Chapter 5: Denial Runs Deep

The morning sunlight slanted through the curtains, but there was no warmth in the Mishra household.

Dinanath sat in his armchair, eyes fixed on a blank television screen. His once-straight shoulders now sagged, as if the weight of the family’s shame had finally found a place to settle. The newspaper lay unread on the coffee table. He hadn’t spoken a word since the police left the day before.

Shalini moved around quietly, folding clothes, adjusting cushions, lighting incense near the temple. She watched him out of the corner of her eye, but said nothing. She knew this silence too well — the kind that stretched not because there was nothing to say, but because there was too much.

Ankit came out of his room, his laptop bag hanging from one shoulder. He looked at his father and then at his mother. “I’m going to meet the lawyer,” he said quietly.

Dinanath didn’t respond. Not a glance. Not a nod.

“Baba…” Ankit took a step closer. “I didn’t do this. I was—”

“Enough,” Dinanath said sharply, his voice low but steely. “Don’t insult me with lies.”

Shalini turned her head.

“I know my son,” Dinanath continued, staring straight ahead. “I raised you. I taught you right from wrong. You could never… you would never be part of something like this. So don’t speak as if you’re guilty.”

Ankit opened his mouth to protest, but stopped. This wasn’t belief — it was denial. A wall his father had built not to protect Ankit, but to protect himself.

“Do you really think pretending it didn’t happen will make it go away?” Ankit asked quietly.

Dinanath finally looked at him. His eyes were tired. “You’re my son. You can’t have done this.”

“That’s not the same as saying I didn’t.”

“Get out,” Dinanath whispered. “Before I say something I can’t take back.”

Shalini placed a hand on her husband’s arm. “Let him speak, Dinanath.”

But Dinanath shook it off. “No. Let him go — to his lawyer, to his boss, to whoever is feeding him these stories. Let him go until he remembers who he really is.”

Ankit clenched his fists. Then, without another word, he walked out. The door clicked shut behind him.

Shalini sat down across from her husband. “You’re doing more damage now than he ever did.”

“He signed the papers.”

“Do you even know what papers? What the situation is?”

“He should’ve known better,” Dinanath muttered.

“And you? When you took a loan against the house to pay off Abhishek’s failed coaching centre, did you ask all the questions then?”

Dinanath’s eyes widened. “That’s not the same!”

“It’s exactly the same,” she said softly. “Trusting someone you love. Making choices in desperation. Carrying the guilt silently.”

He turned away. “I didn’t raise criminals.”

Shalini exhaled. “No, you didn’t. But you raised sons who are human. And humans make mistakes.”

---

That evening, the sun dipped behind the rows of rooftops in the neighborhood. In the narrow gali outside their home, whispers had begun.

“Did you hear? Police came to Dinanath Mishra’s house.”

“Woh Ankit na, bada IT company mein tha — scam mein phas gaya.”

“Bade izzatdar log the pehle…”

From the balcony, Meera stood watching. She heard every word.

Inside, Abhishek sat on the sofa, restless. He’d spent the day pacing, arguing with his own thoughts.

“What did you expect?” he muttered aloud. “Golden boy finally cracked.”

Meera walked in. “Did you check on Ankit?”

“No.”

“He’s your brother.”

Abhishek scoffed. “He never treated me like one.”

Meera paused, then asked quietly, “Is that really his fault?”

Abhishek didn’t answer.

---

Later that night, Shalini knocked on Ankit’s door. He opened it, surprised.

She handed him a tiffin and sat beside him on the bed.

“I made your favorite — matar paneer,” she said gently.

He smiled faintly, emotion rising in his throat. “Thanks, Ma.”

“I believe you,” she said, looking into his eyes. “Not because I think you're perfect. But because you’re trying.”

Ankit swallowed hard. “I don’t know how to prove I didn’t do it.”

“Start with the truth,” she said. “Even if it hurts.”

He nodded slowly.

Outside, the fan continued its slow, creaky rotation.

The glass was cracking — not just in the world’s view of them, but within each other.

And still, some pieces — like a mother’s faith — held firm.

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