The last bell had rung, and the school corridors had emptied. Aarav and Aarush walked hand in hand with Abinav, their grip protective, their steps heavy with what had unfolded. Before leaving, both the boys turned to Laxmi.
Aarav’s voice was low but sincere, “Thank you, Ma’am… agar aap nahi hoti toh pata nahi Abinav kis haal mein hota.”
(“Thank you, Ma’am… if you weren’t there, I don’t know what state Abinav would be in.”)
Laxmi gave them a reassuring smile, her hand resting lightly on Abinav’s shoulder. “Bachcha galti kare ya na kare… pehle uska dil samajhna zaroori hai.”
(“Whether a child makes a mistake or not… first, it’s important to understand his heart.”)
The boys nodded, eyes softening. Abinav clung a little tighter to Aarush’s hand, still unwilling to lift his gaze.
At Home
When they reached home, the atmosphere spoke louder than words. The entire Oberio family stood waiting in the living room. Their faces revealed it all—everyone already knew.
Sheela’s glare was piercing, Kaveri’s sigh heavy, Gayathri’s eyes a pool of quiet worry. Arnav stood tall, arms crossed, his face unreadable but his aura—stormy.
Abinav’s tiny legs trembled as he stepped inside. He dared not look up, but when he did, his eyes met Arnav’s. For a moment, he braced for the scolding he thought would come. But Arnav didn’t say a word.
He had been raging ever since Mrs. Verma’s call. Her voice had been sharp, accusatory, dripping with exaggeration. “Aapke bete ne ek ladke ka naak tod diya. Aise bachchon ko sabak seekhana zaroori hai, Mr. Oberio!” (“Your son broke a boy’s nose. Children like this must be taught a lesson, Mr. Oberio!”)
Her words had rung in his ears, not just for what they said, but for the way they were said. Still, beneath all that fury, all Arnav wanted now was one thing—to look into his son’s eyes and see the truth for himself.
He turned to the twins. His voice was steady.
“Tum dono fresh ho kar mere room mein aana. Mujhe Abinav se baat karni hai.”
(“Both of you freshen up and come to my room. I need to talk to Abinav.”)
The boys exchanged a glance but obeyed.
Inside his room, Arnav gently held Abinav’s little palms, guiding him to the washroom. He helped him wash his face, combed through his messy hair with his fingers, and then… he noticed the scratches. Thin red lines across his arm, a bruise darkening on his elbow.
Arnav froze. His heart twisted. Anger bubbled inside him—at the situation, at Mrs. Verma, at the boy who fought with his son, and yes, at his son too.
He wasn’t a man of endless patience. His life was full of battles—business, family, responsibilities—and now this. He knelt down to Abinav’s height, his eyes locked onto his son’s.
“Abinav…” his voice was firm, almost stern, “…tumne sach mein us ladke ko punch kiya?”
(“Abinav… did you really punch that boy?”)
The boy stood frozen. His lips quivered, but no words came. His head slowly nodded.
No denial. No excuse. Just a nod.
Arnav’s chest heaved. He expected resistance, excuses, crying pleas of innocence. But there was nothing. Just silence.
“Tumne kuch bolna hai? Batao mujhe, kyun maara tumne?”
(“Do you have anything to say? Tell me, why did you hit him?”)
Abinav’s throat tightened. His eyes brimmed, but his lips stayed sealed. Not a word escaped him.
At that very moment, Aarav and Aarush entered. They saw Abinav’s tears, Arnav’s tense face, and instantly rushed forward.
Aarav stepped closer, protective anger rising. “Bhai, yeh aisa nahi hai jaise sab keh rahe hain. Abinav aisa kabhi bina wajah kuch nahi karega.”
(“Papa, this is not how everyone is making it sound. Abinav would never do something like this without a reason.”)
