Shivam

The Morning Before the Mission

I had just stepped out of my closet, adjusting the fresh shirt I had pulled on, when my younger brother barged into my room. One look at his face, and I knew exactly what it meant—Rishi was bursting with excitement for our trip.

“Bhai! Let’s go have breakfast,” he said, plopping himself down on my bed without the slightest hesitation, cracking his neck as though preparing for battle. “We need to get ready on time!”

I sighed. “There’s still time, Rishi.”

But he was never the patient one. Standing up dramatically, he clasped his hands together like a stage actor. “No way, Bhai. Please! Let’s go downstairs, everyone’s waiting for us.”

Before I could protest further, he grabbed my arm and dragged me toward the dining room.

Being a lawyer isn’t easy. Most people only see the courtroom victories and the confident arguments, but what they don’t see is the weight that comes with it—the threats, the enemies, and the constant shadow of danger. My work is not just about laws written in books; it’s about protecting the voiceless. Especially women. Giving them back their dignity, their rights, their freedom—that is my mission.

When we reached the dining table, the room quieted a little. “Good morning, everyone,” Rishi said cheerfully, sitting down beside me, already the light in the room.

“Good morning,” I echoed, picking up a glass of juice and nodding at my family.

A brief silence followed. My mother’s eyes shifted toward me, lined with worry, her lips pressing into a thin line. Finally, with a voice heavy with hesitation, she asked, “Shivam, tujhe kya jana bohot zaroori hai?”

[Shivam, is it really necessary for you to go?]

I set my glass down gently. “Haan Maa, zaroori hai.”

[Yes, Maa, it’s important.]

Her shoulders slumped slightly, but the fear never left her eyes. She knew, as I did, the kind of danger that awaited me. This wasn’t just another case. I was heading into an unknown village, a place swallowed by silence and cruelty, where young girls had been caged and sold like commodities. Rescuing them wasn’t just important—it was everything.

“Kya hua, Jana? They will be fine,” my father said softly, trying to offer comfort. He gave her a reassuring look, though both of them knew the risk could not be dismissed so easily.

I focused on my plate, quietly starting to eat. Unlike Rishi, who could fill the room with chatter and laughter, I wasn’t much of a talker. My words always came with weight—spoken only when they were necessary, like arguments in court or strategies during a mission. Outside of that, silence was my companion.

“Maa, aap fikar mat karo. Main hoon na Bhai ke saath,” Rishi declared proudly, puffing his chest out as though he were my personal bodyguard. [Maa, don’t worry. I’ll be there with Bhai.]

I almost choked on my bread. Rishi, the same boy who couldn’t sleep after watching a horror movie, was now giving grand speeches about standing beside me during a mission? Maa rolled her eyes and muttered under her breath, sliding another piece of bread onto my plate.

“Wahi to sabse badi chinta hai ki tu uske saath rahega,” she said pointedly.

[That’s exactly what I’m most worried about—you being with him.]

The table erupted in laughter. Rishi’s face scrunched in protest as he turned toward Papa for support.

“Papa, dekhiye na!”

Papa only shook his head, smiling. “Sahi kaha, Jana ne.”

[She’s right.]

Poor Rishi. The light of our family, the boy who danced on Maa’s fingers, was once again outnumbered. He muttered something under his breath, loud enough for all of us to hear. “Kya yaar… jindagi hai jaha khud ki izzat bhi nahi hai khud ke ghar pe.”

[What a life, where I don’t even have respect in my own house.]

We laughed again, but the laughter couldn’t drown out the heavy truth lingering in the air.

I finished my meal and wiped my hands. “Maa, I’m done. I have some work. And you”—I pointed at Rishi—“be ready on time.”

I left the table and returned to my room, closing the door behind me. From the drawer of my desk, I pulled out a set of documents. Every file, every paper, every note carried the weight of stories too dark to be written. Details of girls trafficked from small villages, names changed, ages erased, childhoods stolen. Each document was a piece of the puzzle—and today, I had to connect them all.

It was time to make a call.

I dialed the number, and as expected, the line was picked up almost instantly.

“Yes. Is there any important thing to say?” came the familiar voice on the other end—steady, a little impatient.

“Am I disturbing you?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.

“Tell me quickly,” he groaned. I could almost picture him lying down, rubbing his forehead, pulled from sleep by my call.

“Are you ready? I need your men,” I said firmly. The words were simple, but behind them lay the gravity of what was to come.

“Yes,” he replied without hesitation. “And are your files ready?”

“Everything’s ready,” I confirmed.

“Then see you soon.” With that, the line went dead, leaving behind only silence.

I sat there for a moment, staring at the phone. Since morning, I had felt a strange unease crawling beneath my skin, a tension I couldn’t quite put into words. Reaching for the small bottle of medicine beside me, I swallowed a pill—my fragile shield against the anxiety clawing at me.

Then, picking up my phone again, I sent a coded message to the community center: Take your positions. Be ready.

We were coming.

We were coming to tear down the walls of silence.

We were coming to save the girls who had been stripped of their childhood.

We were coming to give them back the life they deserved.

This wasn’t just another case. This was a promise.

And I, Shi

vam Banerjee, was ready to keep it.

---

I hope you like it see you later

Muah 💋💋