Summary
A kaleidoscopic Calcutta night swallows honesty whole: pious clerk Sadhuram—ink on his fingers from ledgers, not blood—finds the city’s mercurial dusk pinning a vault’s hollow echo on his chest. Sher Khan, velvet-voiced bandit with a hyena’s grin, has ransacked the Imperial Bank, ghosted through sewers, and stitched the crime to Sadhuram’s starched dhoti with a thread of rupees. Before retribution can lasso him, Sher Khan—now masquerading as carpet-bagger Dilawar Khan—slumps dead in the backseat of Bajrang’s sun-bleached taxi, a marigold garland strangling his throat like ironic justice. The corpse’s glassy eyes reflect the city’s neon sham: morality inverted, devotion mocked, survival auctioned to the lowest bidder. Bajrang—hack-driver, part-time dreamer, full-time panic—tastes flight; Sadhuram, clutching rosary beads that rattle like handcuffs, joins him. Together they ricochet through Chinatown opium dens, tram graveyards, the Howrah bridge’s iron ribs, a carnival of silhouettes hunting a killer who is already carrion. Every alley exhales betrayal; every benefactor barters their name for thirty silver coins. In the end the city itself—its fog, its whistles, its Hindu-Muslim heartbeat—must decide which silhouette deserves the noose and which the moksha.
Synopsis
Sher Khan robs a bank and the blame is put on Sadhuram. Sher Khan alias Dilawar Khan gets killed and his body is found in Bajrang's taxi. Both Sadhuram and Bajrang are on the run from the police.
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