The death

Mrs Ranade sauntered into the clinic, it was a regular check up. The nurse greeted her with a wide smile of familiarity and told her to proceed up the long flight of stairs, the doctor, was waiting.

Mrs Ranade lumbered across to the last steps and stopped at the threshold to catch her breath, her hands on her knees, supporting her body which was hunched over. “Hello Mrs Ranade” said a kind voice, as Mrs Ranade looked up she saw the approaching hands of the Doctor and felt a gentle, loving shove.

She’s dead, said Daya, the CID senior inspector to his assistant, Fredricks. For a death as gruesome as hers there was alarmingly little amount of blood on the either the stairs from which she fell or the ground where she landed and waited for the agents of death to take her away. She was dead. A good Samaritan sitting in the waiting room at the bottom of the stairs alerted the CID.

We cant take a cast of her feet, said Fredricks, Why do we need to? Replied his senior, Daya. No, we don’t, I was just saying, you know her legs are broker. Fredricks was dumb, it’s a miracle he had held on this job for so long.

It was a miracle.

As he examined Mrs Ranade’s hairy legs Fredricks noted a twitch, must be usual before rigor mortis sets in, thought. Can I help you, she said. As he looked around for the person who embodied this voice he noted. Mrs Ranade was talking to him, as he held her legs in his hand and wondered how hairy they were…

Doctor, I think the check up is done, can I leave? Said Mrs Ranade, looking towards the Doctor, who sat up with expected relief and smiled. Daya who looked like he wanted to chew his own hat.

You can go now, Mrs Ranade. All systems look functional.



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