Chapter 5 The Verdict
The headlines the next morning didn't talk about a grieving son seeking justice. They talked about a political conspiracy.
"NRI TEENAGER BRAINWASHED BY OPPOSITION PARTY ATTEMPTS TO ASSASSINATE MLA VIRENDAR RAO."
"IS THE OPPOSITION USING CHILDREN AS SUICIDE BOMBERS?"
Inside the VIP suite of the Apollo Hospital in Hyderabad, Virendar Rao sat up in bed. He had a thick bandage wrapped around his midsection. The knife had missed his vital organs by an inch. It hurt like hell, but as he watched the news channels, a smile spread across his face.
His campaign manager stood by the bed, looking nervous.
Sir, the Opposition is denying everything. They are demanding an inquiry into the boy's parents' death.
Let them deny it, Rao wheezed, adjusting his pillows. The public loves a survivor. Look at the polls. Before yesterday, I was winning by a 5% margin. Today? I'm winning by a landslide. That boy didn't kill me. He just handed me the election on a silver platter.
What about the boy, Sir? The police are asking how to proceed.
Rao waved his hand dismissively.
Stick to the narrative. He is a victim. A drug-addled, confused NRI kid who was manipulated by my enemies. If we prosecute him too hard, I look like a bully. If we let him go, I look weak. Let the courts handle it quietly. Make sure the media spins it as 'Rao forgives the child, blames the Opposition.'
He picked up the remote and turned up the volume. The news anchor was praising Rao's resilience.
Rao forgot about the pain in his stomach. The boy was irrelevant now. He was just a footnote in Rao's rise to power.
Three months later. The District Court.
Arjun stood in the wooden dock. He had lost weight. His face was gaunt, his eyes hollow. The bruises from the beating he took on the stage had faded to yellow, but his ribs still ached when he breathed.
He didn't have a lawyer from New York. He had a court-appointed legal aid lawyer who smelled of cheap tobacco and hadn't looked Arjun in the eye once.
The trial was a farce. It was fast, efficient, and completely scripted.
The Public Prosecutor painted a picture of a spoiled, violent teenager who couldn't handle the tragedy of a car accident and lashed out at the innocent leader who tried to help him.
The driver—the man who murdered his parents—took the stand. He wept fake tears.
It was an accident, Your Honor. I fell asleep. Mr. Rao had nothing to do with it. The boy... he was always aggressive. He threatened me many times.
Arjun watched the driver. He didn't scream. He didn't shout "Liar!" He just memorized the man's face. He memorized the shape of his nose, the mole on his cheek, the way he rubbed his hands when he lied.
One, Arjun counted in his head. That's one.
Then he looked at the empty seat where Rao should have been. Rao didn't come to court. He was too busy being sworn in as the new Minister for Urban Development. He had sent a written statement forgiving the boy but asking for 'correctional measures.'
The Judge adjusted his glasses and looked at Arjun with disdain.
Arjun, you are a minor, but your crime is heinous. You attempted to murder a public servant in broad daylight. You have shown no remorse. You are a danger to society.
The gavel banged against the wood. The sound echoed like a gunshot.
Under the Juvenile Justice Act and considering the severity of the crime, this court sentences you to a total of eight years. You will serve four years in the State Juvenile Observation Home. Upon turning eighteen, you will be transferred to the Central Jail to serve the remaining four years of rigorous imprisonment.
Eight years.
Arjun didn't flinch. He didn't look at the judge. He looked at the Great Seal of India hanging on the wall behind the judge. Satyameva Jayate. Truth Alone Triumphs.
It was the biggest lie he had ever seen.
Police constables grabbed his arms. They dragged him out of the courtroom.
Outside, the world had already moved on.
Virendar Rao was cutting a ribbon at a new shopping mall. He was smiling for the cameras, surrounded by sycophants. The stab wound was now just a story he told at dinner parties to show how tough he was. He never thought about Arjun. Why would a lion worry about a mouse he had already crushed?
Arjun was shoved into the back of a police van. The metal door slammed shut, cutting off the sunlight.
The van smelled of rust and sweat. There were other boys in there—thieves, pickpockets, runaways. They looked at Arjun, the rich kid in the white shirt, and sneered.
Arjun sat in the corner. He closed his eyes.
He thought about his Game Boy. He thought about the penthouse in New York. He thought about his mother's laugh on the boat in Kerala.
He took those memories and locked them in a steel box in the back of his mind. Arjun the son was dead. He had died in the fire with his parents.
The boy sitting in the van was something else. He was a weapon being forged.
Eight years.
Virendar Rao thought he had buried Arjun. He didn't realize he had just planted a seed.
The van engine roared to life, carrying him toward hell. Arjun opened his eyes in the darkness. They were dry. They were cold.
Let the training begin.