Aditya Nandan.
Part 1: The Opening Argument
The judge’s gavel landed with a thud, cutting through the low murmur of the packed Delhi courtroom. Justice Arunabh Sen, silver-haired and unsmiling, adjusted his glasses and surveyed the room with the calm of a man who had seen too much and believed too little.
“This court is now in session for the State versus Aryan Khanna,” he said. “Charged under IPC Section 302—murder. Let us proceed.”
At the prosecution bench, Senior Public Prosecutor Asha Gautam stood up. She was in her early forties, sharply dressed in a black silk saree and an expression that dared anyone to underestimate her. She had handled ministers, movie stars, and mafias. But Aryan Khanna was different.
Because Aryan wasn’t just anyone. He was the son of Devraj Khanna, a sitting Member of Parliament from Haryana, three-time cabinet minister, and a man who’d never lost anything—not in elections, not in court, and certainly not in reputation.
Asha took a breath and addressed the jury.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she began, her voice clear and confident, “this case is not only about a murder—it’s about power, entitlement, and the belief that some men are above consequence.”
She let that hang in the air for a beat.
“On the 4th of February, Priyansh Walia—a 26-year-old journalist—was found dead in his apartment in Defence Colony. One stab wound. No forced entry. No missing items. But a half-empty whiskey glass with Aryan Khanna’s fingerprints… and the victim’s blood splattered on its base.”
She took a few steps forward.
“You will hear that Priyansh and Aryan were once friends. That they argued. That Priyansh was about to publish a report implicating Aryan’s father in a massive land scam involving tribal displacement in Chhattisgarh.”
From the corner of her eye, Asha saw Aryan sitting straight-backed in a cream Nehru jacket. His posture was perfect. So was his indifference. Beside him sat his defence counsel—Mr. Ujwal Bhardwaj—a man whose courtroom victories were whispered about over scotch in South Delhi drawing rooms.
“The defence,” Asha continued, “will try to tell you this was a robbery gone wrong. That someone else had motive. That the system got it wrong. But I will show you motive, means, and opportunity. I will show you that Aryan Khanna is not a victim of mistaken identity—but a man who believed consequences were for other people.”
She returned to her seat. Justice Sen nodded. “Mr. Bhardwaj. Opening remarks?”
Ujwal Bhardwaj rose slowly. In his mid-sixties, he looked more like a retired professor than a legal assassin. But his soft voice cut like glass.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” he began, “the prosecution has already delivered a verdict. I will only ask for your patience. Because trials are not won with headlines and suspicion. They are decided by facts.”
He moved closer to the jury. “Yes, Aryan Khanna was at the victim’s flat. Yes, they had a disagreement. But there is no evidence that he stayed long enough to kill. No camera footage. No eyewitness. Just speculation, built on the ruins of a career journalist who had more enemies than friends.”
He turned to Asha and gave her a small, deliberate smile. “We will show you another side of this story. One where truth is murkier. One where justice may not lie in the hands you expect.”
The first witness was called. Asha had planned this carefully.
Raghuveer Tiwari, the building’s security guard, was the only person on duty that night. He stepped into the witness box—old, uniform pressed, his voice uncertain but honest.
“Do you remember seeing Mr. Aryan Khanna enter the premises on the night of February 4th?” Asha asked.
“Yes, madam. Around 8:30 PM. He came in his black SUV.”
“Did you see him leave?”
“No, madam. I… I think I went for my dinner break between 9 and 9:30.”
“So he could’ve left unseen?”
“Yes. That’s possible.”
Ujwal stood for the cross-examination.
“Mr. Tiwari, how long have you been on this job?”
“Eight years, sir.”
“In those eight years, how often have you seen visitors forget to sign the logbook?”
“Sometimes. Maybe once a month.”
“Is it possible Mr. Khanna left while you were away?”
“It’s possible.”
The next witness was Meher Singh—Priyansh’s editor at India View. She entered holding a folder, her face pale, her lips tight.
“Ms. Singh, what was Priyansh working on before he died?” Asha asked.
“A series on illegal land acquisitions in Bastar. He had documentation—photographs, bank records, confidential papers. He believed Devraj Khanna’s company was involved.”
“Did he receive threats?”
“Yes. Anonymous calls. One even said, ‘Drop it, or your byline will be on your obituary.’”
“Did he tell you he had evidence against Aryan Khanna?”
Meher hesitated. “He said Aryan knew. That he was afraid Aryan would try to silence him.”
That line hit hard. Aryan’s expression didn’t change.
Ujwal rose, unhurried.
“Ms. Singh, you mentioned Priyansh was under pressure. Isn’t it true he also had a defamation case pending against him?”
“Yes. But it wasn’t—”
“And that he recently received a notice from the Enforcement Directorate?”
“Yes, but—”
“Could it be,” Ujwal asked smoothly, “that Priyansh had reasons to be paranoid?”
Meher didn’t respond.
Justice Sen looked at the clock. “We’ll reconvene tomorrow. Session adjourned.”
As the lawyers packed their files, Asha slipped a note into her briefcase—a copy of Priyansh’s personal journal. On the last page, scrawled in smudged blue ink, were seven words:
“If I disappear, ask Aryan. He’ll lie.”
Part 2: The Crossfire of Shadows
Aryan Khanna’s lawyer, Ujwal Bhardwaj, arrived in court the next day with a distinct air of quiet satisfaction. He had always believed trials were not won in the courtroom—they were won in the mind. And today, he planned to seed the kind of doubt that clings, the kind that grows like moss in corners no one thought to examine.
Court resumed at 10:15 sharp. Justice Arunabh Sen sat motionless, expression unreadable. Beside him, the jury of nine citizens shifted in their seats. Most were middle-aged, urban, educated—people who read the newspapers and yet had begun to wonder, as all good jurors do, whether they knew less than they thought.
Senior Public Prosecutor Asha Gautam stood. “Your Honour, the prosecution would like to call Inspector Vivek Sinha of the Delhi Police Crime Branch.”