Aarush added softly, his voice trembling with emotion, “Dekhiye na Bhai… woh kuch keh bhi nahi pa raha. Bas ro raha hai. Agar galti hoti toh shayad maafi mang leta… par yeh toh…”
(“Look at him, Papa… he isn’t even able to speak. He’s just crying. If it was a mistake, maybe he would’ve apologized… but this is something else…”)
Arnav’s hands clenched into fists. He wanted answers, yet all he got was silence. His little boy just sat there, tears streaming, nodding at his guilt but refusing to defend himself.
Finally, Arnav exhaled sharply, sinking back onto the couch. His voice, though calmer, carried disappointment.
“Mujhe yeh samajh nahi aa raha… tumne maar to diya, par tumhe afsos bhi nahi hai. Kya main sahi hoon, Abinav?”
(“I don’t understand this… you did hit him, but you don’t even regret it. Am I right, Abinav?”)
The little boy broke down completely. Buckets of tears poured, his tiny body shaking with sobs. He clutched his shirt tightly, as though holding himself together. He didn’t say yes. He didn’t say no. He just cried.
And the silence screamed louder than any words.
At Present – In School
Arnav was sitting with Abinav in the school lobby, waiting to meet the Principal.
On the other side of the lobby, the boy Abinav had punched sat with his parents. His nose was bandaged, and his parents kept whispering angrily, throwing sharp looks at Abinav.
The little boy sat quietly beside his father. Every sound in the lobby—the bell, footsteps, papers moving—made him shrink more and more.
Arnav saw this. His heart hurt, but his anger was burning too—not on his son, but on the way people were judging him without even knowing the truth.
For a moment, Arnav thought of Accounts Ma’am, Laxmi. The twins had told him everything. If she had not stepped in yesterday, Abinav would have broken completely. I must thank her, Arnav decided.
Just then, the school’s pune came inside.
“Mr. Oberio… Principal Sir bula rahe hain.”
(“Mr. Oberio… the Principal Sir is calling you.”)
Arnav stood up and placed his hand gently on Abinav’s back. The boy looked up, eyes full of fear. Arnav bent close and said softly:
“Chalo beta. Main yahin hoon. Tumhe akela nahi chhodunga.”
(“Come, son. I am here. I won’t leave you alone.”)
The other boy’s parents also stood. Both families walked toward the Principal’s office. The corridor felt long, their footsteps echoing like a drum of judgment.
The wooden doors of the Principal’s office stood tall in front of them. Arnav pushed them open, holding Abinav’s tiny hand tight.
The Principal adjusted his glasses, looked at everyone, and spoke slowly.
“Please sit.”
Everyone settled into their chairs. Abinav sat very close to Arnav, his small hand tightly clutching his father’s.
The Principal took a deep breath and looked straight at Arnav.
“Mr. Oberio, fighting with others is not encouraged in our school. Look at his age… this behavior is not acceptable. We have to consider dismissing him.”
Abinav’s shoulders shook. His little eyes filled with tears, but he stayed silent. Arnav placed his hand over his son’s, trying to calm him.
The Principal continued, his words heavy.
“I also suggest that you show Abinav to a good psychiatrist. When you asked for his admission here, you were very clear—he should study with normal children so he could improve his disability. But see… after so long, has he improved?”
Each time the word disability came out, Arnav’s jaw tightened. His eyes grew darker, his knuckles white.
The Principal turned to Mrs. Verma.
“Mrs. Verma, please bring me his marksheet.”
She quickly handed it over. He flipped through the pages, shaking his head.
“See his marks? He is not coping with the syllabus. Honestly, Mr. Oberio, there are schools now that take special care of children like him. By studying here, he is not improving at all. He may feel safer there, among students like him.”
He paused, almost in sympathy, but his words pierced like knives.
“I hope you don’t mind. But you should think of his future. Give him some time, and put him in a school where he belongs.”
The silence that followed was unbearable. Arnav’s face turned red with rage. His breath grew heavy. The room could feel the storm inside him.
He stood slowly, his voice calm but shaking with controlled fury.
“Bas.” (“Enough.”)
Arnav finally broke his silence. His voice was low, but every word carried fire.
