Chapter 4: Police at the Door

Lucknow Police arrive with questions. Dinanath Mishra, the patriarch, is shaken.

It was a stifling Tuesday morning in Lucknow. The ceiling fan groaned as it rotated above the Mishra family’s modest living room. Shalini was in the kitchen, rolling out dough, when the doorbell rang. It wasn’t a gentle chime—it was sharp, loud, almost aggressive.

She wiped her hands on her saree pallu and answered the door, only to freeze in place. Two men stood outside. One wore a khaki uniform. The other, in plain clothes, held a small notepad.

“Mr. Dinanath Mishra?” the plainclothes officer asked.

Shalini’s throat tightened. “One moment,” she said and walked inside, her heartbeat loud in her ears.

Dinanath, who was reading the newspaper at the dining table, glanced up. “Kaun hai?”

Shalini bent closer and whispered, “Police.”

The newspaper dropped from his hands.

Moments later, the family had gathered in the living room. The officers entered with the air of quiet authority. Ankit stood at the edge of the room, tense. Abhishek lingered in the hallway, half-hidden.

The plainclothes man spoke. “I’m Inspector Suresh Yadav. This is Constable Dubey. We’re here regarding a white-collar fraud case involving Virakt Solutions Pvt Ltd. We believe your son, Ankit Mishra, was working there?”

“Yes,” Dinanath replied stiffly. “He was with them for two years.”

Yadav nodded. “We need to ask him some questions. Nothing formal yet—just an inquiry.”

Ankit stepped forward. “I’ll cooperate fully.”

The inspector flipped open his notepad. “Can you explain why ₹2.3 crores were funneled to a shell company using your login credentials?”

Dinanath’s head turned sharply toward his son. “What are they saying?”

Ankit’s voice shook. “I didn’t do anything illegal. I believed those funds were for third-party vendors. My reporting manager approved the transfers.”

“Your signature was on the vendor agreement,” the inspector said, looking directly at him.

“It was part of a set of documents,” Ankit replied. “I didn’t read every detail. That was my mistake. But I didn’t knowingly do anything wrong.”

Dinanath rose, trembling. “You signed something. That alone is enough to destroy a name.”

“Baba, please. I trusted them. I didn’t steal.”

Inspector Yadav raised a hand. “We’re not here to arrest anyone yet. But Ankit Mishra is now a person of interest. We’ll need his laptop and any work-related files. Do not tamper with or delete anything. That would be a serious offense.”

He placed a card on the table. “We’ll be in touch,” he said before walking out with his colleague.

The gate clicked shut behind them.

Inside the house, silence fell like a curtain. Dinanath slowly sank back into his chair, his hands trembling. His eyes stared into space.

“Not my son,” he murmured. “Not in my house.”

Ankit tried to speak, but his father's shame was louder than words.

And just like that, the quiet walls of the Mishra household began to crack.

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