In 1991, Suraj Kumar School, located on the outskirts of Delhi, was like any other government school: a gray building, tired teachers, and students eager to leave as soon as possible. Nothing indicated that this year would be forever etched in the memories of the school and the neighborhood.

But within a few weeks, four girls in the same class—Anvi Srivastava, Kavya Mehra, Nandini Jain, and Priya Agarwal, all 16 years old—were discovered to be pregnant.

The news spread like wildfire. Families reacted with disbelief and embarrassment, and teachers refrained from commenting. Rumors knew no bounds: they were planning something, they were with the same boy, or it was just a joke that got out of hand. But the most shocking thing was what happened next.

One morning in April, Anvi didn’t come to school. Neither did she return home. Two days later, Kavya disappeared. Then Nandini. And finally, Priya. One by one, without saying goodbye, without leaving a note, without leaving any trace of a struggle. Just… they disappeared.

The Delhi Police conducted a thorough investigation: interviews, searches in nearby parks and gardens, street checks, questioning the boys, teachers, and parents. No clues were found. Newspapers ran sensational headlines, and the case was closed without a solution. The school lost students, the halls fell silent, and the neighborhood was shrouded in guilt and fear. Years later, the memory of those four girls became almost a taboo subject.

Thirty years later, in 2021, the school still stood, albeit partially renovated. The oldest watchman, Ramesh Chaturvedi, was one of the few who had worked there since the 1990s. He was calm, organized, and exceptionally memorable.

One October morning, while checking a trust room that was soon to be demolished, he noticed an old ventilation grill was loose. While removing it, he noticed a gap behind the wall: narrow, dark, and covered in dust. Inside, he found an old file, wrapped in school plastic from the 1990s and damp.

Bringing it to light and opening it, Ramesh paused. The file contained photographs of the four girls, some inside the school, some at an unknown location; drawings of plans; timetable notes; a list of names; and finally, a letter dated March 1991. The handwriting was trembling. Sender: Priya Agarwal.

Ramesh, with cold hands and a pounding heartbeat, understood that this could not be ignored. He had, perhaps unknowingly, kept a secret safe for so long. And now, three decades later, something had stirred for the first time.

“I must show this to someone,” he said softly.

But first, he wanted to read the letter.

The letter was handwritten, in faded blue ink. Some words were blurred by the humidity, but the message was perfectly legible. Ramesh sat on a bench and began reading, as if he needed support to understand what happened next.

“If anyone finds this, please don’t blame us. We had no other choice.”

Priya writes that initially, she and her friends hadn’t planned anything. Everyone grappled with their emotions: fear, shame, uncertainty. Strangely, they all discovered they were pregnant almost simultaneously. No one was in a stable relationship, no one wanted to reveal the father’s name. But they all agreed on one thing: they trusted the same person.

That name was underlined in the letter and written several times in the file notes: Alfonso Mira, a temporary history teacher, appointed just that year, whom students described as “handsome, young, and very close.”

Priya explains that Mira manipulated each girl differently. With Anvi, he acted as a trusted friend; with Kavya, as her protector; with Nandini, as a guide; With Priya, he was an understanding of family complexities. Simply put, he was a predator who pretended to care.

The letter stated that when the girls suspected that Mira had abused several of them, they tried to confront him. Mira responded coldly: assuring them that no one would support them, that he had connections, that he could deny everything, and that he would make them out to be “liars who want to ruin their lives.” Then he offered a “solution”: sending them to a rural home, where he would bring rations every few days, telling them, “If you keep quiet, everything will be fine.”

On March 14, 1991, after class, Mira took them two by two from Delhi to a small village nearby. Initially, it seemed like a safe haven, but they soon discovered the place was a trap. The doors were locked from the outside, there was no phone, and Mira would bring rations every few days, telling them, “Everything will be fine if you keep quiet.”

The letter ends abruptly:

“If something went wrong, let the truth come out. We didn’t leave because we wanted to. We were taken away. And we are not alone.”

Ramesh felt a shiver. Not just because of the letter, but also because of the line written several times in the file:
“See in the old building—witness—class 3B.”

Only then did he understand there was more to the story.

Ramesh didn’t immediately go to the police. He inspected the “old building” himself. It was still standing, though closed for years due to dampness. No one went there. Except Ramesh, who had the keys to all the doors.

He went to Classroom 3B. Dust-covered benches, locks hanging from the ceiling. To one side, he found a rusted metal cabinet. Inside was the same file as before, but in better condition. It contained handwritten statements from other students, dated between January and March 1991.

He found the missing link: Other students had also suspected Mira. Some had noticed him going to the audiovisual room with different girls. Others wrote that he changed the tutoring schedule. One student said he asked her personal questions and touched her inappropriately. One sketch even included Mira’s car license plate.

Most alarming: the school counselor’s report, two weeks before her disappearance, which recommended an investigation into Mira’s “inappropriate behavior.” Written on the margin was: “Do not move—Principal’s orders.”

Ramesh closed his eyes. The memory of that principal came to mind: strict, politically connected, and scandal-averse. He had passed away more than ten years ago.

The puzzle was fitting perfectly.

But the main question: what happened to the girls?

Ramesh searched Delhi’s rural property register. After hours of searching, he found that Mira owned a small house in the Libana area. It matched the letter’s description.

The house was in ruins. The main door opened easily. Inside lay old mattresses, food containers, and water bottles dated 1991. In a corner, under the floorboards, he found the children’s diary, with four names: Anvi, Kavya, Nandini, and Priya.

The contents were heartbreaking. Small notes, among the girls:
— “He didn’t come today. The milk is finished.”
— “I heard the car, but it wasn’t there.”
— “My stomach hurts.”
— “We have to leave.”

The last page was written quickly:

“We’ll try tonight. We can’t stay here any longer. If we find them, you know what will happen.”

It wasn’t known whether they had survived. No clues, no struggle. But now the documents were enough: to reopen the case, expose Mira’s cunning, and break the silence behind her.

Ramesh handed everything over to the police. The investigation revealed that Mira had left India for Portugal in 1992, and was eventually arrested there. She never told the truth.

But because of the watchman, the silence was finally broken.

And the Delhi neighborhood, thirty years later, could remember them again:

Anvi. Kavya. Nandini. Priya.

Four stories that can no longer be suppressed.