The mist clung to the sarovar like a shroud at dawn, the sacred pool of Tarn Taran Sahib mirroring the golden dome of the Gurdwara in fractured silver. Pilgrims would soon throng the marble parikarma, their karah prasad-scented footsteps echoing prayers to Guru Arjan Dev. But today, the air carried a sharper tang—iron and decay.

Inspector Jaspreet Kaur knelt at the water's edge, her crisp khaki uniform already damp from the Punjab dew. At 32, she was the district's lone female SHO, a badge of honor in a force where beards and bravado ruled. Her turban, a defiant sky-blue, bobbed as she peered into the depths. The body bobbed too, face-down, a young man's limbs splayed like a broken marionette. Amrit Singh, 24, son of a wheat farmer from nearby Patti. His white kurta stained crimson, a single stab wound blooming beneath his ribs.

"Suicide, memsahab?" Constable Balwinder muttered, scratching his stubbled jaw. "Or some lover's quarrel. These village boys, always chasing skirts across the border fields."

Jaspreet shot him a glare sharp as her kirpan. "Fetch the divers. And call the family—no leaks to the press. Tarn Taran's got enough whispers without this turning into tabloid fodder."

By noon, the post-mortem confirmed it: murder. The blade had nicked the heart, clean and professional. No defensive wounds. Amrit had been drugged first—traces of synthetic opioids in his blood. Punjab's ghost, the white powder seeping from Pakistan's porous frontier, had claimed another soul. But why here, in the holiest of waters? Defilement screamed intent.

Jaspreet's jeep rattled along the GT Road toward Patti, past mustard fields swaying like golden waves under the relentless September sun. The district's veins pulsed with Sikh pride—Gurdwaras at every turn, from Khadur Sahib's humble shrines to the sarovar's vast embrace. Yet beneath the kirtan hymns lurked shadows: smuggling rings thriving on the Ravi River's banks, families torn by addiction, honor veiling vendettas.

Amrit's father, Sardar Gurmeet Singh, waited on the haveli's charpoy, his arthritic hands twisting a rosary of wooden mala beads. The courtyard smelled of fresh roti and grief. "My boy was good, Inspector ji," he rasped, eyes hollow under his graying turban. "Helping with the harvest. No enemies. The canal took him—slipped in the dark."

Jaspreet noted the tremor in his voice, the way his gaze flicked to the locked godown at the farm's edge. "The canal or the sarovar? And these?" She slid photos across the low table—Amrit's phone snaps, timestamped last week: shadowy figures unloading burlap sacks under moonlight, near the border fence at Bhikhiwind.

Gurmeet's face paled. "Fakes. My son wouldn't touch that filth."

But Jaspreet knew better. Tarn Taran's fields hid more than poppies; they cradled heroin labs, mules like Amrit ferrying death for a fistful of rupees. She pressed: "His fiancée, Simran? She saw him that night."

Gurmeet's lips thinned. "Jatt girl from the next village. We approved the match. But whispers... she runs with city types."

Simran met her at a roadside dhaba, her dupatta fluttering like a flag of defiance. Pretty, with kohl-rimmed eyes and a nose ring glinting in the chai steam. "Amrit was scared, aunty ji," she whispered, glancing at the truckers leering from afar. "Said the 'ghosts' were after him—smugglers from across the river. Owed them money. Wanted to quit, run to Amritsar with me."

Jaspreet's pulse quickened. "Names?"

"Only one: Baba Ji. The old smuggler in the abandoned gurdwara at Valtoha. Controls the route through the wetlands."

Baba Ji—real name unknown, a specter in the district's underbelly. Ex-Khalistani turned kingpin, his network snaked from Lahore's bazaars to Tarn Taran's veins. Jaspreet radioed for backup, but the line crackled static. "Storm coming," Balwinder grumbled. "Monsoon remnants."

Dusk fell like a blade as Jaspreet approached Valtoha's derelict Gurdwara, its dome cracked like an eggshell. Wheat fields whispered secrets, the Ravi's distant murmur a siren's call. Her Glock felt heavy in her holster, the only concession to her Delhi training in this land of daos and despair.

Footsteps crunched gravel. Not Balwinder—too stealthy. A figure emerged from the shadows: Gurmeet, Amrit's father, shotgun leveled. "You should've stayed in the city, Inspector. Women meddling in men's wars."

Betrayal hit like monsoon rain. "You? For the smuggling debts?"

He sneered, rain streaking his beard. "Amrit was weak—wanted out. Baba Ji's cut was due. The boy threatened to talk. I... ended it. In the sarovar, to mock the gods he betrayed."

Jaspreet's mind raced. The locked godown—his stash. Simran's tears, feigned? No, the girl had texted coordinates, a desperate ally. "Your son was clean. You poisoned him with your greed."

Gurmeet fired, buckshot shredding the air. Jaspreet dove into the fields, stalks whipping her face like vengeful spirits. Mud sucked at her boots as she sprinted, heart thundering a dhol beat. Another blast tore earth behind her. She zigzagged, Glock barking return fire—missed, the recoil jarring her shoulder.

Lightning cracked the sky, illuminating Baba Ji's silhouette on the gurdwara roof, his Pathan guards fanning out like wolves. "Surrender the woman!" the old man bellowed, voice gravel over thunder. "She knows too much!"

Jaspreet feinted left, circling back toward the jeep. Gurmeet lunged from the wheat, shotgun raised—but Simran exploded from the undergrowth, a harvest sickle flashing. It caught his arm, blood spraying like monsoon spray. He howled, dropping the weapon.

"Run!" Simran gasped, eyes wild. "I followed you—saw the truth."

Jaspreet snatched the shotgun, pumping a warning shot into the night. Baba Ji's men hesitated, thunder masking their advance. She herded Simran to the jeep, engine roaring to life as bullets pinged the chassis. Tires spun mud, hurtling toward the GT Road.

Sirens wailed—Balwinder's backup, late but loyal. By dawn, Gurmeet was cuffed in the thana, Baba Ji's lair raided, kilos of heroin seized from the godown. Simran, tear-streaked, clutched Jaspreet's hand. "For Amrit."

The sarovar gleamed innocent again, pilgrims circling in devotion. But Jaspreet knew the shadows lingered—Punjab's eternal thriller, where faith and felony danced on a knife's edge. She adjusted her turban, stepping into the light. Tarn Taran's guardian, unbroken.