When I turned to the girl sitting quietly in the cabin, her innocent eyes were filled with tears. She seemed lost, overwhelmed by the chaos of the police station. I gently asked, “Dear, Can you brief me why all these?”
She crumbled under the weight of her own words, her breath shallow, her body trembling with disbelief. “That stupid gynecologist told me I’m pregnant,” she gasped, her voice a fractured whisper, teetering between rage and despair.
Her chest rose and fell rapidly, her eyes wide with an anguish too great to contain. “But I haven’t even… I haven’t even removed my clothes in my room not even in the bathroom! I’m only fourteen!”
Her words tumbled out in a desperate plea, as if saying them aloud might shatter the horrifying reality that had been forced upon her. “I don’t have a boyfriend. I’m untouched. I’m a virgin. What’s happening to me?”
A deafening silence followed—one too heavy, too cruel, too unnatural for someone so young.
Her voice cracked as she continued, “The police have summoned my friends and their parents for questioning. I feel scattered, sir. Please, help me.”
I looked at the girl, her face streaked with tears, and gently wiped them away. “My dear,” I said softly, “I’m here for you. I’ll stand by you. Don’t worry. Now, tell me—what exactly happened?”
She hesitated, her voice trembling as she began to explain. Her words mirrored what the police officer had already told me, but hearing it from her made the weight of her confusion and fear even more palpable.
I asked her gently, “When did you last notice your menstrual cycle?”

She paused, thinking, and then replied, “It was about two months ago, approximately. But… my mamma mentioned something. She said she noticed some spotting on my white frock two months back. She told me that young girls sometimes have their periods like that. That was the day I felt my last period.”
As I listened to her trembling voice and wiped away her tears, my mind lingered on the mention of spotting. Rising from my seat, I decided to speak with her parents to clarify the incident further.
I turned to her mother, but the weight of her devastation was unbearable. The grief in her eyes—raw, unfiltered—held me captive, rendering me unable to meet her gaze. I looked away, unable to face her suffering, and turned instead to her husband.
His body trembled as he sat there, his face buried in his hands, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs. I asked, carefully, hesitantly, “When did you first notice the spotting?”
He lifted his face slightly, his lips parted as if to speak, but no words came. He turned to his wife instead, his expression pleading, helpless.
She swallowed hard, fighting to steady herself, though the weight of sorrow pressed down upon her. Slowly, she nodded, her voice barely a whisper. “Yes… it was the day she attended her friend’s birthday party.”
She paused, her mind drifting back to a moment now tainted by an unbearable truth. “They’re classmates… The party was at her friend’s house. The parents were there the whole time.”
Her husband let out a low, broken sigh—a sound that carried more pain than words ever could.

Her voice faltered as she continued. “My husband bought her a beautiful white frock for the occasion… It was her favorite. She loved it so much. She said she felt like an angel in it.”
Her breath hitched, and she lowered her gaze as if the memory itself was too painful to hold. The image of her daughter—innocent, joyful, untouched by the cruelty of fate—clashed violently with the nightmare that now consumed them.
Her mother continued, “She loved that dress so much. She felt confident and happy in it. Later, I noticed when she came back, some blood spots on the frock, but I thought it was just the natural spotting that sometimes happens with young girls. I told her it might be related to her menstrual cycle, and she confirmed it was likely the day of her last period.”
I pressed further, asking about the nature of the spotting and whether the frock was still at home. Her mother confirmed its availability and reiterated her certainty that the bleeding was minor and seemed to be spotting. However, doubt crept into my mind. If the blood had reached the frock, wouldn’t it have stained her undergarments as well? Something about the judgment felt incomplete.
Turning back to the police officer, I said firmly, “Please summon the entire family who hosted the birthday party, including all the participants. We need to reconstruct the events of that day in detail to ensure nothing has been overlooked.”
As part of the inquiry, I reached out to the host of the birthday party—the father of the girl’s friend—to piece together the events of that evening. His account was methodical, but there was a hint of unease in his voice. He stated that during the celebration, he remained downstairs, occasionally observing the party from afar. From his vantage point, everything appeared normal—laughter, music, the glow of festivity filling the space.
The gathering was small—just seven children, including the girl in question. Among them was his nephew, an engineering student who had been entrusted with

overseeing the preparations. He had handled everything—the cake, the ice creams, the playlist, the decorations—all meticulously arranged to ensure a smooth event.
Yet beneath this seemingly ordinary celebration lay unanswered questions. Was there a moment—just a fraction of time—where someone’s actions had gone unnoticed? Did the meticulous nature of the arrangements conceal something more unsettling? The details, though clear, left gaps that demanded further scrutiny.


To be continued …..Chapter-3