The officer stepped up—crisp uniform, lean build, intelligent eyes. He was the lead investigator, and his testimony would be the spine of the prosecution’s case.
“Inspector Sinha,” Asha began, “please describe the condition of the crime scene.”
“The victim, Mr. Priyansh Walia, was found lying on the carpet in his living room. One stab wound to the upper chest, depth suggesting a deliberate thrust. No signs of struggle, no forced entry. The flat was otherwise untouched.”
“And what did the forensics reveal?”
“Two whiskey glasses. One with the victim’s prints. The other with Mr. Aryan Khanna’s. That glass also had traces of blood on the base—blood that matched Mr. Walia’s DNA.”
Gasps spread faintly across the courtroom.
“Were there any signs of a break-in?”
“No, ma’am. The door was locked from inside. The building CCTV shows Mr. Khanna’s car entering. No footage of him leaving, likely due to the timing of the guard’s break.”
Asha nodded. “In your opinion, Inspector, is there sufficient cause to charge Aryan Khanna with murder?”
“Yes,” he said firmly. “There is motive, presence, and evidence tying him to the scene.”
Asha stepped back. Her job, for now, was done.
Then came Ujwal Bhardwaj.
He approached slowly, as if he were merely out for a stroll, and not about to dismantle a police officer’s entire report in front of a courtroom.
“Inspector Sinha,” he said calmly, “how long have you been with the Delhi Police?”
“Twelve years, sir.”
“Have you worked on high-profile cases before?”
“Yes, several.”
“And you’re familiar with media pressure, political influence, and the concept of… let’s say, scapegoating?”
A low murmur rippled through the gallery. Justice Sen banged his gavel. “Stick to the facts, Mr. Bhardwaj.”
Ujwal inclined his head. “Certainly, Your Honour.”
He turned back. “Inspector, did you find a murder weapon at the scene?”
“No, sir.”
“Did Mr. Khanna confess?”
“No.”
“Was there any CCTV footage from inside the flat?”
“No.”
“Did Mr. Khanna have any visible injuries, bloodstains, or torn clothing when picked up?”
“No.”
“And yet you claim this is an airtight case?”
Sinha’s jaw tensed. “The evidence builds a strong circumstantial chain.”
“Indeed,” Ujwal said. “But a chain is only as strong as its weakest link.”
He let that settle, then produced a sheet of paper. “Do you recognise this, Inspector?”
Sinha glanced at it. “Yes. A preliminary forensic report.”
Ujwal faced the jury. “This report—dated February 5th—states that there were no blood traces on the whiskey glass. The revised report came only three days later, conveniently after media reports of Mr. Khanna’s visit surfaced.”
Asha stood. “Objection. The final report is what the court must consider.”
“Sustained,” said Justice Sen. “Move on, Mr. Bhardwaj.”
But the seed had been planted.
Later that afternoon, Asha called her next witness—Tanya Bakshi, Priyansh’s neighbour. She was in her early thirties, worked in advertising, and had a memory like a tape recorder.
“Ms. Bakshi, where were you on the night of February 4th?”
“In my flat, next door to Priyansh.”
“Did you hear anything unusual?”
“Yes. Around 9:15 PM, I heard raised voices. Two men arguing. One of them said, ‘You’ve gone too far this time.’ And then—quiet.”
“Did you recognise the voice?”
“I couldn’t make out clearly. But one of them sounded like Aryan. I’ve met him twice before.”
Asha smiled slightly. “Thank you.”
Ujwal rose with the tiredness of a man who had spent decades poking holes.
“Ms. Bakshi, have you ever heard Priyansh argue with anyone else?”
“Yes, a few times.”
“And are you aware of his recent breakup with a colleague?”
“Yes.”
“So it’s possible the voice you heard wasn’t Mr. Khanna’s?”
“I said it sounded like him. I didn’t say I was certain.”
Ujwal nodded, seemingly satisfied.
As the court adjourned for the day, Aryan whispered to Ujwal, “They’re painting me as guilty before I’ve even spoken.”
“You’ll get your chance,” Ujwal said. “But not yet. Let them dig the hole deeper.”
Meanwhile, back in her office, Asha re-read the note from Priyansh’s journal. The last line lingered like a riddle:
“Truth is fragile in powerful hands. But lies? They are built to last.”
And for the first time, she wondered—
Was this trial about murder?
Or something far more dangerous?
Part 3: The Weight of Silence
The next morning, the courtroom felt unusually tense. Even the courtroom stenographer seemed to type slower. It wasn’t just the gravity of the case—it was the sense that everyone, from the judge to the press seated in the far gallery, knew they were watching a performance whose script was being rewritten every minute.
Prosecutor Asha Gautam entered with a faint frown creasing her brow. She’d reviewed her notes all night, and something about Tanya Bakshi’s testimony wasn’t sitting right. The voice she’d heard could’ve been Aryan’s, yes. But it also could’ve belonged to half a dozen other men Priyansh had crossed paths with—activists, politicians, even fellow journalists.
Still, Asha had one advantage.
The next witness.
She stood and addressed the bench. “Your Honour, the prosecution calls Dr. Sharanya Patel, forensic psychiatrist, AIIMS Delhi.”
A woman in her mid-fifties took the stand. Impeccably dressed, with a calm but steely presence. She was an expert in behavioral analysis—especially in criminal contexts. Asha needed her to establish Aryan’s potential for manipulation, the psychological profile of someone raised with impunity.
“Dr. Patel, did you assess Mr. Aryan Khanna as part of this investigation?”
“Yes, I interviewed him twice. Once on February 7th, and again two weeks later.”
“And what did you conclude?”
Dr. Patel folded her hands. “Mr. Khanna is intelligent, highly articulate, and emotionally guarded. He displays traits consistent with what we call ‘situational narcissism’—a behavioral pattern common among individuals who grow up in extreme privilege.”
Asha nodded. “Would someone with that profile be capable of violent action if their image or control was threatened?”
“Possibly. Particularly if the perceived threat was to legacy or familial power.”
