Evenings at the Mishra household had always been the most sacred time of the day. No matter what chaos the world brought, 8:30 p.m. meant one thing — dinner together. No phones, no television, no distractions. Just warm food and colder glances passed between family members.
But tonight, the dining table was a battleground dressed in silverware and ceramic plates.
Ankit sat at his usual spot, second from the left, where he had once shared jokes, teased his mother about her spice levels, and stolen extra gulab jamuns. Now, he sat stiff, each bite tasting like paper.
Across from him sat Abhishek — arms crossed, expression unreadable, anger still flickering like an ember under ash. To his left, Meera avoided eye contact. Her silence was not of loyalty but of discomfort. Even she couldn’t deny the tension that had woven its way into every breath of the house.
Shalini tried to break the ice, her voice too cheerful to be real. “Ankit, I made your favourite — bhindi masala. You used to ask for it every Sunday, remember?”
Ankit nodded, grateful but unable to meet her eyes. “It’s delicious, Ma.”
The cutlery clinked against the plates, the only sound in the heavy room.
Dinanath finally cleared his throat. “So… what are your plans now?”
Ankit looked up, startled by the question. “I’m… not sure yet. I need time to think.”
“Think?” Abhishek muttered, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Is that what people under investigation do these days?”
“Abhi, please,” Meera whispered, nudging him.
“No,” Ankit said, putting down his spoon. “Let him speak. Better to know what he really thinks.”
“I think,” Abhishek said, leaning forward, “that you’ve walked in here expecting us to act like none of this is happening. Like you’re still the golden boy who could do no wrong.”
“I never claimed to be that,” Ankit replied, his voice calm but firm. “And I didn’t come here to hide. I came here because I have no one else.”
“Or maybe because your lawyers advised it,” Abhishek snapped.
Dinanath banged his palm on the table. “Enough!”
Everyone froze.
He looked at both his sons — one burning with anger, the other with quiet desperation. “We will not turn this house into a courtroom. If Ankit has made mistakes, they’ll come to light. But this family will not fall apart while that happens.”
Shalini spoke softly, “We need to remember who we are.”
But who were they now?
---
Later that night, Ankit stood on the balcony outside his room. The summer breeze rustled the leaves of the neem tree. Somewhere in the neighborhood, a dog barked. The silence of the city at night was both comforting and damning.
Meera joined him quietly. She stood beside him, holding two mugs of chai.
“I figured you might need this,” she said, handing one over.
“Thanks,” he murmured, surprised by her presence.
They sipped in silence for a moment before Meera spoke again. “I don’t know the full truth, Ankit. But I do know something’s changed in you.”
He glanced at her. “Changed how?”
“You’re quieter. Heavier. Like you’ve been carrying something for too long.”
He nodded. “Maybe I have.”
She turned to him. “Why didn’t you tell Ma and Baba before things got worse?”
“I wanted to fix it first. I thought… if I could just make it right without dragging them into it, maybe I could protect them.”
Meera smiled faintly. “You still think this family needs protecting. Even now.”
“Don’t we all?” he said.
They stood quietly again. Two people caught in a house full of ghosts — some recent, some ancient.
---
In the living room, Dinanath sat alone, staring at the old family photograph hanging above the TV. It was taken ten years ago. The boys had still been teenagers, Shalini had fewer lines on her face, and he… he still believed that love, if raised with discipline and duty, would last forever.
Now, that belief felt like a well-used rug — worn thin but impossible to throw away.
Shalini sat beside him and slipped her hand into his.
“I’m scared,” she admitted.
He didn’t answer immediately. “So am I.”
“What will people say?”
He looked at her. “Let them. But inside this house, we will not let whispers define us.”
“But outside this house…” Her voice faded.
“They’ll talk,” he said. “And they’ll forget. What matters is whether we believe in him. And I’m not sure I do.”
Shalini looked at him, stunned.
“I want to believe,” Dinanath added. “But I also want the truth. If we don’t get that from him, then he’s not the only one who failed.”
---
Meanwhile, in a small cyber café near Hazratganj, a young reporter named Neha Srivastava clicked through online case files, her eyes widening as she stumbled on a document tagged Mishra–Sharma Email Chain. It wasn’t public yet, but someone had leaked part of the internal audit.
She whispered to herself, “Ankit Mishra… Lucknow’s own.”
She opened a draft.
“Fallen Angel: How A Middle-Class Hero Became the Face of Corporate Deceit.”
The news was no longer a whisper. It was ready to roar.
***Download NovelToon to enjoy a better reading experience!***
Updated 20 Episodes
Download
Like this story? Download the app to keep your reading history.
Comments