ll Ghuroor Ke Badal غرور کے بادل ll

8. **Chapter Eight**

Days had passed since the accident, and the Maqsud household had taken on a somber, tense atmosphere. Ahmed Sahab had been discharged from the hospital, though his return home was anything but a celebration. Confined to a wheelchair, he was still processing the devastating news that he would never walk again. His once lively eyes were now clouded with quiet despair, and the house, usually filled with warmth and laughter, had become eerily silent.

Meherbano, the eldest of the Maqsud daughters, had taken on more responsibility than ever. Between caring for her father and trying to support her mother and sisters, she felt the weight of the world on her shoulders. But there was one thing that gnawed at her relentlessly—the lack of answers.

Every day, Meher would leave the house early, determined to get to the bottom of the accident that had shattered their lives. She would head to the police station, her heart pounding with a mix of hope and frustration. Each time she arrived, however, she was met with the same evasive answers.

This morning was no different. As she walked through the bustling streets, her mind was consumed with thoughts of what she would say to the police officers this time. The rumors swirling around the neighborhood had reached her ears—people whispered that the accident had involved the sons of some powerful, wealthy men. The kind of men who could make problems disappear with the wave of a hand. It infuriated her, the thought that justice for her father was being buried under a pile of money and influence.

As Meher entered the police station, the air was thick with the familiar scent of old paper and stale coffee. The officers inside barely glanced at her—they had seen her enough times now to know exactly why she was there.

She approached the desk, where an officer sat lazily flipping through some documents. His eyes, tired and indifferent, flicked up at her with a dismissive glance.

"Officer, any updates on my father's case?" Meher asked, her voice steady, though her heart raced with anxiety.

The officer sighed, his tone laced with boredom. "We're still investigating, Madame ji. These things take time."

Meher's patience was wearing thin. "It's been days now, and you still haven't told us anything. My father was nearly killed, and no one seems to be doing anything about it."

The officer leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming on the desk. "Like I said, these things take time. You need to be patient."

"Patient?" Meher's voice rose, her frustration bubbling to the surface. "How can you expect me to be patient when you're not even answering my questions? What have you found? Who's responsible? Why isn't anyone telling me the truth?"

The officer shifted uncomfortably in his seat, clearly uninterested in engaging further. "Look, Miss Maqsud, we're doing all we can. If there's anything new, you'll be informed."

Meher narrowed her eyes, her pulse quickening with anger. "I don't believe you," she said quietly but firmly. "I've heard the rumors. People are saying it wasn't just some random accident. They're saying rich boys were involved. Powerful families. Is that why you're not telling us anything?"

The officer's gaze flickered for a moment, a brief flash of something that confirmed Meher's suspicions—fear, guilt, perhaps. He quickly masked it, leaning forward with a forced smile. "Rumors are just that—rumors. We follow evidence, not gossip. Now, if you don't mind, I have work to do."

Meher clenched her fists at her sides, her nails digging into her palms. The coldness in the officer's response stung, but it also fueled her resolve. She knew, deep down, that the police were deliberately avoiding the truth. She could feel it in the way they dodged her questions, in the way they seemed almost relieved when she eventually left the station every day.