Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
सर जो उठेगा, धड़ से कटेगा कहाँ पे छिपेगा, कहाँ पे बचेगा? पथ, पथपरहैघाटमौतकीबिछीबिसात उठा तो गिरेगा, गिरा तो चीरेगा छिपा तो मिलेगा, मिला तो मरेगा
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
I stood by the window, watching the rain streak down the glass, but I wasn't really seeing it. The world outside felt distant, like a painting behind glass—muted, irrelevant.
Krish's cries still echoed in my head.
Five years old. Just five. And someone dared to hurt him.
My fists curled at my sides, nails biting into my palms. The doctor's words kept looping in my mind, each syllable like barbed wire tightening around my chest:
"There's something in his eyes... possibly a chemical irritant. It's caused severe inflammation. We need to move him to a private facility immediately for a full evaluation. We can't risk his eyesight."
Eyesight. That one word had cracked something inside me.
I had nodded. Arranged the transfer. Called the best ophthalmologist in the city before the doctor finished his sentence. I did everything a man in my position was supposed to do.
But while my mouth spoke orders, my insides burned.
Krish. That boy had never known pain—not like this. He was all laughter and light. And now... now his world was red, swollen, streaked with tears.
Because someone chose to use him. Because someone wanted to punish me.
And they used a child. They touched what was mine.
