Chapter 7: The Sudden Misfortune and the Fight for Justice

My father had always been a man of unshakable principles, a man who valued honesty above all else. His deep-rooted integrity was the bedrock upon which our family stood. From his work at the Northern Railways to his involvement with the worker's union, my father had earned the respect of his colleagues and the trust of the people who depended on him. But his devotion to doing what was right also made him a target—someone who would, unknowingly, become the subject of a great injustice. What followed would not only test his character but would shake the very foundation of our family, leaving us grappling with the harsh realities of a world where honesty wasn’t always rewarded.

The Honest Act that Became His Undoing

It all started when my father uncovered a major scam within the Northern Railways. He had noticed irregularities in the distribution of coal—large amounts of it being diverted by senior officials, who were then selling it to private contractors outside the railway system. This wasn’t a one-time occurrence. My father, always vigilant, had seen similar incidents before. And while it was clear that some of his fellow workers were benefiting from this illicit deal, no one had dared to speak up.

But my father wasn’t like the rest. He couldn’t turn a blind eye, not when the truth was right in front of him. “A lie can travel halfway around the world while the truth is still putting on its shoes,” he would often say. He decided to take action. In silence, he launched a covert operation, gathering evidence of the scam and eventually reporting it to the authorities. His courage paid off when government officials were able to seize a truck filled with coal meant for the railway but redirected for private use. The officers involved were caught red-handed.

But as the saying goes, “the truth hurts, especially when it hits the powerful.” My father’s act of integrity was seen as a direct threat to the corrupt system, and in no time, he became a target. His role in exposing the scam made him the enemy of not just the corrupt officers but also the workers who had been benefiting from the scheme. The system, it seemed, didn’t reward honesty—it punished it.

The Sting Operation: A Trap Set for My Father

One day, while my father was leaving work, preparing to go home, his worst fears were realized. A group of senior officers approached him in the parking lot. They told him they needed to inspect his belongings. My father, never one to question authority, allowed them to check his scooter. He had no reason to suspect that this was anything other than a routine check.

But what they found was nothing short of a setup. In the compartment of his scooter, the officers discovered a can of paint—paint that was used specifically by the railway for marking equipment. The paint was in his scooter, and that was all the proof they needed to accuse him of theft. My father, though confused and frightened, remained adamant that he had no idea how the paint had gotten there. But his protests were futile. They arrested him, accusing him of stealing railway property. They transported him to a different city, Ambala, where he was to spend the night in jail.

It was the first time I had seen my father so vulnerable. He was a man who had always been the protector of our family, the one who set the rules and led by example. To see him brought low, helpless in the face of such injustice, was devastating.

A Family Torn Apart

At home, my mother was in disbelief. She was completely unaware of what had transpired. It was only later, when the evening started to settle in, that someone came to our door with the news. They assured her that they were doing everything they could to help my father, but she could barely comprehend what was happening. Panic set in as she rushed to my father’s friends, hoping they could provide some support.

As night fell, my mother’s anxiety only deepened. She could feel the weight of the world pressing down on her. What would happen to my father? What if he lost his job? What if he went to jail for a crime he didn’t commit? The darkness outside seemed to mirror her uncertainty, but she refused to let despair consume her. She sought help from my father’s colleagues, who promised to help him, but their assurances offered little comfort.

That night, we could hear loud music and laughter coming from my father's sister’s house. They had arrived at my grandmother’s home, and it seemed they were celebrating. As we listened to the music, it was as if they were mocking our misfortune, unaware or indifferent to the turmoil we were going through. The music blared well into the night, as if to remind us that our darkest day was their time for merrymaking.

It was almost surreal—how could anyone be so heartless? My mother’s face, pale and filled with worry, showed the depth of her fear. What if he wasn’t released? What if they never found the truth? She had always been the one to hold our family together, but now, she was breaking under the weight of uncertainty.

A Long Night of Waiting

The following day, my father was brought before the railway magistrate in Ambala. After spending two nights in jail, he was granted bail, but the damage had already been done. My father, once a respected man, now found himself in the eye of a storm he couldn’t control. While he was released, he was ordered to remain at home. The fear that had gripped our family only deepened as we realized the extent of the repercussions this incident would have.

We hired a solicitor to help navigate the legal process. My father was given the option of receiving half pay while staying at home, but the solicitor presented us with another option. For a fine of Rs. 200, my father could settle the matter and avoid further complications—but in doing so, he would have to admit guilt. He would have to acknowledge that he had stolen the paint.

The option was simple: either accept the fine and the guilty label or fight a legal battle that would drag on for years. The cost of the latter was far more than just money—it was an emotional toll that none of us were prepared for.

“My integrity is everything to me,” my father told us. “I will not accept this label, no matter the cost.” And so, he chose to fight. The legal battle began, a long and drawn-out process that saw him isolated, exhausted, and, at times, hopeless. He was no longer the vibrant man he once was. He was a man weighed down by a system that seemed to reward deceit and punish truth.

The Pain of Truth

As the weeks dragged on, my father’s condition worsened. He stayed at home, in a constant state of limbo, unsure of his future. His once active role in the family was replaced by silence and sleep. He refused to return to work, convinced that he could build something greater, something that could help others who had been wronged. “I want to do something that can change the world,” he said, though his voice lacked the conviction it once held.

But in his absence, something strange happened. A man who had long been absent from work, a man who had been jealous of my father’s standing in the railway workers’ union, was caught in a similar situation. He was found putting the same paint in someone else’s scooter. This man had always envied my father’s reputation and his connections, and it became clear that he was the one who had planted the paint in my father’s scooter to frame him. It was a painful moment—our suspicions were confirmed, but it didn’t bring the relief we had hoped for. The truth, while vindicating, came too late to change the course of events.

Dr. Keshav Ram’s Counsel: Finding Strength in the Darkest Times

Through all of this, Dr. Keshav Ram continued to be a pillar of support. He was the only person who truly understood the weight of what we were going through. He would tell my father, “Depression is not a disease. It’s a battle. And you, my friend, are stronger than you think.” His words were always comforting, yet there was a sadness in his voice. He knew that honesty, in the world we lived in, was often punished. The system didn’t reward integrity—it crushed it.

As my father continued his battle, my mother pushed him to return to work. She could see the toll the inaction was taking on him, but my father remained steadfast in his belief that he was meant to do something greater. He wanted to create a business, to help others who had been wronged by society.

The months passed, and the struggle continued. My father’s health, once vibrant and full of life, began to decline. His spirit was broken, but not his will. “We may be down, but we’re not out,” he would say, though it often felt as though we were losing the fight.

The battle was far from over. But as we stood together—my mother, my father, and I—we realized that the fight for justice wasn’t just about winning in court. It was about maintaining our integrity in a world that didn’t always value it. It was about holding onto our beliefs, no matter how many times life tried to break us. The fight for truth was long, and it was hard, but it was one my father was willing to face head-on.

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