“Do you believe Aryan Khanna could have killed his friend?”
Ujwal Bhardwaj was already rising. “Objection, Your Honour. Speculative.”
“Sustained,” Justice Sen said flatly.
Asha changed direction. “Did you notice anything… unusual in his emotional response during questioning?”
Dr. Patel replied, “Yes. When we discussed Mr. Walia’s death, Mr. Khanna never once used his name. He referred to him only as ‘that man’ or ‘the journalist.’ That depersonalization is… interesting.”
Ujwal stood slowly, wearing a faint smile. “Dr. Patel, you’re an expert in psychology, not prophecy. You cannot say with certainty whether someone committed a crime, can you?”
“No. But I can describe the patterns.”
“And patterns are not proof,” Ujwal added. “Especially not in a courtroom.”
He let the words linger. Then, he sat.
After the break, the gallery buzzed. Several reporters tweeted live updates. #KhannaTrial was trending, with people arguing whether Aryan was a privileged murderer or a scapegoat for his father’s sins.
Asha knew the attention was a double-edged sword. The more public the trial became, the more political forces would begin to shift, subtly. And that meant she had to move fast—before those with influence buried the truth in bureaucracy.
She rose again. “Your Honour, we would now like to submit Exhibit G into evidence—a voice recording recovered from Mr. Walia’s cloud storage.”
Asha turned to the jury. “This was sent as an audio message to Priyansh’s lawyer, a week before his death.”
The judge gave a nod. The courtroom hushed as the audio played.
A male voice—calm, clear, and cold—filled the space.
“You think you’re invincible because you have a press badge. You think stories don’t have consequences. But you forget whose name you’re dragging through mud. Keep pushing, and you won’t just lose your job. You’ll lose a lot more than that.”
Then, silence.
Gasps. Scribbling pens. Some jaws dropped.
Asha turned. “Inspector Sinha, who verified the voice?”
“The Central Forensic Lab. They confirmed a 97.4% match with Aryan Khanna’s vocal signature.”
The courtroom turned to Aryan.
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.
Ujwal stood. “Your Honour, we object to the admissibility of this recording. It was obtained from a private cloud. No formal warrant was issued.”
Justice Sen narrowed his eyes. “That’s for me to decide, Mr. Bhardwaj. Sit down.”
He turned to Asha. “When was this obtained?”
“Three days after the murder. The warrant was approved the same day, Your Honour.”
Justice Sen nodded. “Objection overruled. The recording stands.”
For the first time, Ujwal’s face betrayed a flicker of worry.
Court was adjourned early that day, but the whispers didn’t stop. Outside the gates, journalists gathered around Meher Singh, the editor, who refused to answer questions. Inside, Aryan asked Ujwal quietly, “How the hell did they get that audio?”
Ujwal didn’t answer. He was already thinking three steps ahead.
Meanwhile, Asha Gautam sat alone in her car, playing the recording again.
It was Aryan’s voice, she was sure. But something about the phrasing struck her.
“You’ll lose a lot more than that.”
The tone wasn’t threatening—it was matter-of-fact. Like someone passing on instructions. Or repeating something they had been told.
And suddenly, a thought gripped her.
What if Aryan wasn’t the mastermind?
What if he was just the weapon?
And someone else had pointed him toward the kill.
Part 4: The Man Behind the Mirror
The sun slanted across the polished floor of the courtroom the following morning, casting a golden stripe across Aryan Khanna’s shoes. He sat quietly, chin up, hands folded in his lap like he was attending a board meeting and not standing trial for murder.
Asha Gautam, meanwhile, was in motion before court had even begun. In a discreet meeting with Inspector Sinha, she had asked for a full background check on Aryan’s phone records and, more importantly, on Devraj Khanna’s office aides. Something about the voice message still gnawed at her. The words were Aryan’s—but they didn’t feel like they belonged to him.
She had seen many criminals during her tenure, but true killers always showed one thing: conviction. Aryan, despite the ice-cold recording, looked more like a man protecting something—or someone.
That morning, she made her next move.
“Your Honour,” she said, rising, “the prosecution calls Arvind Rao to the witness stand.”
A stout, balding man in his late fifties stepped forward. He wore an ill-fitting blazer and carried himself like someone more comfortable in back offices than in front of crowds.
“State your occupation,” Asha said.
“I’m a stenographer. I’ve worked for Devraj Khanna for sixteen years.”
“And during that time, have you ever been privy to private meetings involving his son?”
“Yes. Aryan would often come by the MP’s Delhi bungalow. Sometimes they argued. Other times… they discussed how to ‘manage situations.’”
“Can you tell the court what you overheard on January 28th?”
Arvind took a deep breath. “Aryan came in. He was angry. Said something like, ‘This journalist is going to ruin everything.’ Mr. Devraj told him not to worry. He said, ‘Priyansh is a mosquito. And you don’t swat mosquitoes with your hands. You use smoke.’ Then he told Aryan to meet someone named Jeetu that night.”
Asha’s voice was careful. “Did you know who Jeetu was?”
“Yes. Jeetu Bhardwaj. Works in ‘logistics.’ But everyone knows he’s Khanna sahib’s fixer.”
Murmurs erupted. Justice Sen banged the gavel. “Order!”
Asha leaned in. “Is it your belief, Mr. Rao, that Devraj Khanna orchestrated an attempt to silence Priyansh Walia?”
Ujwal stood instantly. “Objection, Your Honour! Speculation!”
“Sustained. Ms. Gautam, stick to facts.”
“No further questions.”
Ujwal approached the stand, hands behind his back. “Mr. Rao, you’ve worked with the Khanna family for nearly two decades. Why testify now?”
“Because someone died,” Rao said flatly.
Ujwal smiled. “Isn’t it true you were demoted two years ago, when Aryan’s uncle accused you of leaking documents?”
“That was a misunderstanding.”
“And yet, you never got your position back. Did you?”
“No.”
“And how much did the prosecution offer to ‘protect’ you in exchange for this testimony?”
