Part 1: House of Silence
The
rain had a way of making the city feel older than it was, of pulling its past
up from the gutters and into the air. That night, it poured relentlessly,
soaking the crumbling yellow walls of the mansion at 4, Private Road, where
silence reigned like an unseen monarch. It was the kind of silence that had
weight, the kind that settled in the corners of rooms, in the hush of drawn
curtains, in the slow decay of a home long forgotten by time.
Inside,
beneath the dim glow of a single brass lamp, sat Aniruddha Basu, his gaunt
frame draped in a woolen shawl despite the lingering summer humidity. Once a
formidable presence in the lecture halls of Jadavpur University, where students
clung to his words as if they held the secrets of the universe, he now moved
only as far as his wheelchair allowed. His legs—those same legs that had once
climbed the steps of the library two at a time, had once carried him through
the throngs of College Street’s bookstores—were now lifeless appendages,
remnants of a body that had betrayed him.
Outside,
the Doberman, Sultan, let out a guttural growl, his ears pricked towards the
wrought-iron gate. But no one passed through. No one ever did. Not
here.
Except
Rina. Rina Dutta.
She
had arrived a year ago, a slender woman in her late twenties, hair always tied
back in a no-nonsense bun, her crisp white uniform bearing the faint scent of
Dettol and camphor. She had taken the job not for any noble calling, but
because it paid well, and the work was easy—administering his medications,
massaging his stiff legs, ensuring he was fed, and, at times, engaging him in
reluctant conversation.
But
Aniruddha was not an easy man to talk to. There was something glacial in him,
something that repelled warmth. He spoke only when necessary, answered
questions with an economy of words that left little room for further inquiry.
Detached. Cold. Unreachable. It irked her. Perhaps because she had expected,
even unconsciously, that an invalid man might be softer, more grateful, more...
human.
At
night, the house seemed to fold into itself, swallowing its own echoes. The old
wooden beams creaked with memory. The storm lashed against the windows.
Somewhere in the city, tram wheels screeched along rain-slicked tracks,
carrying away strangers to destinations unknown.
Then,
one morning, the city woke up to scandal.
WHEELCHAIR-BOUND
PROFESSOR RAPES NURSE !
It
was there, in bold letters, smudged with rain, staring back at Rina from the
newspaper vendor’s stall as she walked through the bazaar. The ink was still
wet. The whispers had already begun.
And
behind the gates of 4, Private Road, where silence had once reigned, the world
erupted.
Part 2: The Accusation
The
air in the courtroom was thick with judgment, not just from the audience but
from the walls themselves, stained with the weight of countless trials. The
reporters scribbled furiously, their pens birthing stories faster than justice
could be served. Outside, the streets of Kolkata burned with
indignation—placards, chants, the restless anger of a city desperate for a
villain.
At
the center of it all sat Aniruddha. His wheelchair, positioned before the
judge, seemed less an aid and more a throne of condemnation. He did not
protest. He did not plead. He merely existed, a specter of himself, watching
the world sculpt him into a monster.
The
prosecutor, Arindam Sen, was a man who thrived on certainty. He folded his
hands before him, exuding the quiet confidence of someone who knew the ending
before the story was told. "Miss Rina, you were his caretaker, his
confidante in a house devoid of others. You trusted him. Tell the court, what
happened that night?"
Rina,
draped in white, her hair pulled back so tight it stretched the skin on her
temples, took a steadying breath. "I stayed back that evening because he
asked me to," she said, voice trembling. "Subimal, the housekeeper,
had left. It was just the two of us."
A
pause. A carefully measured silence.
"Then?"
Sen pressed, stepping closer.
"He
asked for his medicine. I went to the cabinet. And then…" She swallowed,
her voice collapsing under its own weight. "Then, he grabbed me. His hands
were—strong. I tried to push him away, but he—" she faltered, before
drawing up the sleeves of her sari. A collective gasp filled the room. The
bruises—dark, circular stains against her fair skin—told their own
tale.
Sen
turned to the judge. "The marks on her body, Your Honor, are evidence of
the force he used. This woman—a nurse, a caregiver—placed her faith in the
wrong man. And now, she stands before you, pleading for
justice."
Aniruddha
remained still. His fingers, resting on the arms of his wheelchair, did not
tighten. His lips did not part. His body—so frequently examined, so often
doubted—betrayed nothing.
Then,
from the defense table, a slow voice rose.
"Mr.
Sen speaks of evidence. Of bruises. And yet, we have not addressed the most
glaring question of all."
The
courtroom turned to the defense attorney, a thin man with silver-rimmed
glasses, who had until now remained a spectator. He adjusted his sleeves, as if
preparing to unravel a mystery long buried.
"How?"
he asked simply. "How does a man, bound to a wheelchair, paralyzed from
the waist down, commit such an act?"
The
silence that followed was not empty—it was charged, electric. The first ripple
of doubt slithered through the crowd. A mother, clutching her daughter’s hand
at the back of the courtroom, frowned. A reporter hesitated, pen hovering above
the page.
Rina’s
lips parted, but no words emerged.
