Rizwan

While coming back from work last night, I saw a teenage boy—maybe 15 or 16—standing alone on the road outside Deer Park. Just… standing there. At 2 AM. Something in me said don’t stop. But he reminded me of my son. Tucked safely in his bed. So I pulled over. “Beta, what are you doing here alone?” He said, “Uncle, I need to go somewhere urgently. There’s no one at home. I’m waiting for an auto.” “There won’t be any at this hour,” I replied. “Come, I’ll drop you. Do you know the way?” He nodded. I opened the door. He stepped in silently. I placed his bag near his feet—it looked oddly heavy. “Thank you, uncle.” “You eaten anything?” He didn’t respond. I had brought pizza for my son—his favourite. A peace offering for being late. “You can take a slice if you want,” I said. He quickly ate two slices. Then, quietly, he asked me— “Uncle, do you love your son?” “Of course.” “Do you care for him?” “Yes, absolutely.” “Are you gentle with him? Do you hit him?” “No,” I said firmly. “Never.” He gave me directions. Toward Sarojini Nagar. “You’re a good father,” he said softly. “A gentle father.” We stopped. I noticed the weight of his bag again. “What’s in it?” I asked. “Do you need help?” He unzipped it. A man’s severed head rolled out onto the seat. He looked at me and said, “My father wasn’t gentle.” Then he stepped out, calmly… …into the police station.