“Nothing.”
“No promises of witness protection? No deals?”
“I was told I’d be protected if I spoke the truth.”
Ujwal turned to the jury. “So the testimony of a disgruntled employee, with a motive to harm the Khanna name, is now treated as fact? Interesting.”
He walked away, but Asha noticed something different in his gait.
It wasn’t confidence.
It was caution.
Court adjourned early again, at the judge’s request. He had to attend a funeral for a retired High Court judge—one more subtle reminder that the law was run by those who attended the same weddings, golf tournaments, and condolence meetings.
Outside, Aryan asked Ujwal, “They’re trying to drag my father into this.”
Ujwal didn’t look at him. “It was always heading that way. Your father has more enemies than you have Instagram followers.”
Aryan’s jaw clenched. “He didn’t kill anyone.”
“Maybe. But you were in that room, Aryan. You made the call.”
“I didn’t touch him.”
Ujwal finally looked him in the eye. “Then say it. Say everything. No half-truths. No ‘I don’t remembers.’ You either go on that stand clean—or don’t go at all.”
Aryan hesitated. For the first time, something flickered—guilt, or grief, or both. “I’ll tell the truth. But not to the court. Not yet.”
That evening, Asha sat in her tiny study with a printout of Priyansh’s last article draft on her desk. The piece was never published. But it was damning. It alleged that the Khanna family, through shell companies, had acquired tribal land in Dandewara district, displacing 17,000 villagers. The source? Internal ministry documents—and a USB stick missing from Priyansh’s flat.
She flipped through the file again. In the margin of one page, Priyansh had scrawled in red ink:
“If I die—look for Jeetu. He’s not a shadow. He’s a handler.”
Asha picked up her phone. “Sinha, I want Jeetu Bhardwaj brought in. Tonight.”
Sinha groaned. “He’s slippery. Never signs anything, never leaves digital trails.”
“I don’t need a signature. I need a face.”
“Fine. But you’ll need protection once you pull that thread.”
Asha stared at the file.
“I’m already in the storm. Might as well follow the lightning.
Back in his flat, Aryan poured himself a glass of water. The lights were low. Outside, the city pulsed and honked and argued.
He opened his phone.
One saved voice memo.
Not Priyansh’s voice.
His father’s.
He played it again, the words searing into his mind.
“Let the press dog bark. When it’s too loud—Jeetu will handle it. You just sit tight and be a good son.”
Aryan stared into the dark.
He had been many things.
But tonight, for the first time…
He was afraid.
Part 5: The Handler
Jeetu Bhardwaj arrived at the Hauz Khas police station just after 10 p.m., flanked by two lawyers and an expression that could melt steel. He wore a simple white kurta-pajama, the uniform of Delhi’s invisible elite—the men who were never named in articles, only hinted at in footnotes.
Inspector Vivek Sinha stood up from his chair the moment Jeetu entered. “Mr. Bhardwaj, thank you for coming. We have some questions regarding the Walia investigation.”
Jeetu gave a small smile. “And I’ve been advised not to answer any.”
Sinha chuckled. “I’m sure you’ve been advised of many things in your life. But let’s try honesty tonight. It’s new. Refreshing.”
Jeetu sat. His lawyers hovered behind him like vultures waiting for a fight.
“You were seen near Defence Colony the night Priyansh Walia died,” Sinha said. “Car trace. Cell tower ping. You didn’t report that to the authorities.”
“I drive all over Delhi. Not a crime last I checked.”
“Nor is murder. Until it is.”
Jeetu’s expression didn’t change. “If you’re charging me, do it. If not, I’ll be leaving.”
Sinha leaned forward. “Tell me about Aryan.”
“Nice boy. Misunderstood. Unlike his father, who’s never misunderstood—just feared.”
Sinha’s phone buzzed. He glanced at it and his face changed. He nodded at Jeetu. “You’re free to go for now. But don’t switch off your phone.”
Jeetu stood, adjusted his sleeves, and walked out without another word.
Behind him, Sinha muttered under his breath, “Ghosts don’t cast shadows. But this one just did.”
Back in the courtroom the next morning, the air buzzed with suppressed electricity. The press gallery was more crowded than ever. News anchors sat alongside court reporters now, feeding updates directly to TV vans waiting outside.
Asha Gautam arrived calm, but she had not slept. The voice memo Aryan still hadn’t admitted to having. The article Priyansh never published. The missing USB. And now Jeetu’s presence in Defence Colony. The puzzle pieces were scattered, but the image was beginning to form.
Justice Sen entered and banged the gavel.
“Proceed, Ms. Gautam.”
She rose. “Your Honour, the prosecution has reason to believe that a third party—one Jeetu Bhardwaj—was involved in the cover-up surrounding Priyansh Walia’s death. We request that the court issue summons for Mr. Bhardwaj to testify as a witness.”
Ujwal Bhardwaj stood, smooth as silk. “Your Honour, this is a diversion. Mr. Jeetu Bhardwaj is not on trial.”
Justice Sen raised a hand. “And yet he may be relevant. Summons granted.”
Asha didn’t smile. But inside, something shifted. Momentum.
That afternoon, a new witness took the stand—unexpectedly.
Not a journalist. Not a police officer. Not a forensic expert.
But a woman.
Shalini Desai.
Aryan’s former college classmate. And Priyansh’s former girlfriend.
She’d come forward voluntarily after seeing the trial unfold on national television.
She wore a simple blue salwar, her voice soft but unwavering.
“Aryan and Priyansh were close in college. But things changed two years ago.”
“Why?” Asha asked.
“Because Priyansh began investigating Aryan’s father. He got too close. Aryan tried to warn him to back off. But Priyansh wouldn’t.”
“And how do you know this?”
She hesitated. “Because I was still in touch with Priyansh. He forwarded me an email. From an anonymous source. It contained a land map—highlighting illegal acquisitions in Bastar. And a list of shell companies. All routed back to ‘Khanna & Sons Development Trust.’”
