The Mystery of the Missing Underwear
A suspense thriller where the only missing thing is dignity—and a pair of twenty-year-old underwear.
Everything fell apart the day Ken lost his most prized possession—his twenty-year-old underwear.
Every morning, his life ran like clockwork. Wake up at 6:45. Brush teeth at 6:50. Brew tea at 6:55. Shower at 7:30. By 8:00, he would wear a crisp shirt, pressed trousers, and—most importantly—his favourite underwear.
But today, destiny betrayed him.
At 8:01, Ken stood in front of his cupboard, towel slipping, eyes scanning an empty drawer. His underwear was gone. The loyal one. The faded one. The one that had survived girlfriends, neighbours, and even two washing machines.
“Impossible,” he muttered. “All the useless ones are still here. Stripes, checks, even that stupid polka-dot one Anu gave me. But not the black one. Or green one. Or… whatever colour it once was.”
The drawer looked like a burglar had cherry-picked the treasure and left the rejects behind to celebrate.
Ken’s chest tightened. That underwear wasn’t just cloth—it was comfort, loyalty, home. He loved it so much he could have sacrificed his wife for it—and maybe even sent her a thank-you card afterwards.
He clenched his jaw. He would not rest. He would find the thief. And he would bring justice to the underwear.
***
Ken’s first suspect was his wife, Anu. She had always hated the underwear and had made several murder attempts on it.
First, she tried drowning it in the washing machine.
When that didn’t work, she roasted it alive under the blazing sun, abandoned on the terrace with no one to save it.
When even that failed, she tried gifting it to the servant—like it was some unwanted second wife.
Somehow, Ken had rescued it from the servant’s washroom.
“Thank God he didn’t wear it,” Ken muttered at the time. “The fool was using it to sweep the floor.”
With that bloody history, Ken was sure the thief was Anu.
He stormed onto the balcony, towel swaying like a war flag. The clothesline flapped in the wind: shirts, socks, one lonely towel. But no underwear.
Then he saw it.
Something dull. Something stretchy. Was that… his faded briefs hanging beside her floral sari?
Ken gasped. A robbery, right under his nose. His heart leapt. It was like seeing a lost lover across a battlefield of saris and socks.
He leaned over the railing to confirm, but the towel betrayed him. It slipped. He caught it mid-air, spinning in a pirouette so wild that a milkman below dropped all his bottles.
Ken gripped the towel tighter. Better to die naked than live without his underwear.
“KEN!” Anu screamed. “Why are you dangling like a circus monkey?”
Ken pointed, finger trembling. “Investigating… theft.”
Anu frowned and plucked the suspicious item from the line. “These aren’t yours. Yours is old and dirty. These are too new.” She cradled the underwear like a baby. “I bought this for Nick.”
Ken’s stomach sank. For one shining second, he had pictured his reunion—him, the underwear, a fresh beginning. But now that dream was diapered for his son.
“Tell me the truth,” he snapped. “Where have you thrown mine? Admit it—you’re the thief.” He jabbed his finger at her again and again, like a sulking child demanding a toy.
Anu rolled her eyes. “Look, I’d love to kill that rag of yours. But I haven’t stolen it this time.” She stuffed her clothes into the basket and chuckled. “Strangely, your mother and I only agree on one thing—our hatred for your underwear.”
Ken froze. Of course. His mother. The original assassin. Twenty years of failed attempts, one heroic rescue from the dump yard. The old war wasn’t over—it had only entered a new phase.
Jaw tight, he bolted toward her room.
***
“Look, Mom,” Ken said, trying to stay calm. “I know you hate my underwear. But I need it.” He held out his palms as if she might drop the relic into them out of pity.
His mother didn’t flinch. Her eyes stayed glued to the TV. Beside her, his father gave her a discreet elbow, but she cared more about the dying soap-opera hero than her son’s dying underwear.
Ken marched over and planted himself in front of the screen. Now she had no choice but to see him.
With a grunt, she shoved past, opened a drawer, and tossed something at him. “Here. Take it.”
Ken caught the box, opened it, and froze. This wasn’t underwear. This was betrayal stitched in cotton.
“Mom… this is not mine.” He pulled out a V-shaped brief patterned with cheerful flowers and shoved it between her and the TV. “Who even wears flowery underwear?” He snorted—then stopped when his mother’s eyes slid to his father.
His father coughed, stood up, and shuffled off to his room, face red. Ken stared. First his underwear was missing, now his father was secretly blooming in flowers?
“Why don’t you try this one?” his mother said, pointing at the floral briefs in his hand. “It’s much better than that rag you love. And…” She lifted her palm to silence him, “…it’s new. And clean. Unlike yours.”
Her words cut deeper than detergent. His underwear wasn’t dirty—it was seasoned.
Ken’s jaw trembled. He couldn’t believe his mother was insulting his sacred underwear while waving another man’s in his face. “Mom, please. Just give it back. Anu said she saw it with you.”
