Chapter 2: Accusation and Shame

By the time my friend arrived, I had just finished giving my statement.

The overhead fan in the station wheezed. I sat on the wooden bench, my hands cold and clammy. I glanced up at a calendar with Baba Ramdev’s photo, the edges curling, and a peeling Ganpati poster next to the entrance—reminders I was deep inside a typical Indian police station. My friend Arjun came rushing in, hair disheveled, wearing his slippers the wrong way, his t-shirt inside out. Even in this mess, he managed to bring a flask of chai, which he shoved in my hand silently. That small gesture nearly made me cry.

In the hallway, the mother was clutching her daughter, sobbing uncontrollably.

Her dupatta had fallen to the floor, her hair was all over her face, and her bangles clinked loudly as she rocked her daughter back and forth, wailing. A couple of constables stood nearby, awkward, not knowing where to look. The little girl, wearing a pink frock with cartoon rabbits, sat limp in her mother’s lap, cheeks stained with tears.

When she saw me step out of the interrogation room, she immediately stood up.

Her eyes, swollen and red, locked onto me with such intensity I felt like I’d walked into the middle of a mob. The air was thick with the smell of Dettol and something sharp, almost metallic—fear.

Before I could say a word, she slapped me hard across the face. “You could lay hands on a three-year-old girl? Are you even human?”

Her palm left a stinging welt. Instinctively, I touched my cheek, then lowered my hand, glancing at the inspector, not wanting to appear weak or disrespectful. In our society, a man must swallow his pain—especially in front of strangers. The sound echoed in the station. I staggered, stunned, as the child whimpered louder. The inspector barked, “Bas karo, madam!” but she didn’t care. Every pair of eyes in the station was on me. My cheek burned, my dignity evaporated.

Right there in front of the police, she screamed at me, accusing me of luring her daughter into the storeroom of my shop and molesting her, cursing me to die a miserable death.

Her voice rose, almost a shriek, as she spat out her accusations. “Teri aulad kabhi khush nahi rahegi! Tu narak mein jalega!” Her curses rang in my ears, making me shudder. She swore on her child, on God, on every deity she could think of. It was as if she wanted not just justice, but divine retribution too.