Chapter 4: The Second Storm

After the police left, I stopped the girl as she tried to slink away. “Look, if something’s troubling you, tell me. I’m not rich, but I help people. If you’re in trouble, maybe I can do something. Don’t ruin your life—and mine—over this.”

Her face twisted with fury. “Who do you think you are? My father? My saviour?”

She slapped me. “What do you take me for? Shameless creep!” A couple of aunties gasped, tut-tutting. “I won’t let you get away. I want you to pay with your life!” she spat, then stormed off.

My chest was tight with rage. Every possible reason ran through my mind—revenge, money, insanity. None of it made sense. I swore under my breath: “Main bhi dekh loonga, madam.”

Back in my rented room, I changed my usual low profile—posted screenshots of my years of donations online. Hands shaking, I uploaded every UPI receipt, every thank you message. Amma always said, “Daan chhupa ke karo, beta.” Now, I had no choice.

The comments filled up—“Good man!” “We need more people like you!” Some trolls: “Bas itna hi kiya? Why brag?” I ignored them. Let the world see my truth.

Then, what I feared happened. She posted her version online. Her video was slick—tears, trembling voice, filters softening her features. “Please, I need justice,” she pleaded. Her followers shared it like wildfire. “Chaitra Navratri, I wanted to feel peaceful, went for a jog…”

She called me “that security guard—he stalked me, cornered me.” She said I grabbed her from behind and tried to molest her. “If I hadn’t known how to swim, maybe I wouldn’t be here to tell my story.” She put up my uniform, name badge, phone number. “If anyone knows him, stay away.”

My photo flashed in the Rajpur Park WhatsApp group, captioned with angry emojis: “Beware of this man.” My inbox filled with messages—some supportive, most suspicious. “Bhaiya, what’s the truth?” “Did you do it?”

I uploaded the testimonies of the aunties, their voices clear: “He was with us, all the time. Yeh sab jhoot hai.” For a moment, hope flickered. But she didn’t give up—posted again, more venomous. “He’s just a security guard, a twisted pervert, a lonely old bachelor.” Her followers ran with it—“He’s a liar, a fraud!”

She claimed my UPI screenshots were payments for prostitution. The comments exploded: “Prostitution ring!” “Disgusting!” My good guy image turned to that of a john preying on college girls. People tagged the police, demanded an investigation. My photo was everywhere—captioned “Pervert Uncle.”

I was pushed to the centre of the storm. My hands shook every time I opened my phone. I realized I couldn’t handle this alone. I called the police and a few students I’d supported. “Beta, bhaiya needs your help.”

They rallied online, posting stories, screenshots, and emotional appeals: “He only ever helped us. He’s like an elder brother.” Some posted screenshots of messages: “Thank you for the school books, bhaiya.” Others uploaded voice notes. Armchair detectives cross-referenced UPI transactions. Truth was on my side—for now.

A hashtag started: “#JusticeForRohan.” For once, I saw strangers fighting for me. Then the police called: “We have new evidence, Rohan.”

The inspector’s face was grave. “Mr. Rohan, the girl provided evidence. You’re now a suspect.”

My heart thudded. “What? What evidence? How am I a suspect?”

“Don’t get agitated. You’re just a suspect. We handle things impartially.”

“And we’ve already sternly warned the girl about her posts.”

I felt betrayed. Wasn’t I the victim? My knees threatened to buckle. I gripped the chair. “Last time, even with all the chaos, I wasn’t a suspect. How come this time I am?”

“Do you know this girl?”

“No. Absolutely not.”

“Have you ever seen her?”

“Never. Total stranger. Why are you asking?”

“But we found your hair on her clothes. She says it was left when you grabbed her and molested her.”

My mind spun. Hair? How? When? “Impossible. She must have planted it!”