“Main chup hoon iska matlab yeh nahin ki aap kuch bhi keh dijiye. Aap bas faisla suna rahe hain. Kya aapne dono taraf ki baat suni? Sirf isliye ki mera beta bol nahi paata, iska matlab yeh thodi hai ki saari galti usi ki hai!”
(“Just because I am quiet doesn’t mean you can say whatever you like. You are only announcing decisions here. Did you even listen to both sides? Just because my son can’t speak, doesn’t mean all the blame is his!”)
His chest heaved. He turned towards the Principal with burning eyes.
“I accept… haan, haath uthana solution nahi hai. Galat hai. But mujhe yeh jaana hoga—what happened first? Kis baat ne mere bete ko majboor kiya ki woh apna haath uthaye?”
(“I accept… yes, raising a hand is not a solution. It is wrong. But I need to know—what happened first? What forced my son to raise his hand?”)
Before the Principal could reply, Mrs. Verma pounced, her voice dripping with venom.
“Sir, after classes we were taking students to the bus. Suddenly, your son started punching that boy. Jab humne roka aur injured boy ko infirmary le gaye, yeh bachcha chup-chaap gaayab ho gaya. Aur aapko pata hai? Yeh Class 12 ke bachchon ke saath dance kar raha tha, jaise usse koi pachtava hi na ho!”
(“Sir, after classes we were taking students to the bus. Suddenly, your son started punching that boy. When we tried to stop him and took the injured boy to the infirmary, this child disappeared. And do you know where he was? Dancing in the Class 12 room, as if he had no regret at all!”)
Abinav’s small hands curled into fists on his lap. His face burned with shame.
Mrs. Verma wasn’t done. She straightened her saree pallu and continued sharply, “Aur ek aur baat, Sir. I have to report about Miss Laxmi. Usne is ladke ko encourage kiya. Mere saath bhejne ke bajaye apne paas bitha liya. Yeh toh direct insubordination hai!”
(“And one more thing, Sir. I have to report about Miss Laxmi. She encouraged this boy. Instead of sending him with me, she kept him with her. This is direct insubordination!”)
The Principal frowned. “Hmm… call Miss Laxmi immediately.”
Arnav’s heart sank. He clenched his fists under the table. No… not Laxmi. I won’t let her face trouble because of Abinav.
He quickly cut in, his voice firm.
“Sir, jo bhi karna hai, mujhse kijiye. But don’t drag her into this. She only tried to calm my son.”
Then, turning back towards Mrs. Verma, his tone grew sharper.
“Madam, aap jo keh rahi hain, usse mujhe abhi bhi ek cheez samajh nahi aa rahi. Mera beta kyun… bina wajah kisi ko maarega? Kya wajah thi? Aapke paas iska jawab hai?”
(“Madam, whatever you’re saying still doesn’t explain one thing. Why would my son, without reason, hit someone? What was the reason? Do you have an answer?”)
Mrs. Verma smirked, rolling her eyes.
“Woh toh aap apne bachche se puchhiye… kyun maara usne?”
(“That you should ask your son… why did he hit him?”)
Arnav slowly turned to Abinav. His gaze softened for a moment, then hardened with desperation. He crouched slightly so he was eye-level with the trembling boy.
“Abinav… beta, Papa tumse pooch raha hai. Kyun maara? Bol do.”
Silence. Only the sound of Abinav’s shaky breathing.
The Principal’s words still hung in the air. Arnav sat stiff, his fists clenched, his breath coming heavy. Abinav curled tighter into himself, tears dripping silently onto his lap.
Just then, the boy’s mother leaned forward, her voice sharp and full of accusation.
“Principal Sir, aapko aur sochne ki zaroorat hi nahi hai. Yeh ladka khud hi sabit kar raha hai ki woh fit nahi hai. Aap dekhiye na—bilkul chup baitha hai, apni galti bhi accept nahi kar raha.”
(“Principal Sir, there is no need to think further. This boy himself is proving he isn’t fit here. Just look—he’s sitting completely silent, not even accepting his mistake.”)
Her husband joined in, his tone harsher.
