Vishal Sharma stood on the balcony of his Melbourne home, staring at the distant skyline, lost in thought. The phone call from India had come a week ago—a wedding invitation from his younger brother Arjun. His nephew's big day was set in their ancestral village in Rajasthan. Vishal's commitments as a businessman in Australia made attending difficult, so he sent his son, Ram, ahead. "I'll join you soon," he promised, unaware that this trip would become the most haunting chapter of his life.
Ram arrived in India with a heart full of enthusiasm. At twenty, he was a spirited young man, proud of his Indian heritage. An excellent swimmer with dreams of joining the army, he carried a sense of discipline and warmth that drew people to him. His arrival brought renewed energy to the household. He helped with preparations, ran errands, and became the life of the festivities. For Ram, this was more than a wedding—it was a homecoming.
Two days later, Vishal joined the celebrations. He watched Ram with pride, marveling at his son's ability to connect with family and tradition. Ram spoke passionately about his dream to serve the nation, his eyes gleaming with hope. Vishal felt a deep sense of fulfillment; his son embodied the best of both worlds—the ambition of the West and the soul of India.
The day of the wedding dawned bright and vibrant. The bride's family prepared for the traditional procession. Drums echoed through the village streets as relatives danced around the bride, who sat on a decorated horse. Ram joined the dancers, his joy infectious, his laughter mingling with the rhythm of the dhol.
Then, in an instant, everything changed. A truck, speeding recklessly through the narrow street, rammed into the procession. The music stopped. Screams filled the air. Ram was struck with brutal force, his body thrown lifeless to the ground. His friend Mukesh, rushing to stop the driver, was also crushed under the wheels. The truck sped away, leaving behind devastation and chaos.
Vishal ran to his son, his world shattering as he cradled Ram's lifeless body. The festivities had turned into a nightmare. The police arrived but seemed indifferent, treating the tragedy like just another accident. Days passed, and no progress was made. The driver was identified—a man with powerful political connections—but the authorities did nothing.
Grief-stricken but determined, Vishal decided to seek justice on his own. He gathered evidence: witness statements, CCTV footage, and even tracked down the driver. He approached higher authorities, presenting an airtight case. Each meeting ended in disappointment. Corruption and influence shielded the guilty.
Threats followed. Anonymous calls warned him to back off. Vishal's fight for justice was met with intimidation and silence. The system he believed in was broken, protecting the powerful and punishing the innocent.
One evening, standing by the river where Ram had once dreamed of swimming for his country, Vishal felt the weight of defeat. His son's dreams, his own hopes—all had been crushed under the wheels of that truck and the indifference of those who should have cared.
Back in Melbourne, the swimming pool where Ram once practiced lay still and silent. Vishal sat by the edge, staring into the water, seeing not his reflection but his son's smile, now a ghost of memory.
"I couldn't give you justice," he whispered. "But I won't let them forget your name."
The journey had ended in tragedy, the fight left unfinished. Yet, in his heart, Vishal knew that some battles never truly end—they echo through the lives they touch, leaving scars that time cannot heal.