Mumbai District Court
Floor hummed with activity. The corridors buzzed with the low murmur of people discussing their cases, the occasional clatter of heels on the polished floor, and the rhythmic calls of clerks announcing case numbers. Peons in crisp khaki uniforms moved briskly, their voices echoing through the hall:
"FIR 124/2022, State vs. Rohan Deshmukh, Courtroom 5, Second Floor!"
Every few minutes, one of them would step out of a courtroom, clipboard in hand, calling names and ushering litigants inside. The scent of damp cement mixed with the faint aroma of chai from the canteen upstairs—a smell that clung to the tired, anxious air.
On the second floor, just outside Courtroom 5, sat a young man of twenty-five. His shoulders slumped, and his gaze was fixed on the worn tiles under his shoes, though he seemed unaware of their pattern. Beside him, a middle-aged woman in a wheelchair sat motionless. Her hair was streaked with grey, and her eyes were vacant, haunted—her entire frame radiating exhaustion and despair. Several times, a peon called a case number, but she did not respond, lost in a world of grief.
The man's hands were clenched into fists on his knees, jaw tight, lips pale. This was Arjun Rao, once brimming with dreams and ambition, now hollowed by the cruelty of fate.
A passer-by stopped and took the seat opposite them. He was in his late twenties, neatly dressed, and carried the air of someone who watched the world with detached curiosity. As he sat, he struck up a conversation with a random person beside him, a middle-aged man waiting for his turn.
"Why are you here?" the newcomer asked casually, leaning back. "And what about those two? The woman in the wheelchair and that young man?" He gestured subtly toward Arjun and the elderly woman.
The older man glanced in their direction, then leaned in, lowering his voice. "Ah… that pair," he began, "they're from Dharavi. The boy—Arjun—he used to work at Atlantis Financial Corp, assistant to the regional manager for South India. His family… everyone knew them around the neighborhood. They were poor, but decent. Hardworking. Dreams in their eyes. They were on their way up… and then…" His voice cracked slightly, and he swallowed before continuing.
"Four months ago, his father and sister met with a hit-and-run. His Father died on spot, his sister… she was in the hospital for three weeks. She didn't make it. The mother… well, you see her." He nodded toward the woman in the wheelchair. "She's been broken ever since. People say it was the son of some rich industrialist—untouchable, really. The kind of man no court dares touch."
The newcomer's eyebrows knit. "And there's no evidence?"
The older man shook his head. "At first, there were witnesses. Some people who claimed to have seen the car and recognized the culprit, gave statements. But in trial… it was destroyed. Witnesses recanted, contradicted themselves, some claimed it was a truck, not a car. Nothing remained. Arjun spent all his savings on his sister's treatment. He even lost his job because of all the stress and absence. That's the story, in short."
The newcomer stared at Arjun, then at his mother. "And yet they're still here… waiting?"
The older man shrugged, a mix of pity and resignation in his eyes. "Some hope never dies, I guess."
Just then, a man in a black coat rushed out of the courtroom, files clutched tightly to his chest. His polished shoes echoed on the tile as he made his way toward Arjun.
"Arj… Arjun," the lawyer said, slightly out of breath, "I've got news…"
Arjun jumped to his feet, his voice trembling. "The verdict? Tell me—what did they say?"
The lawyer shook his head slowly. "We managed… only partial compensation. The city corporation has agreed to pay three lakhs for your father and three lakhs for your sister. The culprits… still at large. I'm sorry. You don't need to pay my pending fees. Come by my office in two days, we'll discuss the compensation part. I… I have to go." He pulled out his mobile and walked away quickly, leaving Arjun staring after him.
The young man's knees buckled. He sank to the floor, curling slightly, unable to bear the weight of the grief. The courthouse around him seemed to blur—the chatter, the footsteps, the clatter of files—all faded into nothing. His cries were silent at first, then broke free in raw, guttural sobs.
After what felt like an eternity, he rose shakily and returned to his mother's side. He grasped the wheelchair handles and began rolling her down the long, echoing corridor. Her body was motionless, her gaze empty, yet he whispered to her as if she could hear:
"This... This can't end like this, I will find the truth… I swear it. I'll gather every bit of evidence, every witness… I'll drag this case through every court, all the way to the Supreme Court if I have to. Justice will not ignore us."
Step by step, they moved toward the courthouse exit, both exhausted and hearts heavy with despair. Waiting on the roadside for a taxi, they were barely conscious of the world around them.
And then—out of nowhere— a truck hurtled across the road in front of them.
Arjun barely had time to react. He shouted, panic and pain tearing his voice:
"No! Nooo! I want to live! I… I want justice! How can this all end like this? All our sacrifices… all our pain… what about our lives? What about my Mom? M–Mom!"
"Mo…M…"
The sound of screeching tires tore through the air, followed by a bone-jarring impact that swallowed the world in chaos.
Time seemed to stretch and freeze. His mother's wheelchair spun violently, his own body hurled backward, colliding with the unforgiving asphalt. Pain, shock, and disbelief crashed over him in waves.
And then… darkness.