“Sir, hamara beta toh roz school aata hai, acche se padhai karta hai. Kabhi kisi se jhagda nahi kiya. Aur yeh… aapke Oberio sahib ka beta… naak tod diya uska! Agar aaj hum chup baithe toh kal koi aur bachcha bachega nahi.”
(“Sir, our son comes to school daily, studies properly. He’s never fought with anyone. And this… Oberio sahib’s son… he broke his nose! If we stay quiet today, tomorrow no other child will be safe.”)
The boy’s mother’s eyes flared, her words cutting like blades.
Arnav’s head snapped toward them, his eyes blazing. “Bas.” His voice was low, trembling with restrained rage.
“Abinav…” Arnav’s voice cracked as he leaned closer. His large hands trembled while holding the boy’s tiny shoulders. “Bas ek shabd bol do. Main sab samajh jaaunga… ya phir koi nishaan de do, please.”
(“Just one word, say one word. I will understand everything… or just give me some sign, please.”)
But Abinav’s head only sank lower. His lips pressed together, refusing to open. His eyes brimmed with unshed tears, lashes quivering like leaves in a storm.
Arnav’s patience finally shattered. His love, anger, and helplessness boiled into one painful cry.
“Abinav! Jab tum kuch bol nahi paoge, toh sab tumhe galat hi kahenge! Aur ab main bhi majboor ho raha hoon… to believe that you were wrong!”
(“Abinav! When you don’t say anything, everyone will call you wrong! And now even I am being forced… to believe that you were wrong!”)
The words hit the little one like a blade. His tears spilled instantly, heavy drops racing down his cheeks. His small body trembled, shoulders shaking with the weight of his sobs.
Inside, a storm raged. “Nahi Papa… maine shuru nahi kiya tha! Main galat nahi tha…”
(“No Papa… I didn’t start it! I wasn’t wrong…”)
But the words never escaped his throat. His voice was a locked cage, chains around every syllable.
He thought of the truth—the words that boy had thrown at him, the insult that had burned his little heart. But telling it aloud meant hurting his papa, reopening wounds that Arnav had buried with pride. Abinav couldn’t do that.
“Main seh loonga sab kuch… par Papa ko dukh nahi doonga.”
(“I will bear everything… but I won’t give Papa pain.”)
So he stayed silent. He let the blame sit on his tiny shoulders, heavier than his fragile frame could carry. Only buckets of tears spoke for him, falling like confessions no one could understand.
Arnav’s voice cracked again, this time raw with pleading. His anger dissolved into helplessness.
“Humne tumhe yeh sab sikhaya hai, Abinav? Ladna? Maarna? Please… bol kya hua tha. Bas bol de, main sab sambhal loonga!”
(“Is this what we taught you, Abinav? Fighting? Hitting? Please… tell me what happened. Just say it, and I will handle everything!”)
But again, the only answer was the sound of his son’s broken sobs echoing in the cold walls of the office—sobs that tore Arnav’s soul more than any truth ever could.
The Principal’s face hardened as he adjusted his spectacles.
“Mr. Oberio,” he said firmly, “yeh bachcha normal class ke liye suitable nahi hai. He needs special care. Hamare school mein uske liye koi jagah nahi hai.”
(“Mr. Oberio, this child is not suitable for a normal class. He needs special care. There is no place for him in our school.”)
Arnav’s fists clenched on the armrest of the chair. His jaw tightened, but his eyes—still wet—kept flicking back to Abinav’s trembling figure. His silence was eating him alive.
Before Arnav could respond, the office door opened with a gentle creak.
“May I come in, Sir?” A calm voice broke the tension.
"Kabhi-kabhi sach bolne se zyada himmat, usse chupchaap sehne mein lagti hai."
(“Sometimes it takes more courage to silently endure the truth than to speak it aloud.”)
Will Arnav ever discover the real reason behind Abinav’s silence?
Can Laxmi’s arrival turn the tide in Abinav’s favor?
Or will the Principal’s harsh decision change the little boy’s future forever?
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