Asha stepped forward. “Do you have this email?”
“Yes. I’ve already sent it to the Delhi Police.”
The courtroom tensed.
Ujwal looked as if he’d just tasted something bitter.
He didn’t cross-examine.
Because he knew.
Some truths don’t break under pressure. They just wait.
Later, in the dim hallway outside the courtroom, Aryan stood alone near the vending machine, running his fingers along the edge of a plastic water bottle.
Asha approached quietly.
He didn’t turn.
“You don’t have to be your father’s son,” she said softly.
He exhaled.
“I don’t even know who I am anymore,” Aryan replied.
“You do,” she said. “You’re just afraid to say it aloud.”
He turned to her. “You’re not like the others. You don’t flinch.”
She smiled faintly. “And you’re not the killer. But you’re not innocent either.”
Their eyes met for a brief second. The distance between them was legal, political, and profoundly human.
That night, Aryan returned home and opened the voice memo app on his phone again. The recording of his father’s voice played in the quiet room.
“Jeetu will handle it. You just stay out of sight. Don’t touch anything. Let the machine work.”
Aryan stared at his own reflection in the dark screen.
Then he clicked “Share.”
And sent the file.
To Asha.
To the police.
To a journalist Priyansh once trusted.
It was, in the end, a kind of confession.
A confession not of guilt, but of complicity.
Part 6: The Leak
By 8 a.m., the voice memo had already spread.
It began with a journalist from The Daily Chronicle—a cautious, ethical reporter named Sanjay Dutt (no relation to the actor) who had once mentored Priyansh Walia. Aryan’s anonymous email arrived in Sanjay’s inbox with no subject line and only four words typed in the body: “He made me watch.”
The attached audio was unmistakable. Devraj Khanna’s voice, calm and calculated:
“Jeetu will handle it. You just stay out of sight. Don’t touch anything. Let the machine work.”
By 9:15, Sanjay had verified the file’s metadata and made two calls—to the editor and to his lawyer.
By 9:45, it was everywhere.
Inside the courtroom, Justice Arunabh Sen walked in stone-faced. He had clearly heard the news. There was no point in pretending the walls of justice were soundproof—not in an age when news traveled faster than summons.
The gallery buzzed with silent tension. Phones were off. Eyes were wide. Ujwal Bhardwaj looked calm, but for once he had nothing witty to say. Even Aryan looked a little thinner, as if something heavy had finally been lifted off him… only to be replaced by something heavier.
“Ms. Gautam,” the judge said sternly. “You may proceed. But be warned—this trial is not a theatre. Control your witnesses and your narrative.”
Asha nodded. “Yes, Your Honour. The prosecution calls Jeetu Bhardwaj to the stand.”
Jeetu walked in like he owned the courtroom.
But he didn’t.
Not today.
The media storm had turned the tide. Even his lawyers looked unsure.
He took the oath, then sat down, eyes scanning the jury box.
Asha stepped forward. “Mr. Bhardwaj. Where were you on the night of February 4th?”
“Home,” he said smoothly.
Asha raised an eyebrow. “You’re aware your phone’s GPS places you in Defence Colony between 9:00 and 10:30 p.m.?”
“No comment.”
“You met Aryan Khanna that evening, didn’t you?”
“No comment.”
“Did you enter Priyansh Walia’s flat?”
Jeetu gave a faint smile. “This isn’t a trial against me.”
“No, Mr. Bhardwaj,” Asha said, voice sharp, “but it soon could be.”
She turned to the jury. “Let me remind the court—this man, an unelected, untraceable ‘aide’ to an MP, was near the crime scene the night a whistleblower journalist was murdered. He has no digital fingerprint, no public profile, and now—no answers.”
She dropped the bomb.
“A voice memo has been submitted to this court—originating from Aryan Khanna—where Devraj Khanna can be heard saying, ‘Jeetu will handle it.’”
Gasps echoed through the room.
Asha looked Jeetu dead in the eye.
“Are you the handler?”
Jeetu said nothing.
Asha turned to the judge. “Your Honour, I submit this recording for evidence. Alongside the email sent to a national journalist by the accused. We request that this court take immediate cognizance of a wider conspiracy involving witness intimidation and obstruction of justice.”
The room exploded.
The judge banged his gavel again and again. “Order! Order in the court!”
After a ten-minute recess, court resumed. Ujwal stood slowly, his usual calm now a strained discipline.
“Your Honour, my client—Mr. Aryan Khanna—has expressed his willingness to make a statement.”
Justice Sen raised an eyebrow. “Is this a confession?”
Ujwal replied, “No, Your Honour. It’s a clarification. One the defence believes the court—and the country—deserves.”
Aryan rose. His voice, when he spoke, was steady but low.
“I didn’t kill Priyansh. I was angry at him, yes. He was going to expose my father. And I… I tried to stop him. I yelled. I threatened. But I didn’t touch him.”
He swallowed.
“I left. I don’t know what happened next. But I know… I know who was sent after me.”
He turned to the judge.
“My father called Jeetu. He didn’t tell me what he planned. But later that night, Jeetu called me. He said, ‘It’s done. You’re clean. Stay quiet.’”
Gasps again.
Aryan continued. “I was afraid. I let it go. And that makes me guilty. Not of murder. But of silence.”
Ujwal sat down, rubbing his temples. He had lost control of the narrative—and perhaps the case.
Asha, meanwhile, stood like a general who had waited years for a single battle.
“The prosecution rests, Your Honour.
Outside, the media had gone into a frenzy.
Headlines blared:
“Khanna Son Speaks: Courtroom Drama Shakes Parliament Corridors”
“The Handler Named: Jeetu Bhardwaj Under CBI Radar”
“Is This the End for Devraj Khanna?”
Inside her office, Asha Gautam sat alone.
She should’ve felt victorious.
But she didn’t.
Because Priyansh Walia was still dead.
Because whistleblowers kept dying every year in India, and most didn’t have a courtroom packed with cameras to speak for them.