Arindam
Sen, for the first time, hesitated.
The
judge leaned forward. "Elaborate, Mr. Basu."
The
defense lawyer nodded, stepping toward Aniruddha’s chair. "My client, Your
Honor, has not had sensation in his lower body for years. Medical records,
which I shall present, confirm that his injuries have left him not just
wheelchair-bound, but incapable of—certain acts." He turned to face the
prosecution. "And yet, we are to believe that he committed
rape?"
A
murmur of disbelief spread like wildfire.
Rina’s
face paled. Her hands clutched at the folds of her sari, the fabric twisting
under her grip. "I—I don’t know the medical terms," she stammered.
"But I know what happened. He—he touched me, he hurt me—"
"And
yet," Basu interrupted, voice firm but measured, "he could not have
done what you claim." He turned to the judge. "Your Honor, the human
body does not lie. We have become so consumed by outrage, so eager for an easy
truth, that we have ignored the science. The marks on Miss Rina’s body—yes,
they exist. But do they prove what she says? Or do they merely tell us that
something happened that night—something far different from what she
claims?"
A
chill settled over the room.
For
the first time since the trial began, the weight of guilt shifted.
Part 3: The Defense’s Move
The
courtroom smelled of old wood and ink, a heavy silence pressing against the air
as Eleanor Roy, Aniruddha Basu’s defense counsel, rose. She was a woman of
precise movements and quiet devastation. Her saree, a deep indigo with thin
golden borders, whispered against the polished floor as she walked to the
center of the room.
She
paused, surveying the space—the stained ceiling fans rotating in languid
apathy, the rows of spectators shifting in their seats, the plaintiff, Rina
Dutta, whose hands gripped the witness stand as though it were the only thing
keeping her upright.
Eleanor
spoke in a voice neither loud nor soft, but one that carried across the room
with the weight of finality.
"Ms.
Dutta, do you know that my client has been medically incapable of performing
any sexual act since his accident?"
A
murmur spread through the crowd, restrained but palpable. Rina stiffened. Her
knuckles whitened.
"W-What
do you mean?" Her voice was thin, a wire stretched to its
limit.
Eleanor
clasped her hands behind her back, her face unreadable. "I mean," she
said, pausing for effect, "that Aniruddha Basu suffered irreparable damage
in his accident. He is a eunuch. He cannot have an erection."
It
was not the words themselves but the way they landed—like a single match
flicked into a room full of dry paper. A collective gasp rippled through the
courtroom. The judge, an aging man with a face carved by a lifetime of
verdicts, leaned forward, his expression unreadable.
"Do
you have medical proof, Ms. Roy?"
Eleanor
nodded once. She walked to the bench and handed over a file, thick with papers
bearing the solemn, inarguable weight of medical testimony. The judge adjusted
his glasses, flipping through pages marked by official seals and the crisp
signatures of three senior doctors from SSKM Hospital.
"These
documents," Eleanor continued, her voice steady, "confirm my client’s
physical condition. He is biologically incapable of committing the crime he is
accused of."
The
room hung in stunned silence.
Rina’s
face had drained of color. Her lips parted as if to refute, to cry out, but no
words came.
For
months, she had spun this narrative—a nightmare of darkened corridors, the
weight of a body pressing against hers, the cold burn of helplessness. She had
worn her pain like a second skin, believing in the invulnerability of her own
truth. But now, in a matter of minutes, it had unraveled like a loose thread
pulled from the hem of certainty.
The
prosecutor, Mr. Sharma, a man of rigid posture and habitual righteousness,
cleared his throat. "Ms. Dutta," he said, his voice measured,
"do you have anything to say in response?"
Rina’s
breath was uneven. She clenched and unclenched her fists, searching for words,
for something to anchor herself to. "I..." she began, but the
syllable withered in her throat.
From
across the courtroom, Aniruddha Basu sat motionless in his wheelchair, his face
expressionless. His eyes, deep-set and shadowed, did not flinch, did not gloat.
They simply watched.
For
the first time since this trial began, he was not the one on trial.
And
Rina Dutta, for the first time, was.
Part 4: Unveiling the Truth
The
weight of the silence in the courtroom was suffocating. The judge’s gaze
remained fixed on Rina Dutta, whose breath had grown shallow, her fingers
gripping the wooden edge of the witness stand as though it were the last thing
tethering her to reality.
Eleanor
took a step forward, her heels clicking against the marble floor, the sound
ricocheting through the cavernous room. She held no notes, no further
evidence—only the truth, naked and unforgiving. “Ms. Dutta, the law does not
exist to soothe the wounds of unreciprocated love. It exists to uphold
justice.”
Rina’s
lips trembled, but no words came forth. Her carefully woven tale, stitched
together with spite and desperation, had unraveled before her eyes. The
courtroom was no longer a place where she wielded power; it had become a
crucible, melting away falsehoods until only the raw truth remained.
Judge
Mukherjee tapped his gavel lightly, a warning rather than a reprimand. “Ms.
Dutta, I ask you again—do you deny writing these letters?”
