" What we call the beginning is often the end. And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from."
-T.S. Eliot
In the enigmatic town of Kshaya lurks a figure shrouded in infamy: SHAITAN, the most wanted criminal whose true id...
Ashwath stood before the mirror, droplets of cool water cascading down his weathered face as he scrubbed away the fatigue of yet another day. His hands moved with deliberate care, each splash a small attempt to cleanse not just his skin but the invisible scars etched into his soul. The reflection staring back at him was both familiar and foreign—his mustache, once a symbol of his pride and authority, was gone, erased by time and circumstance. The absence of it only seemed to deepen the lines of sorrow that marked his face.
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It had been a year and a half since his suspension as a DGP officer, a period that felt like an eternity. His career—a life of duty, discipline, and pride—had been stripped away, leaving him adrift in a world that no longer felt like his own. The investigation that had led to his fall from grace remained a phantom, haunting him with memories of betrayal, unanswered questions, and the bitter taste of injustice. Yet, even in the face of such adversities, Ashwath endured, his resolve forged in the crucible of suffering.
In the confines of his modest home, he had found a new rhythm, a fragile peace amidst the chaos that had once consumed him. The transition from the commanding officer of a police force to a homemaker had been jarring, yet Ashwath embraced it with a quiet dignity that spoke of his indomitable spirit. Every morning, he woke before the sun, his steps measured and purposeful as he made his way to the kitchen. There, in the soft glow of dawn, he prepared breakfast for his wife, Ahalya, and their daughter, Nisha. His hands moved deftly, transforming simple ingredients into nourishment, a gesture of love that transcended words.
“ Papa,” Nisha would call out from the dining table, her voice bright and filled with affection, “did you put extra sugar in my tea again?”
Ashwath would glance over his shoulder, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Only a pinch, Nisha,” he would reply, his voice steady and warm. “But don’t let your mother catch you drinking it.”
Ahalya, seated nearby, would chuckle softly, her eyes shimmering with quiet amusement. Though her health remained fragile, her presence was a source of unspoken strength for Ashwath—a reminder of all that he still had to fight for.
After breakfast, Ashwath would accompany Nisha to school, their journey a daily ritual that he cherished deeply. The laughter of children, the rustle of leaves underfoot, and the mundane chatter of everyday life served as a balm to his restless mind. He listened intently to Nisha’s stories, her voice a melody that cut through the haze of his grief.
"Papa,” she asked one morning, her eyes wide with curiosity, “do you miss being a police officer?”
Ashwath paused, his steps faltering for a moment. “Sometimes,” he admitted, his voice tinged with a bittersweet longing. “But I’ve learned that protecting and caring for family is just as important as any badge or uniform.”
After dropping her off, Ashwath returned home, where the hours stretched before him like an open expanse. He immersed himself in the tasks of the day—sweeping floors, balancing accounts, repairing creaking hinges. His hands, once accustomed to wielding power and authority, now found solace in the quiet acts of care and maintenance. The rhythm of domestic life, though monotonous, brought him a measure of peace.
