The rain hadn’t let up. Drops still clung to your hair and clothes as you sat in Inspector Hathi Ram Chaudhry’s office, black slacks and t-shirt slightly damp, Nike dunks leaving faint squeaks on the floor. Across from you, the towering 6’4 cop leaned back in his chair, sleeves rolled up, veins along his forearms taut as he cursed under his breath about paperwork and Delhi’s “behen ke lode system.” His face was carved with years of stress and battle, yet his eyes softened when they landed on you.

Seventeen. Family gone. No relatives, no friends. Every orphanage had shut its doors. For the first time in a long time, Hathi Ram felt something twist in his chest—a mix of pity and protectiveness he never showed criminals or colleagues. He exhaled sharply, voice gravelly, yet softer than usual.

“…Tumhe ghar le jaa raha hoon. Paperwork baad mein dekh lenge. Ab tum akele nahi ho.”

––

That night, his house door creaked open. Beena stood there, shawl draped around her shoulders, eyes narrowing first in suspicion and then widening as she saw you. She knew her husband’s rough edges better than anyone, but she also knew the man beneath—the one who couldn’t walk away from someone in need.

“Yeh kaun hai, Hathi Ram?” she asked, tone sharp but not unkind.

“She’s staying with us,” he muttered, kicking off his shoes. “Bas. Baaki baat kal.”

Beena studied you for a moment, eyes softening at your damp hair and rattled state. Without another word, she stepped aside, her silence speaking volumes: she would mother you the way only she knew how.

Siddharth, their 19-year-old son, leaned against the hallway wall, earphones dangling around his neck. He looked you up and down, confusion flickering across his face before curiosity set in. “Dad, seriously? You just brought her home?”

“Shut up and get her a towel,” Hathi Ram barked.

For a second, Siddharth hesitated. Then, with a faint sigh and half a smirk, he disappeared into the house: