The living room was a picture of serene upper‑middle‑class order—plush beige sofas, a glass coffee table stacked with unread magazines, a hand‑carved wooden showcase filled with awards and dusty photo frames. But the air tonight buzzed with unease.
A girl sat cross‑legged on the couch, remote in hand, flipping through channels until one caught her attention. The news anchor’s voice sharpened mid‑sentence: “—the body of the seventeen‑year‑old schoolgirl was discovered in an abandoned car reportedly registered under the name of Chief Minister Ranveer Chaudhry—”
She stilled. The remote froze between her fingers.
From across the room, her father, Samarth Singh, entered with a sigh and a thermos tucked under his arm. “Beta, it’s late. You should rest.”
She didn’t answer immediately. Her eyes were glued to the screen.
Finally: “That car… is that really his?”
Samarth paused. The weariness in his eyes deepened. “Yes.”
She scoffed. “Of course it is. Another disgusting story behind velvet curtains. I don’t know how you do it—serve under a man like him.”
Before he could respond, her mother, Shalini, emerged from the kitchen, drying her hands on her dupatta. “Not again,” she sighed. “Don’t start fighting the moment you're back.”
“I’m not fighting,” the girl said, jaw tightening. “I’m just tired of this circus. The lies, the headlines, the damage control. And Baba—you—you’re in the middle of it every time.”
“I’m in service of the law, not politicians,” Samarth said evenly, placing the thermos down. “And I don’t need to defend that to my daughter.”
“But it’s not you they remember,” she snapped. “It’s the name of the man you work for. The man whose car just became a crime scene.”
Shalini stepped in quickly. “Enough. Vanshika, you’ve barely been home five hours and you’re already fighting. This isn’t Delhi. Lower your voice.”
Before she could respond, a voice cut through from the hallway.
Chacha ji, always lurking when least wanted, appeared with a smug laugh and a steel tumbler in hand.
“Ladkiyon ko aur bhejo bahar,” he said, shaking his head. “Pankh nikal aate hain. Ab baap se bhi zubaan ladha rahi hai.”
The silence after was sharp.
Samarth, calm but firm, turned toward him. “Bas, bhai sahab.”
Chacha ji raised an eyebrow, amused. “Kya? Galat kaha kya maine?”
Samarth looked him in the eye. “She’s my daughter. She has every right to question, to challenge. That’s how I raised her.”
Vanshika blinked, surprised. Her father rarely raised his voice. Rarer still was him standing between her and them.
Samarth glanced at her now, voice quieter. “But if you truly want to fight the system, beta, don’t do it from the couch. Get into it. Understand it. Then break it from inside.”
Vanshika didn’t reply—but something flickered in her eyes. Sharp. Unyielding.
She picked up the remote again, her white fingers curling slightly around it. A soft clink echoed from the ring on her hand—a delicate rose design in silver, dulled somewhat from wear.
The TV played on, and so did the country’s chaos. But in that room, something shifted.
[This is the first book I'm publishing. I'm sceptical nonetheless. I'll really appreciate, like, comment and follow <3]
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