Chapter 12: The Road Ahead

She started up again.

She ranted, her voice echoing through the station, refusing to accept reality. Even the other complainants in the waiting room muttered disapprovingly.

I spent the whole afternoon at the station with the mother making a scene, wasting over five hours.

My head throbbed. My phone battery died. I watched the shadows lengthen on the police station’s cracked walls. Even the tea had gone cold.

After briefly meeting Arjun that night, I went home.

He squeezed my arm, “Himmat rakh, bhai.” I walked home through empty streets, past shuttered shops, the smell of rain-soaked earth in the air. I felt hollow, but lighter, too.

The next day, while tidying up my shop—

I swept up the broken flower petals and old cigarette butts. The shop felt emptier than ever. I wondered if I’d ever get my old life back.

The mother suddenly barged in with her child, shoving a phone in my face, filming: “Everyone, look! This is the scumbag shop owner who molested my three-year-old daughter!”

Her phone’s flashlight blinded me. She screamed at the top of her lungs. The chaiwala peeped in, shocked.

She smashed up my shop, forcing me to admit to molesting her daughter.

She threw packets of Parle-G on the floor, upended the crate of onions, hurled a stool at the counter. My heart broke as I watched my livelihood get trashed.

I said I didn’t do it.

I tried to reason, “Madam, main nirdosh hoon. Yeh sab galat hai!”

She shouted, “My daughter already said it was you who took her to the storeroom, took off her pants, and slapped her!”

She waved her phone at the child, “Bol na, beta! Yeh hi hai na?”

I said, “We don’t have a storeroom.”

I pointed to the cramped shelves behind me. “Madam, store room kahan hai? Yeh sab dikh raha hai na?”

“Then! Then it’s the second floor!”

She jabbed her finger upward. “Upar hi kuch hoga! Tum jhoot bol rahe ho!”

“There’s no second floor either.”

My shop was single-storeyed—everyone knew that.

“Then it’s the godown! Anyway, it was you. If it wasn’t you, then who molested her?”

She screeched louder, veins standing out on her neck. “Godown hoga hi! Tumhe saza milegi!”

She screamed hysterically.

She banged her fists, her daughter cringing with every blow. My own heart pounded in fear and helplessness.

The girl cowered behind her, clutching her clothes, trembling all over. “Sob sob, mummy… mummy…”

I wanted to take her in my arms, to protect her, but I knew even a glance would be twisted against me. The shop was silent except for the child’s whimpering.

I suddenly felt so sorry for the little girl.

Her eyes pleaded for help, but I was powerless. “Kisne banaya iss bachchi ki zindagi ko tamasha?”

“Why? Does someone have to have molested your daughter? Can’t she just be safe and sound?” I asked the mother.

My voice was hoarse, my words lost in the chaos. “Kya yeh zaroori hai ki aapki beti ke saath kuch bura hua ho?”

She squinted at me. “She’s my daughter—of course I want her to be safe! But she was molested!”

She glared, as if daring me to contradict her. “Woh meri beti hai! Lekin uske saath bura hua hai!”

She trashed my entire shop, then made her daughter identify me at the door.

She dragged her to the threshold, “Bol! Yahi hai na?”

At the entrance, the mother pinched the girl hard, making her cry in pain.

The child’s scream was sharp, echoing down the lane. The passersby paused, watching the spectacle.

The mother was satisfied and raised her phone.

She smiled coldly, “Aaj sabko dikhaungi, yeh kaise monster hai!”

“Today I brought my daughter to identify him. As soon as she got to this shop, she refused to go any further, crying the whole time.”

She narrated to the camera, angling it to show the sobbing girl and the destroyed shop. Her followers lapped it up.

Sure enough, after she got home, she posted this staged video online.

Within hours, the video was trending. Even people from my old school group shared it.

The video went viral again.

No one cared about the truth. The mob was hungry for blood. My phone rang non-stop.

The girl’s timid sobbing made me look even more like a monster.

My image, my name—everything ruined. My son saw the video and asked, “Papa, main bhi bura hoon kya?”