In the busy lanes of Lal Chowk, a quiet mystery unfolded for months—until one clever trap exposed the truth.
By Syed Majid Gilani
In the late 1980s, Court Road in Srinagar’s bustling Lal Chowk was at its vibrant best. Lines of shoppers threaded through the narrow lanes, vendors shouted over the hum of traffic, and the air carried the familiar clatter of the city’s commercial heart. Among the many storefronts that defined this era stood M/S Sajad Enterprises, a popular crockery shop known for its elegant imported wares and for a quiet, disciplined man who kept it running like clockwork.
That man was Syed Abdul Rashid Gilani—recently retired from government service and newly devoted to helping his younger brother manage the family business. While his brother could attend the shop only in the evenings and on holidays, Abdul Rashid spent his days surrounded by the delicate clink of porcelain and glass, maintaining the books with military precision and greeting customers with a gentle courtesy that made the shop a trusted stop for families in the neighbourhood.
But behind the polished counters and well-arranged shelves, a quiet mystery was growing.
Every few weeks, one or two high-value crockery pieces—usually the kind kept on the upper shelves—would disappear. There were no signs of a break-in, no shattered locks, no disturbed displays. At first, Abdul Rashid brushed the losses aside as an accounting error or a misplacement. But when the pattern repeated with uncanny consistency, suspicion hardened into worry. The shop was small enough that every absence felt personal. With no evidence to guide him, he did what seasoned shopkeepers often do in tightly knit markets: he observed, he waited, and he watched people more closely.
Among the regulars, one visitor stood out—a woman with a strikingly rigid posture and a disarming presence. She often arrived with two children in tow. She was polite and soft-spoken, but her visits always followed the same script: she asked to see expensive items, handled them delicately, asked more questions than most buyers—and left without purchasing anything. While she kept Abdul Rashid engaged at the counter, the children, unusually attentive for their age, wandered through the aisles. Their movements were quick but disciplined, almost rehearsed.
Something in this pattern unsettled him. Her timing, her curiosity, the alertness of the children—it all aligned too neatly with the days items went missing. Yet suspicion was one thing; accusation was another. Abdul Rashid was too measured a man to confront anyone without proof.
Then came the evening that changed everything.
He returned home carrying an object that instantly baffled everyone—a single brick, wrapped carefully in a bag as though it were something precious. He refused to reveal his plan, offering only a quiet smile. That night, as the household speculated, he placed the brick beside him like a prop in an unfinished play.
The next morning, the mystery began to take shape. At the shop, he placed a beautifully decorated carton in a corner. It looked like it held premium crockery—a tempting, ready-to-carry package that could be lifted without attracting attention. Inside, however, was only the brick. The trap was set.
Days passed before the familiar figure reappeared. The woman entered with her children, her questions flowing in the same practiced rhythm. As she engaged Abdul Rashid at the counter, the children drifted toward the decorated carton. Within minutes, the box quietly vanished out the door. A moment later, the woman followed.
Abdul Rashid waited just long enough to be sure, then stepped outside and called her back. His voice, firm but not raised, drew the attention of the neighbouring shopkeepers. A small crowd gathered.
When he asked her about the carton, she denied everything. She claimed she had purchased it elsewhere and accused him of mistaking her for someone else. Her tone grew defensive, almost theatrical, as if she were trying to turn the crowd’s sympathy in her favour.
Abdul Rashid listened without interruption. When she finished, he pointed calmly at the carton now lying on the ground. In a voice that carried across the crowd, he said, “If this carton is really yours, open it. Inside, there is no crockery—only something that will tell us the truth.”
A hush fell over the street.
Someone from the crowd handed the box to him. As the lid was lifted, the truth emerged in the plainest form possible—one heavy brick resting inside an otherwise empty, decorative carton.
The woman’s face drained of colour.
Abdul Rashid explained that he had planted the brick deliberately to identify the thief who had been stealing from the shop for months. The evidence spoke for itself. Cornered, the woman broke down. With shaking hands, she confessed that she had targeted several shops in the area using the same method. She pleaded with him not to involve the police.
The spectators erupted—not in anger, but in admiration. Shopkeepers applauded the cleverness of a man who had solved the mystery without confrontation or chaos. Abdul Rashid simply nodded in acknowledgement, his calmness unshaken. He let the woman go with a warning, valuing dignity over punishment.
The incident spread quickly across Court Road. Within days, the “brick trap” became a story retold with equal parts humour and awe. For years afterward, shopkeepers narrated the tale to new traders and young apprentices as proof that intelligence need not roar; sometimes it speaks in quiet, strategic gestures.
The mystery ended where it began—inside a small crockery shop run by a man whose patience and wit outshone any thief’s craft. And long after the woman disappeared from the marketplace, the legend of the brick remained—an enduring reminder that true wisdom often works softly, silently, and with remarkable precision.
The views expressed in this article are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the opinions or views of this newspaper. The author can be reached at [email protected]
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