She glared at him, shaking her head like a villain disappointed in her prey. “You believe your wife but not me? I haven’t touched it.”
“But Mom—”
“Ask your child,” she cut in. “He was the last one playing with it.” She shoved him aside and reclaimed her spot in front of the TV.
Ken staggered back. Everyone was against him—the wife, the mother, even prime-time television.
***
Ken clenched his fists and roared, “Nick! Come here!”
His shout was so loud that even the neighbourhood cats trotted in, tails high. They circled him, confused.
“Where is my underwear? Your grandma says you were playing with it.” His breathing grew so heavy the cats thought he was hissing. They hissed back, fur standing like antennas desperate to broadcast the scene live.
Nick, only five, stepped forward trembling. He knew well the holy status his father’s underwear had in the family. “I… I kept it in the drawer, Dad.”
Ken rushed to the drawer, yanked it open, and felt a flicker of hope. Empty. His heart sank like a stone. He spun back. “It’s not there, Nick. Where were you playing with it? And why?”
Nick swallowed and darted behind his mother, peeking out like a guilty criminal. “I… I dropped it on the floor. The dog picked it up and started playing with it.”
“What?” Ken’s eyes flew to the dog. The creature avoided his gaze, tail tucked, guilt dripping from its eyes.
Nick’s voice dropped to a whisper. “But then he… went unconscious after smelling it.” He stared at his shoes. “That’s when I grabbed it and put it back in the drawer.”
Ken staggered back. His underwear had turned into a weapon of mass destruction. Even the dog couldn’t survive it.
He raked his hands through his hair. He had already warned the servants never to touch it—even if someone gifted it to them. Who else could he trust now?
There was only one path left. Experts. Professionals. People trained to solve the darkest crimes.
Ken squared his shoulders. He would call the police.
***
The police marched into his house, boots thudding like they were about to crack a mafia case.
Ken poured out everything—the sacred underwear, the suspects, even the fainting dog. The officers listened with straight faces, nodding seriously. Then one of them crooked a finger at him.
SLAP!
Ken reeled back.
“Do you think we have nothing else to do?” the inspector barked.
Ken clutched his cheek, stunned. Before he could recover—
SLAP!
His head snapped again.
“You think we’ll waste time chasing an underwear thief?”
Ken opened his mouth, but no words came out.
The inspector sighed, reached into his pocket, and flung a hundred-rupee note at Ken’s face. “Here. Go buy a new pair.”
From the corner, his mother smirked and held up the flowery briefs like they were Exhibit A.
Ken’s cheek burned, but the insult cut deeper. A new pair? Never. He couldn’t betray his old underwear—not for a hundred rupees, not for a thousand.
His eyes swept across the room—his wife, his mother, the police—all of them against him. Pain rose in his chest.
Slowly, he reached for his phone.
If the police wouldn’t give him justice, someone else would.
Ken dialed a number. He called the media.
***
Before the police could sneak away, the media stormed into Ken’s house. Reporters swarmed the living room, microphones thrust forward like spears.
They were starving for a headline. And this—The Mystery of the Missing Underwear—was perfect.
They grilled everyone.
His wife blamed his mother.
His mother blamed his wife.
One neighbour swore the servant was guilty.
A bold reporter even pointed at the dog, who immediately hid under the sofa.
Ken clasped his hands and begged the media. “Find my underwear! Give it justice!”
The inspector’s palm twitched, eager for another slap, but with cameras rolling he held back. Instead, the police ransacked the house—kitchen, washroom, bedrooms, even the garage.
Nothing.
By evening, the media left, disappointed but not empty-handed. That night, every channel screamed about the “Underwear Conspiracy.” Anchors shouted into their mics. Panelists argued over whether the wife, the mother, or the dog was guilty.
The police trudged out, warning Ken never to call them again.
Alone, Ken collapsed on his bed. Tears slid down his cheeks. His underwear was gone forever.
He hugged his pillow like it was his last piece of cotton comfort and whispered a vow: if not in reality, then at least in dreams, he would wear his underwear again.
***
The next morning, Ken dragged himself through his routine like a broken man. Brush. Shower. Fresh pair.
His hand froze on the drawer. A memory stabbed him—his old underwear, loyal for twenty years. He sighed and pulled the drawer open.
His heart almost stopped.
There it was.
Faded. Dirty. Frayed at the edges. His underwear. His lost soldier.
Ken’s hands shook. He lifted it, pressed it to his chest, and kissed it like a long-lost lover. Tears filled his eyes.
Then something scratched his lips. A folded note.
With trembling fingers, he pulled it out and read:
“Please try to find my old underwear. Remember we bought two together, twenty years ago? I lost mine a few days back. I tried yours yesterday but it’s not as good as mine. Also, please throw away the flowery underwear your mom gifted me. Love, Dad.”
Ken’s chest twisted. Relief. Joy. Anger. All at once. He had found his treasure. But his own father had dared to say his was better.
Ken hugged the underwear tighter, kissed it again, and whispered, “You’re still the best… even if Dad doesn’t think so.”
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