7:30 every morning, Ramesh Sharma rang the doorbell of Flat 304.
And every morning, the same voice shouted from inside—
“Coming, coming! Why are you ringing like the police?”
The door opened.
A sixty-five-year-old man stood there wearing a white vest, loose pyjamas and an expression that suggested the entire world owed him money.
“Good morning, Uncle!” Ramesh smiled.
“Don't call me Uncle. I'm only sixty-five.”
“You're right. You look fifty-nine.”
“Liar.”
“Thank you.”
Ramesh handed him a stainless-steel tiffin.
“Today's special. Aloo paratha.”
The old man immediately brightened.
“With pickle?”
“Of course.”
“Curd?”
“Extra.”
“Then why are you charging me so much?”
Ramesh laughed.
This was their routine for almost three years.
Ramesh delivered lunch for a small tiffin service. Flat 304 belonged to Mr. Prakash Mehta, a retired bank manager and a widower.
He lived alone.
But every evening, someone called him.
And every night, he locked his balcony door.
Ramesh had noticed.
He had also noticed something else.
Mr. Mehta never ate his dinner.
He only ate lunch.
One afternoon, Ramesh finally asked.
“Uncle, why don't you eat dinner?”
Mr. Mehta stared at him.
“Because I'm waiting.”
“For what?”
The old man smiled strangely.
“For my son.”
Ramesh's smile disappeared.
“Your son lives here?”
“No.”
“Then where?”
“Somewhere he shouldn't be.”
Ramesh didn't understand.
Before he could ask anything else, Mr. Mehta closed the door.
That night, at 11:47 p.m., Ramesh's phone rang.
It was Mr. Mehta.
“Ramesh…”
His voice was trembling.
“Come tomorrow morning.”
“What happened?”
“I need your help.”
“With what?”
A long silence.
Then—
“Someone is trying to kill me.”
The call disconnected.
Ramesh didn't sleep that night.
The next morning, he reached Flat 304 at 7:15.
The door was slightly open.
“Uncle?”
No answer.
He pushed the door.
Mr. Mehta was lying on the floor.
Blood was beside his head.
Ramesh screamed.
“UNCLE!”
Neighbours rushed in.
Someone called the police.
Within twenty minutes, the entire building was crowded.
Inspector Vikram Deshmukh arrived.
He examined the room.
“No forced entry.”
The balcony was locked.
The main door was locked from inside.
There was only one possible conclusion.
Someone Mr. Mehta knew had killed him.
But there was something strange.
The kitchen table contained two plates.
Two glasses.
And two cups of tea.
Inspector Vikram looked at Ramesh.
“You delivered his lunch?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know anyone who visited him?”
“No.”
“Think carefully.”
Ramesh swallowed.
Then he remembered.
“His son.”
“What son?”
“Uncle always said his son would come.”
“Did you ever see him?”
“No.”
The inspector looked around.
“What's his son's name?”
Ramesh froze.
“I don't know.”
That seemed impossible.
A man had been living alone for years, talking about his son every day—and nobody knew his name.
The police searched the flat.
They found no photographs.
No letters.
No documents.
Nothing.
Then Ramesh noticed something.
The wall clock.
It had stopped at exactly 11:47.
The same time Mr. Mehta had called him.
Ramesh's heart raced.
“Sir…”
He pointed toward the clock.
Inspector Vikram examined it.
“Battery removed.”
Someone had deliberately stopped the clock.
But why?
That night, Ramesh received another call.
Unknown number.
“Hello?”
A man's voice whispered—
“Stop asking questions.”
Ramesh's blood ran cold.
“Who are you?”
“You don't want to know.”
The call ended.
The next morning, Ramesh went to the police station.
Inspector Vikram was already waiting.
“We traced the number.”
“And?”
The inspector stared at him.
“It came from inside Flat 304.”
Ramesh's face went pale.
“But the flat is sealed.”
“Yes.”
Both men went silent.
They returned to the building.
The police broke the seal.
Inside, everything was exactly as they had left it.
Except one thing.
The tiffin box.
It was sitting in the middle of the dining table.
Ramesh had not delivered lunch that day.
