A son search for justices

The air in Sector 2 was always heavy with dust and the low rumble of diesel engines, but near the edges of Shahid Maidan, night brought a stillness that felt almost unnatural.
​It was a Tuesday evening when Sobhnath parked his auto near the airport stand, wiping down the windshield with a worn cloth. The hours had been long, the fare sparse, and all he wanted was to head back home to Dwarikapuri. But first, he stopped by a small roadside tea stall near the ground for a quick cup to clear his head.
​That was where the bad luck started. A trivial argument broke out—careless words exchanged with a group of locals lingering in the dim lamplight. Tensions flared fast, voices carrying across the empty stretch of the field. Sensing trouble, Sobhnath dialed his eighteen-year-old son, Sunny.
​"Sunny, come down to the ground. Some men are causing trouble," he said, trying to keep his voice steady.
​Within ten minutes, Sunny arrived with a couple of friends. He stepped between his father and the men, de-escalating the argument with frantic apologies and gentle tugs at his father’s arm. They managed to pull away, walking back toward their auto under the flickering streetlights.
​Then, Sobhnath stopped in his tracks, feeling his pockets.
​"My phone," he muttered, looking back toward the shadows of the square. "I left it on the tea stall counter."
​"Let it go, Papa. We’ll get it tomorrow," Sunny urged, a sudden knot of anxiety tightening in his chest.
​"It'll only take a minute. Wait here," Sobhnath replied, already turning back into the dark.
​Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen. The street remained silent, save for the distant barking of stray dogs.
​Unease turned into dread. Sunny ran back toward the tea stall, his footsteps echoing against the pavement. The stall was deserted now, the shutter pulled halfway down. And there, on the dirt patch just behind the trees bordering Shahid Maidan, lay his father's wooden stick, broken in two—and beside it, Sobhnath, unmoving in the harsh shadows.
​The sirens that followed were a blur. The frantic rush to Guru Nanak Hospital, the blinding white light of the emergency room corridor, and finally, the heavy silence of the doctor stepping out to deliver the news that no son is ever prepared to hear.
​By morning, the police had cordoned off the field. The investigation moved swiftly through the narrow lanes of Dhurwa, leading to the arrest of Rajendra Tirkey and Dashrath Yadav before the sun had fully set on the tragedy. But for those who passed by Shahid Maidan in the days that followed, the empty space by the tea stall remained a grim reminder of how a single twist of fate, and a forgotten phone, could shatter a family forever.