Chapter-7

Constable Farooq stood outside the police station, arms crossed, bathed in the dusty gold of the afternoon sun. His gaze sharpened as Krishna approached—her steps quick, purposeful, but heavy with a dread she wore like a second skin.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just nodded at her, lips pressed tight.

"Police Kaka," she greeted softly, almost like she hoped it was a mistake.

Farooq sighed. “Your father… he’s inside. Caught him in an illegal gambling den.”

A beat. One breathless, bone-breaking beat.

Krishna didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Just brushed past him and walked in.

Inside the holding cell, the air was stale and thick. Her father sat slumped, his back against the wall like he had nothing left to prove or pretend.

He looked up. "Girl, I—"

“Where did you get the money, Papa?” Her voice cut through the stillness—low, level, dangerous.

His gaze flickered. Then dropped.

“Papa,” she stepped closer, her hands trembling but her spine stiff, “where did you get it?”

His jaw twitched. “From the boy.”

Silence cracked in the air.

“Mohan?”

“He had money,” Banshi barked, his tone turning defensive. “That demon child—walking around like he’s the king of something. I had to teach him. I had to—”

“Stop.”

Krishna flinched. Her breath caught in her throat.

She had stitched their life together with scraps—coins hidden in tea tins, worn shoes mended with tape, her childhood traded for stability. And now the savings—Mohan’s future—gone.

She stared at the man behind the bars. Not the father who once tucked her in at night. Not the man who wept at their mother’s funeral. This version was twisted, shrunken. Lost.

“I won't bail you out,” she said finally. Her tone didn’t rise, but it shook with the weight of disappointment. “Not this time. You used Mohan’s school money… again.”

From behind her, Farooq stepped forward. “I’ll file an FIR for domestic violence.”

“No!” she spun to face him, quick and desperate. “No, please. He... wasn’t always like this.”

Farooq gave her a long, tired look. “That’s the problem. He is now.”

Krishna's voice dropped. "He loved Ma so much, he... forgot how to love us without her."

Farooq sighed, rough and bitter. “Then he’ll still go in for gambling. Let him sit a while. Sober up.”

“I’ll pay the fine tomorrow.”

Farooq nodded. “Come in the morning, beta.”

She left, her slippers dragging along the gravel. Outside, the sky was bruised with the color of twilight.

She didn’t go straight home.

The banyan tree welcomed her with shade and solitude. She sat down beneath its knotted arms and pulled her knees close.

Her throat burned. She stared at the dirt, at her dupatta, at nothing. Her hands clenched the ends of her dupatta, tight.

This month's extra money was already safe in the fixed deposit. The one she created month after month, scraping from her own meals. That was Mohan’s ticket. His way out. She can't take money from that. How will she arrange money for his school fees? Her savings account may have around five thousand Rupees. But that wouldn't be enough.

Her chest twisted. Aryaman Sir’s voice echoed in her mind—

“Mohan was caught stealing.”

She understood the reason behind Mohan's action. But it still hurt.

What kind of guardian was she, if he had to steal?

A leaf dropped onto her lap.

She looked up, "Maa... I think I am failing." Her voice shook as she whispered. She let the tears slowly fall. She closed her eyes.

She could vividly remember the day her mother died. They couldn't afford to go to the hospital, so the other women from the village and an elderly midwife gathered in their home, shouting words of encouragement. Her mother was screaming in pain. Eight-year-old Krishna, huddled in a corner, felt scared and cried along with her mother. "Deepa, have courage, beta. Just push a little bit more," Krishna heard someone say. There was a small puddle of blood at the bottom of the bed, and the room felt incredibly stuffy.

The sound of a baby's cries reverberated through the dimly lit room after what felt like an eternity. Deepa lay on the bed, her breaths coming in short, painful gasps as she fought against the overwhelming weariness that clung to her. “It’s a boy! Deepa! Krishna Beta, you now have a younger brother,” someone murmured, their voice laced with a feigned cheerfulness that couldn’t mask the grim reality. The room was thick with an unspoken tension, as everyone knew that Deepa had lost too much blood. A heavy silence loomed, hinting at the tragic truth—she didn’t have much time left.

"I want to... want to... see... see...him," the mother asks weakly, and someone puts the cleaned baby wrapped in a clean towel near her. Deepa, with her shaking hands, touched her son.

She looked around to see a scared Krishna hugging her knees and silently crying. Deepa gave a weak smile and called her close, and when the girl came closer, wiping her tears, Deepa held her hand and placed it on the baby's hand.

"Krishna.. my sweet Krishna. This is Mohan, your younger brother. You have to take care of him. You have to protect him."

Deepa paused and took a painful, long breath before she could continue.

"Promise me, Krishna." She coughed.

"Krishna.. promise me, that you will never abandon him.. no matter what.. Promise me."

"I promise Maa..." the little girl whispered. And that was the last thing Deepa heard.

Krishna opened her eyes and came back to the present. She had kept her promise. That was not a promise anymore. Mohan was her life. Mohan was her universe.

She wiped her eyes and stood.

The banyan tree stood long after she left, its roots remembering.

****

Evening draped itself across their modest home.

Krishna pushed open the door.

Mohan stood waiting—a little soldier before judgment.

“Didi—”

“What did you do today?” Her voice was soft, but it held a blade.

He flinched. Then dropped to his knees. “I’m sorry. I... I was stupid. Please don’t hate me.”

She stared. Her arms remained stiff by her sides.

“By doing this,” she whispered, “you made everything I did feel like it wasn’t enough.”

Mohan shook his head frantically. “No! Didi, no. You’re everything. You’re more than Ma. You’re—” he choked, “—you’re my everything.”

Tears streamed down his cheeks.

She broke.

Krishna knelt and pulled him into her arms. “Promise me,” she said into his hair. “Promise you’ll never steal again.”

“I promise,” he sobbed. “I swear on you, Didi.”

And for the first time that day, Krishna let herself cry. No noise, just grief pressed into silence. They mourned together for what they had lost. For the parents they used to know.

******

Morning bloomed soft and pink.

In the mansion’s garden, Aryaman stood still among the flurry of staff. The scent of marigolds, roses, and jasmine clung to the breeze, but his thoughts were tangled elsewhere.

She appeared—Krishna, like a ghost who hadn’t slept.

Her steps were precise, but her shoulders sagged beneath the invisible weight. She gave instructions, nodded politely, and helped an elderly worker lift a heavy box without complaint.

Aryaman’s hand tightened on his phone.

He opened his mouth to call out—

“Sir,” her voice beat him to it.

She stopped a few steps away and bowed her head.

“I wanted to thank you.”

“For?”

“For not calling the police.”

He blinked.

Her eyes shimmered, and her voice trembled. “I know what he did was wrong. But... he’s just a kid. I promise it won’t happen again.”

He hesitated. Then nodded. “I understand.”

A tear clung to her eyelash.

He reached out—fingers halfway to her cheek—but caught himself. His hand paused in the air, then dropped.

She didn’t notice. Just smiled. A small, cracked thing. “Thank you again, Sir.”

Then she turned, already easing back into motion, fixing a garland, directing the caterers, and adjusting chairs.

Aryaman stayed still, watching her move like a clock wound too tight.

There was something there. Something he couldn’t quite name.

But it made his chest ache.