He slowly opened it.
Inside was a folded piece of paper.
Three words were written on it:
LOOK UNDER BED.
Inspector Vikram pulled out his gun.
“Don't touch anything.”
They lifted the bed.
Nothing.
Then Ramesh noticed a loose tile.
They removed it.
Beneath it was a small metal box.
Inside were photographs.
Dozens of them.
All photographs of the same young man.
The inspector stared.
“Who is this?”
Ramesh picked up one photograph.
His hands began shaking.
He recognized the man.
It was him.
Not exactly him.
But unmistakably…
Ramesh.
Same face.
Same eyes.
Same scar above the eyebrow.
Inspector Vikram stared at Ramesh.
“Explain.”
“I… I can't.”
Then they found an old newspaper clipping.
The headline read:
BANK MANAGER'S SON MISSING AFTER ROAD ACCIDENT
The photograph beside the headline was the same man.
The name was—
ROHAN MEHTA.
Age 28.
Missing for 17 years.
Ramesh couldn't breathe.
Inspector Vikram looked at the date.
Seventeen years ago.
Then he looked at Ramesh.
“How old are you?”
“Thirty-one.”
The inspector's expression changed.
“Where were you born?”
Ramesh whispered—
“I don't know.”
Silence.
Suddenly the lights went off.
A gunshot exploded.
BANG!
Inspector Vikram fell.
Ramesh screamed.
Someone ran through the balcony.
Ramesh chased him.
The stranger jumped onto the neighbouring balcony and disappeared.
Ramesh returned to the room.
Inspector Vikram was alive.
The bullet had only grazed his shoulder.
Then they heard something.
A sound from inside the wardrobe.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
They opened it.
Behind the clothes was a hidden compartment.
And inside—
an old tape recorder.
Inspector Vikram pressed PLAY.
Mr. Mehta's voice filled the room.
“Rohan, if you're hearing this, it means I am dead.”
Ramesh's eyes filled with tears.
“I know you don't remember me.”
“I know you think your parents abandoned you.”
“They didn't.”
The recording continued.
“Seventeen years ago, your mother and I were returning from the bank when our car crashed.”
“You survived.”
“But you suffered severe memory loss.”
“I was told you had died.”
“Then, three years ago, I saw you delivering tiffins outside my building.”
“I recognized you immediately.”
“I followed you.”
“I tried to approach you.”
“But you didn't remember me.”
“So I became your customer.”
Ramesh collapsed onto the chair.
Mr. Mehta's voice trembled.
“I couldn't tell you the truth.”
“Because the people responsible for the accident were still looking for you.”
“Someone inside the bank had stolen millions.”
“You were the only witness.”
The recording stopped.
Ramesh was crying.
Then the tape clicked again.
One final message.
“Rohan… if you're hearing this, don't trust the police.”
Inspector Vikram slowly looked at Ramesh.
Then at his gun.
Ramesh stepped backward.
“Sir?”
The inspector's face became expressionless.
“I was wondering when you'd remember.”
Ramesh froze.
Inspector Vikram smiled.
“I was the one driving that car seventeen years ago.”
Ramesh's eyes widened.
“You killed my father.”
“No.”
The inspector raised his gun.
“Your father killed himself.”
“Because he discovered the truth.”
Ramesh suddenly smiled.
Inspector Vikram frowned.
“Why are you smiling?”
Ramesh reached into his pocket.
He pulled out his phone.
The recording indicator was still running.
“You should have listened to the whole message.”
Inspector Vikram's face changed.
The phone played the final sentence from Mr. Mehta:
“Rohan, if he ever finds you…”
“…make sure you record his confession.”
Sirens screamed outside.
The police stormed into the apartment.
Inspector Vikram dropped his gun.
Ramesh looked toward the old man's empty chair.
For the first time in seventeen years, he remembered his father's face.
And then he laughed through his tears.
“Papa…”
He picked up the tiffin box.
“Tomorrow's lunch is on me.”
From somewhere inside the silent apartment, the old man's voice seemed to answer—
“Don't forget the pickle.”
And for the first time in years…
Ramesh smiled.
