Chapter 2: The Ration Card Twist

The next day, I made a beeline for the police station’s ration card office. The place reeked of old phenyl. The ceiling fan above threatened to fall off with every wobble, and the chaiwala’s bell echoed from the corridor. A wall clock with Sai Baba’s faded face watched over everyone, silently blessing or mocking—I couldn’t tell which.

When the staff pulled up my family info, I nearly lost my balance. There it was: Amit Sharma, age seven, somehow listed as my family. I stared at the computer, then at the official, as if by glaring hard enough I could make it all disappear.

“Madam, what is this? Who is this Amit Sharma on my card? How did he land up here?” My voice cracked, anger rising.

The clerk barely looked up, flipping through her register, tapping her pen, glancing now and then at her WhatsApp, a new sticker popping up. “Sir, clerical error hoga. Happens all the time.”

I wanted to shout. “Error? Do you people have any idea what you’ve done? My daughter’s future is at stake!”

Other people in line shuffled, some aunties muttering, “Sab ka yahi haal hai, bhai.”

But I forced myself to breathe. Ladai se kuch nahi milega, I reminded myself. “Please, remove this boy’s name from my ration card. Immediately.”

The clerk shrugged, still not looking up. “Not possible, sir, unless the new guardian signs consent. Rules are rules.”

My fists clenched. So anyone can add a name to my card, but now I can’t remove him? Wah, kya system hai.

Stepping into the police station lobby next door, I was greeted by the sleepy constable sipping tea, news channel humming in the background. I handed over every document I had, keeping my voice low but firm: “Sir, this is not some ghar ka jhagda—this is fraud. Please help.”

The constable just nodded, told me to wait while they ‘contacted the other party.’ I sat on a metal bench, the chill seeping into my bones, staring at a faded calendar with Lord Ganesha’s face. The fly buzzing by my ear was more active than the police.

Finally, they told me Amit Sharma’s parents were 'out of town.' The constable’s bored voice said it all: not their problem. I nearly laughed. Out of town? Or just hiding? Who disappears right when the police call, yaar?

The school admission deadline was ticking down. Every day, Meera watched from the window as the school bus passed by. I clenched my fists so hard my nails dug into my palm. I would not let them win.

On my way out, I dialed Suresh, my old friend who knew everyone in the education line. “Bhai, I need your help. Kuch bhi karke in logon ko dhoondh nikal.”

I refused to accept defeat. Not for Meera, not for my family. Someone in this city had played a dirty game with us. Ab dekhte hain kaun jeetega.