Speculation Nation.

The Crime We Consume.

The ceiling fan at Aunt Selvi’s place didn’t just rotate; it fought for its life at speed number five, throwing down a steady thwack-thwack-thwack of warm, coastal air that smelled faintly of dry fish drying on the neighbor’s terrace and the sharp, sour hit of Udupi mattugulla brinjal bubbling in the kitchen.

Outside, the monsoon was doing its typical Udupi number—loud, relentless sheets of rain hammering the red-tiled roof, making the whole world outside feel like an aquatic blur. Inside, it was a different kind of high-decibel circus.

Uncle Muttappa was sitting on the edge of his plastic chair, his lungi hitched up above his knees, completely transfixed by the TV screen. On screen, a Kannada news anchor was screaming loud enough to pierce through the thunder outside, the red ‘BREAKING NEWS’ banner flashing across the screen like a hazard light.

“THE SIYA GOYAL MYSTERY: WHAT IS THE ACCUSED HIDING?”

Clack. Kaveri slammed her stainless steel tumbler onto the wooden table, a few drops of butter-milk splashing onto the oilcloth map of the world.

“Uncle, devaru namma kapaadli, please turn that garbage off!” Kaveri’s voice instantly hit that high, sharp pitch she saved for her wellness rants. “We are literally sitting and eating kotte kadubu while injecting toxic waste directly into our nervous system. What the hell are we consuming along with our food? Do you even know what kind of negative manifestation this is?”

Muttappa didn’t even blink. He just aggressively adjusted the volume button on the remote, though the plastic casing was cracked and held together by cellotape. “Aiyyo, quiet, Kaveri! You and your psychology jargon. This is the Ketan Agarwal murder case. The whole country is watching.”

“Not anymore, Uncle,” Ram chimed in, scooping a massive mound of rice and flooding it with Aunt Selvi’s signature piping-hot rasam. Ram, whose life ambition was to direct a gritty neo-noir film but currently survived on making corporate videos for tile companies, pointed his spoon at the TV. “Look at the narrative arc change. Two weeks ago, it was the ‘Ketan Murder.’ Today? ‘Siya Goyal Case.’ Total editorial re-engineering. Why? Because the victim’s name doesn’t sell digital ads, but a young girl who can be painted as a femme fatale? That’s gold standard prime-time rating, boss.”

Aunt Selvi marched out of the kitchen, balancing a heavy, blackened iron kadai with two kitchen towels. She dropped it on the table with a thud that vibrated through the floorboards. Podi-tossed potatoes danced inside.

“Rebranding, storyboarding… saaku maadi your cinema talks, Ram,” Selvi snapped, her side-eye sharp enough to slice the brinjals she’d just cooked. “In our days, a murder meant you bolted the front door, checked the cowshed twice, and prayed to the family deity. Now you people are treating it like a Friday release with hot snacks. Eat the potato before it gets cold, otherwise that will be the next tragedy in this house.”

“No, but Aunty, look at the larger social impact!” Kaveri was now gesturing wildly, her silver bangles clinking a chaotic rhythm. “This is pure subconscious absorption. There isn’t even a proper charge sheet filed yet! It’s all circumstantial gossip leaked by the local cops to the media, and everyone is just lapping it up. What happens to the judicial integrity? We are developing chronic vigilance. We look at our neighbors and wonder if they are hiding a body under the coconut trees. We are becoming a society of paranoid, pessimistic zombies!”

“Zombies, it seems,” Muttappa scoffed, finally turning his head by a fraction of an inch. “She was looking completely suspicious in that security camera footage, Kaveri. Walking like she committed a crime.”

“Uncle, she was running because the Udupi bus stand was flooding!” Ram groaned, slapping his forehead. “That’s what I’m telling you! If cinematography teaches you one thing, it’s that framing creates the villain. They used a low-angle, grainy CCTV grab, slowed down the frame rate, and put a horror background score. Boom—instant killer. It’s a total trial by media. The public has already hanged her in their minds because the news channel needs to feed the polarization monster before the 9 PM commercial break for washing powder.”

“I don’t know about monsters, but if you don’t pass that curd, your own digestion is going to face a crisis,” Selvi countered, wiping her sweaty brow with the pallu of her saree. She reached across the table and snatched the remote out of Muttappa’s hand, hitting the power button with a satisfying click.

The room suddenly felt louder, filled only by the roaring monsoon outside and the frantic whir of the ceiling fan.

“Aiyyo! Why did you shut it?” Muttappa protested, his hands flying up in defeat. “Now how will we know if the police arrested her or what?”

“You will know tomorrow morning from the newspaper like a civilized human being,” Selvi declared, pushing the pickle jar toward him with absolute finality. “Now, no more fear-psychology, no more cinema scripts. Ram, take more rice. Kaveri, stop analyzing the potato and eat it. Let us have at least five minutes of balanced exposure to peace while we still have electricity.”