He turned away like a ghost, his body moving before his mind caught up.
The hallway felt longer than usual.
Each step felt like sinking.
He reached his grandmother's room—barely knocking.
The door creaked open.
Martha sat on her bed with a lamp glowing dim beside her, knitting unraveled in her lap like she'd been waiting.
She saw his face and didn't ask anything.
Just opened her arms.
And like a broken clock finally finding the hour, Shankar walked straight in.
No words.
No thoughts.
Just the ache of too much truth, too fast.
Martha held him, rubbing his back gently. Her voice cracked with a sob she didn't bother hiding.
"I knew this day would come…"
He nodded against her shoulder.
His throat burned.
"She never cried," he whispered. "Not once."
Martha sighed.
"Your mother… she turned her tears into stone long ago."
There was a long pause.
Then Shankar looked up, eyes reddened.
"You're from London, aren't you?
Not just some Indian Christian like I always thought."
Her eyes widened for a moment—just a blink—before she gave a tired smile.
"Sharp mind… just like him."
"And the company," Shankar continued. "It started there. In London. That wasn't a coincidence."
Martha nodded slowly.
"Your grandfather, Sekhar Das… was a man of two lives."
"What do you mean?" Shankar asked.
She looked past him, as if watching a ghost pull up a chair.
"He was never just a businessman.
Before the company, before London…
Sekhar was part of the freedom struggle."
Shankar blinked.
That word carried weight.
"He wasn't waving flags in the streets.
He worked from the inside…
quietly… effectively.
During the tail end of World War II,
he held a prominent role—one I'm still not allowed to speak of openly."
Shankar's spine straightened.
"After Independence, he walked away from it all.
The politics. The uniforms. The blood.
He built a business instead—something new.
That was the birth of the company."
She looked at the photo frame beside the bed.
Sekhar—young, sharp-eyed, standing beside someone blurred out in shadow. An old, grainy picture.
"He believed the future wasn't in guns anymore…
but in science.
In building.
In creating."
Shankar let those words settle inside him.
He had grown up thinking he was the son of an ordinary man.
Now he knew—
He was the grandson of a freedom fighter.
The son of a visionary.
And the heir to a legacy written in both blood and brilliance.
And yet, right now…
He felt like a kid again.
The clock ticked faintly in the background.
Martha sat quietly, still holding Shankar as if he were five again.
But he wasn't.
And this moment wasn't about comfort.
It was about clarity.
He leaned back slightly, his eyes searching hers.
"Do you…" his voice cracked, "Do you really believe my father was a bad man? Or that anyone in our family… corrupted the industry?"
Martha didn't answer immediately. She reached out to her bedside drawer with slow, thoughtful hands. Her fingers brushed past old rosaries, brittle paper notes, and then stopped.
She pulled out a photograph, worn at the edges, yellowed by time.
She placed it in Shankar's lap.
It was a frozen moment—
Sekhar Das, standing tall in his crisp white kurta.
Beside him, Bhairava—serene, almost glowing.
And in his arms…
a baby wrapped in blue wool.
Shankar.
"Look at their eyes," she said softly.
"Does that look like a man pretending?"
Her voice shook—not out of weakness, but memory.
"They loved this family.
Whatever the world says… this love was never fake.
Not for a second."
Shankar stared at the photo like it might blink.
His thumb moved to the edge, feeling the slight scratch of its worn surface. It was real. Tangible. And in that picture, his father looked…
Human.
Martha exhaled slowly and set the photo aside.
Then, her tone changed—firmer, almost pleading.
"But child… don't let the past bury you.
We all had to let go, one way or another.
Your mother… me…
Even your father, in some ways."
She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.
"You're still writing your story.
Live your life.
Live your present.
Shape your future."
Shankar blinked, swallowing the lump in his throat.
"But it's so much… It just… happened so fast."
Martha gave him a small smile.
"That's what truth does. It doesn't knock.
It crashes in."
She ruffled his hair gently like she used to when he was a child.
"Now enough heaviness for one night.
Go to sleep, Shankar.
You'll need strength for what lies ahead."
He nodded slowly, standing up as if his legs had just remembered how to move. He looked at the photo one last time.
Maybe it didn't answer all the questions.
But it whispered something truer than words:
That love, however buried, had been real.
And that was enough—for tonight.
Shankar entered his room like a ghost drifting through old walls.
The door clicked shut behind him, but the silence had already settled deep inside.
His fingers slowly reached for the Ring of Truth still on his thumb.
It was warm… faintly pulsing like a tired ember.
He slid it off.
"Enough," he whispered.
It didn't fight back. No heat, no resistance.
Almost like it agreed with him.
He walked to his small wooden box—the one he hadn't opened in years.
The box that held pieces of his life before the world got complicated.
Inside were the relics of childhood:
— A faded yellow toy car with one missing wheel
— A stack of school medals and certificates
— A drawing of him with his parents, made in crayon
— And photos… so many frozen moments.
He gently placed the Ring inside the box, tucking it under the memories.
No farewell. No ceremony.
Just… rest.
His fingers paused on a photo.
His father—Bhairava Das—stood tall in front of a tall building, in Kolkata.
His smile wasn't forced.
It wasn't fake.
It was proud.
Shankar stared at the image.
"He signed the deal that day," he thought.
"And the very next, he's dead in a car crash…"
"Then came the betrayal. The headlines. The shame.
A hero of science… turned into a cautionary tale."
Was it all a coincidence?
Was his father framed?
Or was Shankar just desperate to believe in something else?
He shook his head.
"It doesn't matter anymore," he muttered.
His hand dropped the photo back into the box with a sigh that felt like it came from his bones.
He closed the lid.
Checked his phone.
2:04 a.m.
The screen's glow hit harder than expected.
One missed call.
Savitri - 9:13 p.m.
He blinked, guilty.
He'd been too lost in the storm. Too buried in the past. Too overwhelmed to even glance at his phone.
His thumb hovered over her name.
Call back?
Text?
No.
Not tonight. It's too late for that.
His heart was too full. His mind too cluttered.
He let the phone slide back onto the table.
Then climbed into bed, turned away from the door.
The world had fallen apart… and he just wanted to forget.
For now, he just needed sleep.