“Maa, I’ve not stolen anything!” Vibhu sobbed, gasping between cries.
His tiny frame shook as he stood in the middle of the drawing room, surrounded by accusing eyes. His mother hovered behind him—silent, her head bowed. She didn’t cry. She didn’t speak. Her hands clutched the edge of her sari so tightly her knuckles had turned white.
“Enough of this drama,” Mr. Khanna snapped. “The boy was seen near the cupboard. That ring didn’t vanish into thin air.”
Then came the slap.
A sharp crack echoed through the room. Vibhu stumbled, one hand clutching his cheek. But he didn’t run.
He looked around helplessly—at me, at his mother, at the others. His eyes, wet and wide, were not begging for mercy. They were searching, desperately, for someone to believe him.
But no one did.
I had known Vibhu and his mother for years. She cleaned houses in our society. Her husband had long disappeared into drink and debt. Vibhu always accompanied her—too young to stay home, too old to stay out of trouble.
He wasn’t a troublemaker, though. He was bright. He sang while sweeping the floor. A child full of mischief, not malice.
But that morning, Mrs. Khanna’s gold ring had gone missing. It had been on the dressing table, and Vibhu had been seen dusting there, alone, while his mother worked in the hall.
He denied it, again and again. But suspicion thickened like smoke.
“He is young but they start early,” Mr. Khanna played the self-appointed judge, “These people learn to lie before they learn to read.”
I wanted to speak. I should’ve. But I didn’t. Even I, who had fed him biscuits and laughed at his silly jokes, stayed quiet. The logic was too convenient: he was there, the ring was gone, and he was from the “other side”, a perfect culprit.
His mother, silent through the storm, bent down to shield him finally but not before another slap struck him.
The next morning, the truth arrived like a ghost.
The ring had slipped behind the dresser, wedged between the backboard and wall. Exactly where Vibhu had placed folded napkins, as instructed.
The Khannas didn’t apologize. They just moved on. Like nothing had happened.
But something had.
When I went to their one-room shack behind the society wall, Vibhu didn’t run to greet me. He didn’t even look up. He just sat in a corner, tracing circles in the dirt with a stick.
His mother was packing. Quietly. No anger. No tears. Just silence that screamed.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
She looked at me with a tired gaze. “Sorry doesn’t fix broken children.”
And then they left.
No goodbye. No noise. Just the echo of our cruelty.
We hadn’t just accused Vibhu—we had shattered something inside him. Something that may never be whole again.
And for what?
A ring?
No. It wasn’t about gold.
It was about power, fear, and the comfort of blaming the voiceless.
He stole nothing.
We stole everything.
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