Her Father’s Crime, My Mother’s Shame
Chapter 1: The Woman at the Door
2015. At the entrance of the law firm, a strange woman stopped me, claiming there was another hidden side to a case I was handling. A cold gust whipped dust onto my shoes, and I almost missed her voice over the auto horns.
I still remember the dry Delhi chill clinging to my kurta that morning, the usual traffic chaos blaring from the street outside. Just as I was about to step inside, this woman—her sari pallu slipping off one shoulder, dark circles under her eyes, as if she hadn’t slept in days—blocked my path with the urgency only seen in those desperate for justice. She didn’t wait for pleasantries or even an introduction, blurting out that there was something about the case—some truth, some story—that hadn’t yet come to light.
The evidence in that case was rock-solid. The accused had already been sentenced to death in the first trial—no appeal, and now it was at the death penalty review stage. The outcome was almost certain. Yet, at this very moment, she appeared.
That case had already eaten up the gossip columns in the legal fraternity WhatsApp groups. Everyone knew: the chain of evidence was strong as iron, not a thread out of place. The accused had confessed, the media had done its rounds, and the air was thick with the sort of finality that usually comes before an execution. Still, this woman, with the resolute stubbornness only a grieving Indian mother or daughter can summon, had come to challenge it all, as if fate had not yet spoken its last word.
I asked, "Are you a witness?"
My voice came out a little impatient, partly from habit, partly because I had already braced myself for a wild goose chase—a last-minute relative, maybe, or some self-proclaimed do-gooder. I tried not to show it, but in India, people can read the smallest hesitation in your eyes. She didn’t flinch.
She said something I will never forget—
No, I am evidence.
My hand paused mid-air, keys jangling, as if the words had set off a silent alarm inside me. For a moment, I felt a strange chill, as if the shadows near the reception were listening in. In all my years as an advocate, I had heard many people make tall claims, but never something so cryptic—so eerie.