Her
throat convulsed, and for a brief moment, she seemed on the precipice of a
confession. But defiance, that last refuge of the guilty, held her upright.
“I... I don’t remember,” she whispered.
A
murmur spread through the gallery like ripples in a still pond. Eleanor sighed,
the ghost of disappointment flickering in her eyes. She turned, locking eyes
with Subimal Basu. The accused man sat in his wheelchair, his hands resting on
the arms of the chair as though he carried a great weight beyond his
immobility. His face bore no triumph, only exhaustion. A man who had lived
through accusation, through the public’s scorn, through the slow corrosion of
dignity. A man who had waited, not for vengeance, but for truth.
Eleanor
exhaled sharply and faced the judge. “Your Honor, my client has spent the past
three months drowning in allegations that have stripped him of his humanity. He
has endured the indignity of suspicion, the agony of knowing the world had
turned against him without question. Today, the evidence is clear. Ms. Dutta’s
letters chart a journey from affection to animosity. The dog, Sultan, whose
loyalty to Mr. Basu is unwavering, did not react to any supposed crime. The
CCTV footage proves beyond doubt that Mr. Basu never left his home that
evening. And above all,” Eleanor turned to the jury, her voice like a scalpel
cutting through doubt, “Ms. Dutta’s story crumbles under the weight of its own
contradictions.”
Rina’s
shoulders shook. “You don’t understand,” she whispered. “You don’t understand
what it’s like to want someone so much that it consumes you.”
Eleanor’s
gaze softened. “No, Ms. Dutta. What I understand is that desire does not grant
the right to destroy a man’s life.”
The
judge leaned forward. His voice, measured and calm, carried the finality of
judgment. “Ms. Dutta, perjury is a grave offense. The law does not look kindly
upon those who manipulate it for personal vendettas.” He turned to the jury.
“You have heard the evidence. You have seen the inconsistencies. You may now
retire to deliberate.”
The
jury rose, filing out with solemn expressions. The tension in the courtroom
remained thick, like a storm waiting to break. Subimal Basu closed his eyes,
the lines on his face deep with weariness. He had lived a lifetime in the past
three months, and now he waited for a verdict that would either restore or
forever ruin his name.
Rina
Dutta sat frozen, her world collapsing in slow motion. The audience, the press,
the whispers—she felt them like daggers in her spine. But nothing cut deeper
than the truth staring back at her. She had played a dangerous game, and now,
as the walls of justice closed in, she realized there was no way out.
Not
this time.
Part 5: The Verdict
The
verdict had been delivered, and the echoes of the gavel still lingered in the
cold corridors of the courthouse. The murmurs of the spectators had faded, the
legal combatants dispersed, and yet, Aniruddha remained. Alone in his
wheelchair, he watched the rain-slicked steps of the courthouse through the
high-arched windows. The city, once so familiar, now seemed distant,
foreign—like a landscape glimpsed in a forgotten dream.
They
had wheeled him out into the waiting car, but his mind was elsewhere. Not on
Rina, not on the trial, not even on the word 'innocent', which now seemed
almost weightless. He was thinking of the house—the old mansion at 4, Private
Road. It awaited him like an ancient sentinel, its secrets buried in its walls,
its quiet undisturbed by the noise of justice or betrayal.
When
he arrived, the servants withdrew soundlessly, accustomed to his solitude. He
dismissed them for the night. The house had always belonged to silence, and now
it embraced him once more. The scent of rain seeped through the wooden beams,
mingling with the distant fragrance of damp earth. A single lamp burned in the
corner, casting flickering shadows along the marbled floor.
Aniruddha
rolled his wheelchair towards the wide bay window of his study. Outside, the
sky had darkened with the slow, deliberate weight of an impending storm. Heavy
clouds churned, moving like ancient creatures gathering their strength. The
trees in the garden bowed, whispering secrets to the wind. He could hear the
hush before the rain—the world drawing in its breath.
Then,
with a sudden, furious grace, the heavens opened.
Rain
poured down in great, silver sheets, slanting against the glass, drumming
against the gabled roof. The wind howled through the corridors, as if the house
itself were breathing. The distant streetlights blurred in the downpour,
melting into liquid gold.
He
watched the water streak down the glass, tracing jagged paths—like veins, like
roots, like the memories that refused to fade. His reflection stared back at
him, fractured and ghostly. Once, he had stood tall in this very room, before
the accident, before the trial, before he became something other than a man in
the eyes of the world. Now, he was something else entirely—a shadow of himself,
or perhaps something truer.
The
storm raged outside, but inside, Aniruddha felt nothing. No vindication, no
triumph. Only the cold understanding that truth, once revealed, did not heal
wounds—it only laid them bare.
Far
away, a clock chimed. Midnight.
He
reached for the whiskey decanter, his fingers steady. As he poured himself a
glass, the rain pounded harder, as though the clouds, too, had something to
confess.
In
the morning, the world would move on. The newspapers would print their
headlines. Whispers would die. And Rina, wherever she was, would vanish into
the folds of time, just as the storm would pass.
But
tonight—tonight, the rain would fall.
And
the house at 4, Private Road would keep its silence.
