The police station, Delhi

I sat in the waiting area of the station. My palms pressed flat against the cold metal seat.

My eyes darted to the walls almost absentmindedly.

Officers moved in and out their boots echoing against the wall.

Their eyes lingering on me, as if I had committed the crime, my fingers tightened around the metal. The chill seeping through my palm, grounding me.

The noises blurred into thin lines fading as my mind stuck on one thought.

My father, Justice Ansh Desai, was inside.

His voice was firm. The kind that didn’t ask, only stated.

The officer replied quietly. His voice was low although he glanced briefly at me. I shifted nervously.

My father turned, looking at me,urging me to come forward.

I stood up. My fingers grew clammy as I walked toward them.

Silence pressed against the walls, as the officer jotted something into the file.

The people continued to move around, the shuffles of footsteps suddenly felt louder.

I gave the statement about the incidents, my voice trembling a little.

But I somehow managed to speak everything.

My father looked at me. His eyes softened a little as he patted my head.

“Sarvisha sign the document.”

The pen felt heavy, my fingers trembled as I scribbled my name on the document.

With that we filed a case under the POCSO Act (Protection of Children from Sexual Offences Act).

Within days,the news was spread like a wildfire across every media outlet and news channel.

The house felt suffocating not because it was crowded or small but because of the news headlines.

Advocate Joshi worked on my case though he had received threats.

Of course filing a case against a public figure was not easy in this country.

National Bank, Delhi

I clutched the checkbook in my hand,the paper crumpling in my grip.

The smell of blood and sweat still clung to me, reminding me of the dread.

I ran a hand over my face exhaling sharply looking ahead.

People stood ahead of me, a long line in front of the counter.

I glanced at the documents in my hands for a second then at the clock.

Without a second thought I moved to the counter number 2.

The person looked at me, my pulse thudded beneath my skin.

Suddenly the room felt colder but somewhere I wished maybe I could get some help from here.

“You need signatures on this.”

The person spoke in a professional voice.

I nodded instinctively, already moving forward the signature.

But then I froze.

Realisation hit me that they were not asking for my signature, but my father's signature.

I looked around scanning the hall people worked around unbothered and I didn't know what to do.

I moved back to the counter.

“The—the person is not available for the signature.”

I swallowed the lump forming in my throat.

The person shook his head as he spoke, almost dismissively.

“Son without signature you cannot withdraw the money.”

My fingers shook as I gripped the pen, the needle biting into my palm.

Were the paperwork and signature more important than someone's life?

Eshvik moved through the hospital corridors.

Each footstep filled with urgency nearly swallowed by the rushed footsteps of nurses, interns and ward boys.

The people sat in the corridor, their heads pressed to the wall, waiting for their beloved to be fine.

The scent of disinfectant curled into the air, the cries of patients echoing somewhere far away.

A patient sat in the waiting area clutching the seat as the nurse continued the dressing.

His hands clutched the packet of necessary medicines and some bills as he stood in front of the ICU.

The monitor beeped faintly as he sat on the floor leaning against the wall. His eyes lingering with exhaustion but the sleep never came.

Just then the ICU door opened.

The doctor entered his posture stiff as he took out the mask.

Eshvik looked up instinctively, standing up. His eyes flickering to the doctor urging him to say something, anything that could bring him relief.

The doctor glanced at him, his voice neutral.

“Sorry. He is no more.”

Eshvik blinked back, his gaze stuck on the door as if confirming it.

The doctor was gone already instructing the nurse.

“Complete the formalities for the patient at bed no. 25.”

But Eshvik stood there. The packet which was once in his hand was now on the floor.

Not every criminal pays the cost for their sin. Sometimes a civilian pays the price of it. Silently.

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