And because the trial wasn’t over.
There was still the verdict.
There was still Devraj Khanna.
And there was still one question that no one—not even Aryan—had answered yet:
Where was the USB drive?
Part 7: The Missing Drive
Late that night, in a modest one-bedroom flat in Lajpat Nagar, an intern named Riya Mahajan stared at the blinking cursor on her laptop screen. She was a journalism student at Jamia Millia Islamia, currently assisting at India View, the publication where Priyansh Walia once worked.
She had been cataloguing his old notes—an endless archive of recordings, half-written articles, and encrypted files—when she stumbled upon a filename labeled “Bastar_Truth_final.mp4.”
Clicking it produced nothing. The file was corrupted, possibly incomplete. But the real shock came when she opened the system logs.
The file had last been accessed two days after Priyansh’s death.
And the user logged in wasn’t Priyansh.
It was someone named Rehan82.
Riya froze. Her first instinct was to call Meher Singh, the editor. But something in her gut told her to dig deeper first.
And what she found next changed everything.
A deleted folder. Recovered.
Inside it—metadata for an external device.
A Sandisk Ultra 64 GB pen drive. Serial number ending in 92K.
Last connected to this laptop at 9:56 a.m. the morning after the murder.
Riya looked at the time. 11:47 p.m.
She closed her laptop, grabbed her phone, and called Asha Gautam directly.
In court the next morning, the mood was like a held breath.
Asha stood, file in hand. “Your Honour, new evidence has emerged. Evidence that may not only confirm the cover-up but also help solve the central mystery—what Priyansh Walia died for.”
Justice Sen peered over his glasses. “Proceed.”
Asha nodded. “Your Honour, the court has heard of a missing USB drive—rumoured to contain evidence of large-scale illegal land transactions in Chhattisgarh. That USB was never found during the investigation.”
She looked around the courtroom. “But it was found later. Connected to Priyansh’s laptop. Accessed after his death.”
Ujwal’s face hardened. “Who accessed it?”
Asha held up a sheet. “A system recovery report shows the file was accessed under the username ‘Rehan82.’ A cross-check with staff lists at India View revealed this name was associated with a junior IT technician—Rehan Siddiqui—who went on sudden leave the day after the murder… and hasn’t returned since.”
The courtroom stirred.
“And there’s more,” she added. “Mr. Siddiqui’s bank account shows a sudden deposit of ₹12 lakhs the same week. From a shell firm linked to—”
She turned to face Aryan.
“—Devraj Khanna’s campaign fund.”
Later that day, Aryan sat in the defendant’s room, staring at the speckled wall.
When Ujwal entered, he didn’t look up.
“I didn’t know about Rehan,” Aryan said quietly. “I didn’t even know the drive was still there.”
Ujwal said nothing.
“I think Priyansh suspected someone would try to silence him. That’s why he hid the drive. That’s why he called Emily… and left that message.”
Ujwal sighed. “This trial has already done what few dared—put your father’s empire in the dock.”
Aryan’s voice was a whisper. “But will it be enough?”
Ujwal placed a hand on his shoulder. “Depends on what you say next.”
Back in court, Asha presented the digital forensic report.
It included screenshots of the folder titled “Bastar Leaks,” showing multiple spreadsheets—names of tribal families evicted, fake land deeds, and company names registered to ghost addresses in Gurgaon and Bhopal.
A single document, titled LetterOfApproval.pdf, bore an e-signature that stunned the court: D. Khanna, MoS, Urban Development, 2021.
Asha faced the jury.
“This isn’t just about murder. It’s about truth. About what happens when the powerful are threatened—not with violence, but with exposure. Priyansh Walia threatened their narrative. So they erased him.”
She paused. “But truth has a strange habit—it leaves traces. In old files. In journalistic instincts. And sometimes, in sons who finally choose not to lie.”
When Aryan took the stand again, he looked different. Lighter. Not freer, but no longer pretending.
“I wanted to protect my father,” he said. “Even when I knew I shouldn’t.”
He glanced at the USB drive now sealed in a clear evidence bag.
“He told me to stay quiet. That Jeetu would take care of it. I obeyed.”
His voice shook.
“Priyansh didn’t die for a scoop. He died for daring to believe that facts still mattered. And I stood by and let it happen.”
Asha didn’t speak. Ujwal didn’t speak.
Even the judge was still.
Because sometimes, guilt speaks louder than argument.
Outside, protests had begun. Small groups at first—students, activists, journalists—all holding signs that read Justice for Priyansh.
But inside, the system still had one card left to play.
Because while Aryan had confessed his silence…
Devraj Khanna hadn’t said a word.
And now—he had been summoned.
Not just by the court.
But by the country.
Part 8: The Summoning
Devraj Khanna did not enter the courtroom like a man accused.
He entered like a man interrupted.
Dressed in an ivory silk kurta, Nehru jacket neatly pressed, he walked with the practiced stride of someone who had never waited in a line or heard the word no without a smile. The cameras outside had nearly torn each other apart trying to capture his arrival. Inside, the judge’s gavel barely managed to restore order.
Justice Arunabh Sen didn’t rise. But his voice did.
“Mr. Khanna, the court appreciates your compliance with the summons. You are here as a material witness, not an accused. For now.”
The words hung in the air, heavy as iron.
Asha Gautam stood. “Your Honour, I would like to examine the witness.”
Devraj’s lawyer—a young man who looked like he belonged more in a golf club than a courtroom—nodded. “Mr. Khanna is prepared.”
Asha approached the stand slowly, file in hand.
“Mr. Khanna, on what date did you last speak to your son, Aryan, before the death of Priyansh Walia?”
Devraj’s eyes were calm. “February 2nd. Two days before the incident.”
“You’re certain?”
“I remember it because he had just returned from a conference in Mumbai. We discussed the budget. Nothing more.”
“Did you ever discuss Priyansh Walia with your son?”
“I believe Aryan mentioned his name once or twice. Something about being harassed by a journalist.”
“And did you advise him to respond in any way?”
