She examined Baba’s letter, the old acknowledgment, and the available property records.
She explained that any claim involving Rudrapratap’s estate would require verification.
The existence of an old declaration did not automatically prove an enforceable inheritance right.
Nor could Shashidhar act on my behalf without proper authority.
I nodded.
“I don’t care about becoming wealthy.”
She looked at me.
“Then what do you want?”
I thought about Baba.
About Madhavi.
About Amma.
“The truth.”
The investigation into the old printing press records uncovered something unexpected.
Mrinalini Chachi remembered a former accountant named Devendra, who had kept copies of certain business ledgers.
He was still alive.
Eighty-nine years old.
Living with his daughter in Prayagraj.
When I visited him, he studied my face for a long time.
“Harivansh’s boy,” he whispered.
My eyes filled.
“You remember me?”
He smiled.
“Your father used to bring you to the press on Saturdays. You would sit beneath his desk and draw on discarded paper.”
I laughed through tears.
I had forgotten that.
Then he became serious.
“Your father was an honest man.”
I nodded.
“He died suddenly.”
Devendra looked down.
“He was frightened before he died.”
My throat tightened.
“Of Shashidhar?”
Devendra hesitated.
“Shashidhar had been helping Rudrapratap’s associates move money through false invoices. Your father discovered discrepancies.”
I stared at him.
“Did he report them?”
“He intended to.”
Devendra opened an old folder.
Inside were photocopies of ledger pages and correspondence.
He handed them to me.
“Harivansh asked me to keep these.”
My hands trembled.
“Why?”
“Because he thought someone might destroy the originals.”
I looked at the papers.
Then asked the question I had carried for weeks.
“Did someone murder him?”
Devendra’s eyes filled.
“I cannot tell you that, beta. I never saw anyone harm him.”
He took my hand.
“But I can tell you he was threatened.”
I returned to Varanasi with the records.
The authorities reviewed the new material.
Some financial wrongdoing from decades earlier could be documented.
Other allegations remained difficult to establish because witnesses had died and records were missing.
No conclusive evidence emerged that my father had been murdered.
That uncertainty hurt.
But I refused to invent certainty merely to punish someone.
Shashidhar eventually admitted, through his lawyer, that he had sought financial benefit from the Singh estate and had concealed information about the old transactions.
He denied involvement in any death.
His recent attempts to pressure me over the house were documented separately.
I stopped communicating with him directly.
For the first time in my life, I understood that family ties did not require unlimited access to my home.
Months passed.
Amma grew weaker.
Some mornings she recognized me immediately.
Other mornings she called me Harivansh.
Once, while I was feeding her khichdi, she looked at me and whispered:
“Where is Nandu?”
I smiled.
“I’m here, Amma.”
She frowned.
“No. My little Nandu. He has school tomorrow.”
My throat tightened.
I gently touched her hand.
“He finished school a long time ago.”
She looked confused.
Then smiled.
“Good boy. He studies so hard.”
I turned away so she would not see my tears.
Memory had taken her backward.
But somehow, even there, she was still caring for me.
One winter morning, Amma asked me to open the wooden trunk.
I brought it into her room.
She pointed toward the crimson wedding saree.
“Take it out.”
I unfolded the faded silk.
She smiled.
“I wore that when I married your father.”
I nodded.
She touched the fabric.
“He was a good man.”
“Yes, Amma.”
She looked at me.
“Did he love you?”
My eyes filled.
“Very much.”
She smiled.
“Then everything was worth it.”
I sat beside her.
“Amma, did you ever regret taking me home?”
She looked almost offended.
“Regret?”
I nodded.
She reached for my face.
Her hand shook so badly that I had to help her.
“Nandu, the first night you slept in our house, your father stayed awake watching you breathe.”
I began crying.
“He kept saying, ‘Sulochana, look. He trusts us.’”
Her eyes filled.
“We were so afraid we would fail you.”
I shook my head.
“You didn’t.”
She smiled.
Then whispered:
“You were never borrowed, beta.”
I bent my head.
She kissed my forehead.
“You were ours to love.”
Amma died three months later.
It happened quietly.
The nurse had visited that morning.
I had fed her a few spoonfuls of soft porridge.
Then I sat beside her bed, reading aloud from the Ramcharitmanas.
She was holding my hand.
At one point, she opened her eyes.
“Nandu?”
“Yes, Amma?”
“Have you eaten?”
I laughed through tears.
“Not yet.”
She frowned.
“Eat first.”
I kissed her hand.
“I will.”
She smiled.
Then closed her eyes.
A little later, her breathing changed.
I called for medical help.
But by the time the doctor arrived, she was gone.
