Chapter 4: Mob Justice

People in the village tend to be direct and impulsive.

Gossip spreads like wildfire—one word in the morning bazaar becomes a scandal by noon. By sunset, the entire village is ready with torches and sticks, ready to mete out their own brand of justice.

After Priya’s parents returned home, they quickly took her to the district hospital for an examination.

Priya’s father, an autorickshaw driver who’d rushed back from the city, looked harried and angry. He bundled Priya onto the 6 am bus, face grim, his wife clutching her tight. At the hospital, the sharp smell of Dettol mixed with the cries of newborns made the waiting area feel even more suffocating.

The results were bad: her hymen had long since been ruptured.

The doctor, a weary middle-aged lady, called the parents in, her expression grave. She avoided their eyes as she explained the findings, and Priya shrank into her mother’s arms.

Under the pressure of her parents’ beatings, Priya named someone.

After hours of interrogation and emotional turmoil, Priya, voice trembling, blurted out a name. Her father’s palm had left a mark on her cheek. The weight of expectation and fear pressed down on her until she finally whispered, "Shyamlal uncle."

Shyamlal—the old bachelor who ran the small shop.

As soon as the name was uttered, it raced through the village like a hungry stray dog. Faces turned grim. Old suspicions were confirmed, and men grabbed their lathis, ready to take the law into their own hands.

In an instant, the entire village erupted.

The temple bell had barely finished tolling for the evening aarti when a mob began to gather outside Shyamlal’s shop. Women clutched their mangalsutras, an old man chewed paan and spat angrily at the ground, and a child peeked from behind a pillar as a crowd formed faster than rainwater in a broken bucket.

By the time we got the news and rushed over, villagers had already surrounded the shop.

Kunal revved the jeep past startled cows. As we arrived, a sea of angry faces blocked our way. The smell of sweat, fear, and burning incense mixed in the hot evening air.

If we’d been any later, Shyamlal might have been beaten to death.

Already, stones had been thrown. Shyamlal cowered behind the counter, bleeding from his forehead, his cries drowned out by the shouts of the mob. Someone in the crowd was already filming, sending the video to the village WhatsApp group before the police even arrived.

Priya’s parents were furious, cursing Shyamlal to his face, while Priya clung to her mother’s leg, head bowed, sobbing.

Her father, voice hoarse, shouted, "Aaj tujhe zinda jala denge! Kya socha tha, buddhe?" Priya’s mother, usually reserved, rained abuses that would have shocked a sailor, even as she tried to shield her daughter.

As for Shyamlal, he was nearly in tears from anxiety, repeatedly insisting in his trembling voice that he had never done such a thing.

He folded his hands, weeping, "Sahab, main kasam khata hoon! Bacchiyan meri beti jaisi hain. Mujhe badnaam mat karo."

But the villagers were seething with righteous anger.

Some were genuinely angry, others just thrilled at the chaos. One old man spat on the ground and muttered, "Aise buddhe sab chor hote hain."

We didn’t know what Shyamlal was usually like, but his status as an old bachelor put him in grave danger now.

In the village, old bachelors were often treated as outcasts—unmarried, childless, and suspected by default. For Shyamlal, there was no one to vouch for his character.

No one wanted to believe him, and while many villagers were just there for the spectacle, they were happy to see an old bachelor labelled a monster.

Young boys perched on the walls, giggling. Even the village drunk, Babulal, showed up just to watch the tamasha, shaking his head in mock sorrow.

We quickly restored order and brought everyone involved back to the thana for questioning.

It took four constables to disperse the crowd and another two to get Shyamlal safely into the jeep. At the thana, the fans spun lazily overhead as we separated the families and tried to calm frayed nerves.

Priya trembled throughout, while her parents kept cursing.

Priya clutched the edge of her mother’s sari, refusing to look up. Her father paced angrily, chewing his nails to the quick.

However, since Priya had said nothing when we visited the day before, we still had doubts.

Kunal scribbled notes, frowning. "Yesterday, she barely spoke. Today, she’s naming names. Something is off," he whispered to me.

Unfortunately, we couldn’t separate her from her parents for individual questioning.

Whenever we tried to get Priya alone, her mother intervened. "She’s just a child, sahab! Don’t scare her more!"

She only stammered that Shyamlal had lured them into the back room of his shop with snacks and pocket money, then molested and raped them.

Her voice was barely audible. "Woh uncle kehte the, yeh le lo toffee, baitho andar… fir… fir…" Her words trailed off into tears.

When we asked why she hadn’t said so earlier, she explained fearfully that she didn’t know those things could lead to pregnancy.

Priya’s mother added, "Inko kuch pata nahi hai, inspector saab. Gaon ke school mein yeh sab sikhaate hi nahi."

Logically, it made sense.

Children in villages rarely received proper sex education. Most learned about such things from half-whispered gossip or not at all.

But at present, there was no physical evidence proving Shyamlal assaulted Priya.

Kunal pointed out, "No fingerprints, no witnesses. Only her statement and the parents’ anger."

Shyamlal himself vehemently denied it, even breaking down in tears, insisting he was being wronged. At his age, to be slandered like this was unbearable…

He beat his chest, "Bhagwan kasam, main nirdosh hoon! Aap mujhe jo saza chahen de do, par main yeh paap nahi kar sakta!"

The only thing we could rely on was the DNA test.

We explained to both families, "Report aa jaane do, sab kuch saamne aa jayega. Tabhi faisla hoga."

We immediately arranged for samples from Shyamlal and Anjali’s child, but even with our own lab, results would not be ready until the next day.

Kunal filled out the forms, and the samples were collected under strict supervision. The parents waited outside, restless and muttering.

For various reasons, we couldn’t detain Shyamlal, and could only warn Priya’s family, who were demanding answers, not to take any further action until we contacted them.

We told them firmly, "Law apna kaam karega. Koi hungama nahi hoga. Agar kuch kiya, toh FIR ho jayegi."

But that night, something happened.

The air was still, the only sound the distant barking of stray dogs. In the darkness, a tragedy unfolded that would haunt us all.