Devraj smiled faintly. “I advised him to ignore noise. It’s something all public figures learn eventually.”
Asha flipped to the printed transcript. “Mr. Khanna, are you aware of a voice memo where you are heard telling your son—‘Jeetu will handle it. You stay out of sight.’?”
Devraj didn’t blink. “No such recording exists.”
“It has been verified by two independent forensic labs, including one commissioned by this court.”
“I don’t trust recordings out of context. Anyone can be made to say anything, Ms. Gautam. You of all people should know that.”
The courtroom was silent. Even the ceiling fans seemed to spin slower.
Asha took another step forward. “Are you denying that you know Jeetu Bhardwaj?”
“I know many Bhardwajs. But I don’t employ one.”
“Yet your campaign finance records show a monthly consultancy payout of ₹85,000 to a ‘J. Bhardwaj’ listed as ‘logistics advisor’.”
Devraj looked at her like a teacher disappointed by a pupil’s weak argument. “Consultants come and go. I don’t personally vet every name on my payroll.”
Asha’s voice tightened. “Did you ever instruct someone to silence Priyansh Walia?”
“No,” Devraj said, with almost too much ease.
“Did you benefit from his death?”
“Ms. Gautam, that’s a philosophical question. We all benefit when lies are buried.”
A collective gasp rippled through the courtroom. The judge lifted a finger but said nothing. Perhaps he too was absorbing the weight of those words.
Outside the courtroom, the protesters had grown louder. Placards now read: No More Silences and Kill the Cover-up, Not the Journalist. Among the crowd stood Riya Mahajan, the intern who had found the USB drive, holding her phone like a weapon of truth.
She had never imagined being part of something like this. She just hadn’t wanted Priyansh’s voice to vanish.
Now, she had made sure it wouldn’t.
Back in the courtroom, Aryan sat in silence, watching his father on the stand.
Devraj didn’t once look his way.
That, more than anything else, told Aryan what he needed to know.
His father had never truly come to protect him.
He had come to protect his name.
Ujwal stood slowly for cross-examination. But not to defend. To clarify.
“Mr. Khanna, you are a man of significant political experience. Correct?”
“I suppose that’s true.”
“You are aware of how to operate within grey areas—legal, ethical, and political?”
“That’s how governance works.”
“And are you also aware that withholding information in a murder investigation is a criminal offence?”
For the first time, Devraj hesitated. But only briefly.
“I have withheld nothing,” he said.
Ujwal nodded. “Very well. One last question.”
He paused.
“If your son had committed murder, would you protect him?”
Devraj looked Ujwal square in the eye.
“I would protect the truth. Whatever that means.”
When he left the stand, the gallery burst into whispers. The judge called for recess, his face pale with tension.
Asha closed her file and looked across at Ujwal.
“We’re not trying just one man,” she said quietly.
Ujwal nodded. “We’re trying a system. A legacy.”
She stared at Devraj, now calmly typing into his phone. “And we’ve just made the first crack.”
But even as the courtroom recessed, a quiet alert blinked on Riya’s phone.
A file had been uploaded anonymously to the cloud folder Priyansh once used.
It contained photographs.
Documents.
And one handwritten letter.
Signed simply:
“In case I don’t make it.” — P.W.
The last line read:
“Truth doesn’t need a court. Just someone willing to carry it.”
Part 9: The Final File
In the stillness of early dawn, before Delhi’s chaos returned to its usual pitch, Asha Gautam sat alone in her office reviewing the new leak.
The cloud upload had arrived at 2:14 a.m., unsigned and untraceable—except for the last image, a scan of a note clearly written by Priyansh Walia.
Asha stared at the shaky penmanship. The paper appeared to be torn from a reporter’s diary.
“If I don’t make it, tell them I tried. Tell them we never write alone. We write for everyone who’s too afraid to.”
Below that, three names were underlined.
Devraj Khanna. Jeetu Bhardwaj. Rehan Siddiqui.
And one more—circled in red ink.
J.K. Infra Pvt Ltd.
Asha’s fingers flew across her keyboard. A quick ROC (Registrar of Companies) search revealed the shocking part: the company’s director was listed as Mrs. Anita Khanna.
Devraj’s wife. Aryan’s mother.
Asha’s breath caught. The entire Khanna family wasn’t just adjacent to the conspiracy. They were embedded in it.
At 10:00 a.m., the courtroom was already full.
Aryan Khanna sat with his head bowed. Across the aisle, Devraj looked unaffected. Stoic. It wasn’t indifference—it was insulation. The kind only political dynasties inherit.
Justice Sen entered and signaled the court into session.
Asha stood. “Your Honour, new evidence has emerged. A file dump—verified and timestamped—containing dozens of documents authored or received by the late Mr. Priyansh Walia.”
She turned to the screen as it flickered to life.
“Among these is a scanned letter of concern he sent anonymously to the Press Council of India. It includes signed affidavits from evicted residents of Bastar. And it names J.K. Infra as the shell company executing these fraudulent transactions.”
Then, the bombshell.
“We now have reason to believe that this company is controlled by Mrs. Anita Khanna, wife of Mr. Devraj Khanna, and that proceeds from these illegal land grabs were routed through political campaign accounts.”
Gasps exploded. Even the jury, trained to remain neutral, twitched with visible shock.
Devraj remained still. A practiced statue. But for the first time, his jaw flexed.
Ujwal stood, slowly and reluctantly. “Your Honour, given this development, I request an adjournment to allow the defence to review these materials.”
Justice Sen did not immediately answer. He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes.
“Ms. Gautam,” he said after a long pause, “are you suggesting the accused Aryan Khanna was aware of his mother’s involvement?”
Asha shook her head. “We believe Aryan was used—as both shield and distraction.”
Aryan looked up at her, eyes full of quiet disbelief.
Asha turned to him. “Mr. Khanna. You’ve cooperated so far. I ask you now—on record—did you know your mother was linked to J.K. Infra?”
Aryan’s voice was barely audible.
