Naman had lived alone. No documents connected to him were ever found, nor could any trace of his blood relatives be discovered.
Even at the physiotherapy center, no one could determine on what basis he had been hired. The owner spent most of his time in bigger cities, having entrusted the management of this branch to two or three physiotherapists and a receptionist. He rarely visited. The center itself was small, requiring very few staff members.
Apparently, Naman had been employed solely on the strength of his work. No photocopies of certificates, no identity proofs, no official paperwork of any kind were available there.
In this country, recommendations often weigh heavier than credentials. Employers seek only one thing—skilled and experienced workers—and how they arrive often matters less than what they can do.
In the presence of the ACP, the doctor had attempted to collect the deceased's DNA sample. The hair had already turned to ash. Samples from the nails, teeth, and femur bone were carefully preserved. Yet without locating Naman's family, there was no one against whom the DNA could be matched.
Even when facts stand unassailable and evidence endures, the courts of this nation frequently fail to punish the guilty. Criminals, armed with influence, wealth, or cunning manipulation, slip through the cracks of justice—parole becoming merely another privilege they can quietly arrange. Meanwhile, the poor innocent soul, crushed beneath the indifferent machinery of the law, either perishes behind bars or surrenders to the broken system, condemned to rot for a lifetime in its sunless cells.
There are countless men like Vishnu Tiwari—men who surrender their youth to the cold embrace of prison walls, only to be declared innocent long after their lives have been irretrievably spent. Freedom, when it finally arrives, brings little salvation. Society turns its face away. No one embraces them. No doors open. Their homes, lands, and families lie in ruins,
exhausted by years of endless journeys to courtrooms and lawyers' chambers.
The shallow sympathy of ordinary people cannot purchase even two meals a day. Torture ages a man before his time. Many never marry. Their futures dissolve into silence.
Arjun's case was no different.
There was hardly any evidence in his favor. Every witness stood against him. There was no DNA report, no concrete proof capable of establishing his innocence. The matter simply remained suspended in uncertainty, and our justice system is so slow, so pliable, that speaking of it feels pointless.
Madhav Kaka frowned thoughtfully.
"Didn't anything seem strange to you there? When the blame fell upon you, you weren't even conscious. Then who poured petrol over both bodies and burned them? And why?"
"Why did no one wait until the police arrived and completed their verification?"
When DNA samples were requested from Shreya's mother for identification, she refused outright. Even the court could not compel her.
Which meant no one could state with certainty that the burned corpses truly belonged to Shreya and Naman.
They could have been someone else entirely.
To authenticate such a claim required conclusive proof.
Shreya's mother had said Shreya was her adopted daughter, yet there was no evidence for that either. After the mother's refusal, no DNA comparison could be made.
The court, unable to exert further pressure, merely warned the family not to leave the city or relocate elsewhere and instructed them to cooperate with the ongoing investigation. They too were denied a clean chit. Yet public sympathy remained entirely with Shreya's family.
Until further orders, they were directed to report daily to the nearest police station.
Arjun, meanwhile, was sent to judicial custody for fourteen days.
He had not witnessed the events unfold before him. He could not say with certainty whether those bodies truly belonged to Shreya and Naman—or to someone else.
That day, a truth was buried. And under pressure, Arjun was forced to confess that he had murdered Shreya.
That confession was born not of guilt, but of coercion. He later retracted it in court.
The case of Vishnu Tiwari exposes the deep crisis of undertrial prisoners in India. More than 330,000 people in this country remain imprisoned without their trials being completed. In countless cases, false FIRs, poverty, and delayed investigations destroy innocent lives.
Vishnu's case even inspired a PIL in the Supreme Court demanding guidelines for compensation to victims of fabricated criminal charges.
India, however, still has no clear provision for such justice.
Vishnu Tiwari's story forces one haunting question upon the system:
How long will innocent lives continue to be destroyed?
And when will those who destroy the innocent ever be punished?
In the words of Mary Wollstonecraft:
"It is justice, not charity, that is wanting in the world."
In a nation where students drown after floodwater invades illegal basement coaching centers, yet instead of arresting those who granted permission for such institutions, the driver of a passing vehicle on the road outside is taken into custody—
Where children die after consuming poisonous cough syrup, yet instead of prosecuting the manufacturers and the officials who approved it, a doctor is arrested—
In such a banana republic, if you are not in prison, perhaps the only reason is that no corrupt ritual has yet selected you as its sacrifice, and the machinery of power has not yet found the will to cage you.
All of this happens so quietly in our lives.
No noise.
No farewell songs soaked in tears.
No flowers.
Just one morning, we realize that someone's voice has grown fainter inside the house.
The dawn no longer blushes with the same redness.
The old bustle is gone.
Children's quarrels no longer echo through the rooms.
Every corner of the house, every stretch of the courtyard, lies desolate now.
Emptiness spreads everywhere.
A slow, relentless grief born from losing someone little by little.
The truth about Shreya and Naman had turned to ash.
By now, perhaps even those ashes had been immersed in the Ganges.
And yet the question remains—
Did Shreya and Naman truly burn into ash?
Or behind the veil of ashes, under another name, in another city—
are they living an entirely new life?
© Copyright Pushpa Chaturvedi
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