4, Private Road

 

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.