“No.”
“Did your father ever mention her role?”
He shook his head. “He always made it seem like… she didn’t ask questions.”
Asha let that settle.
“But someone had to sign those papers. Someone made the trail disappear.”
Outside, the ripple effect had already begun.
News channels flashed BREAKING banners:
“Khanna Family Business Under CBI Scanner”
“Whistleblower File Names Entire Political Dynasty”
“Was Priyansh Walia Killed for What He Uncovered?”
In Parliament, opposition leaders demanded a special investigation. Protesters stood outside the courtroom holding placards with Priyansh’s face printed in stark black and white.
And in the crowd, quietly taking notes in a dog-eared journal, Riya Mahajan stood beneath the shade of a neem tree. She had started out cataloguing a dead man’s files. Now, she was part of history.
Back inside, the judge turned to Asha.
“Does the prosecution believe there is enough cause to request formal proceedings against Mrs. Anita Khanna?”
“Yes, Your Honour. We also request protective custody for Mr. Aryan Khanna. Based on what we’ve uncovered, his cooperation may make him a target.”
Justice Sen leaned back in his chair. “This court will recess for two days while materials are reviewed and verified. But let it be stated on record—what began as a murder trial has now grown into a matter of public interest, systemic corruption, and the future of press freedom in this nation.”
Asha bowed her head slightly. “Thank you, Your Honour.”
Devraj stood up as the gavel struck.
He adjusted his jacket.
And walked out like a man who still believed the storm was just noise.
That night, Aryan received a message.
From an unknown number.
No words. Just an image.
A photograph of Priyansh.
Lying in his flat. Dead.
And a single sentence typed below:
“Silence dies slowly.”
Aryan locked his phone.
Looked at the walls of his room.
And realised—
They weren’t closing in.
They were finally letting the light in.
Part 10: The Verdict
Two weeks later, the courtroom brimmed with a quiet tension. Not the fevered excitement of earlier days—this was heavier, expectant, like the moment before a monsoon storm touches the soil.
Asha Gautam sat with her files closed. There was nothing left to argue. The facts had been laid bare. What remained now was judgment—by the court, by the jury, and by a nation that had stopped believing in justice a long time ago.
Justice Arunabh Sen entered and took his seat. He looked visibly aged by the proceedings. Everyone present understood: this case had become much more than a murder trial. It was now a reckoning.
“The jury,” the judge began, “has reached its decision.”
Aryan stood. His hands trembled.
He had been many things in the last few weeks—silent, scared, complicit. But now, he was just something rarer: honest.
He looked across at his father. Devraj Khanna, seated three rows back, met his gaze but showed no expression. Anita Khanna, notably, was absent.
Asha noticed that too. She had received word earlier that morning—Mrs. Khanna had boarded a flight to Dubai the previous evening. The Enforcement Directorate was already chasing her trail.
But here, in this room, only one truth mattered now.
The jury foreman, a retired school principal in her sixties, rose with a folded sheet of paper.
“In the matter of the State versus Aryan Khanna,” she began, her voice steady, “on the charge of murder in the first degree, we find the defendant… not guilty.”
Murmurs swept the room.
Asha closed her eyes briefly. She had expected this.
The foreman continued:
“On the charge of obstruction of justice, we find the defendant… guilty.”
Aryan exhaled, almost gratefully. He accepted it like a man served a long overdue punishment.
Justice Sen turned to him.
“Mr. Khanna, your silence delayed justice. It did not stop it. You will serve 18 months in judicial custody. Suspended sentence, given your cooperation. You will also provide full disclosure in the ongoing investigation against your father and associated individuals.”
Aryan nodded. He did not look for sympathy.
Then came the unexpected.
Justice Sen paused, then added, “Let it also be recorded that this case has revealed systemic flaws in how truth is hidden under the guise of hierarchy. Mr. Priyansh Walia did not die from a single wound—he died from many. Silence. Corruption. Cowardice. And we—his institutions—failed him.”
The gallery went silent. Even the guards shifted uncomfortably.
“This court recommends a public inquiry into the land acquisition scandal in Bastar district. All materials provided by the late Mr. Walia will be submitted to a special commission.”
For Asha Gautam, this was more than a win. It was a crack in the granite of denial. A crack light could pass through.
Outside the courthouse, reporters rushed to relay the news.
“Aryan Khanna Convicted—Devraj Under Scrutiny”
“The Bastar Files Opened: Special Commission to Investigate Land Scams”
“One Journalist’s Death Wakes a Nation”
And among the crowd, holding her phone aloft, Riya Mahajan live-streamed the verdict for thousands of young viewers who didn’t trust newspapers anymore.
She spoke calmly.
“Priyansh Walia wrote his truth alone. But today, the country read it together.”
Later that evening, Asha visited the site of Priyansh’s cremation.
She had never known him personally. Yet his ghost had walked with her every day of this trial—through testimonies, notes, and broken silences.
She placed a copy of The Daily Chronicle on the memorial stone. The headline read:
“Justice Begins.”
She stayed a while, listening to the wind, before whispering: “They tried to silence you. But you spoke anyway.”
That night, Aryan Khanna sat in the visitor cell of Tihar Jail. The walls were whitewashed, unremarkable. But for the first time in months, he felt the weight of a different kind of truth.
His lawyer had told him: if he kept cooperating, he could be free in a year.
But Aryan wasn’t thinking about freedom.
He was thinking about what came after.
When all the power you inherited had turned into ash.
When the people you feared had already lost control.
When you finally asked yourself: What will I do with the truth that’s still left?
And maybe…
Just maybe…
You start again.
Three months later, the Khanna political empire crumbled.
Anita Khanna was arrested in Qatar and extradited. Devraj faced charges of conspiracy and financial fraud. Jeetu Bhardwaj disappeared, never found.
A memorial journalism fellowship was set up in Priyansh Walia’s name. The first recipient? Riya Mahajan.
And the story that broke the silence?
It began, like all the others, with one witness who finally chose to speak.
THE END
