Proof Is Still Not Absolution

What unsettles me is not that someone altered the register. People alter registers; that is almost a courtesy in Bengaluru. What unsettles me is how easily the false version wanted to become the official truth. One signature, one timestamp, and Divya would have carried damage she never gave me permission to understand.

I sent the evidence to Meera’s lawyer, then booked the service rooms myself because I do not trust a handoff I cannot personally verify. Yesterday proved that even correct documents can disappear into a chain of custody and come back looking useless. I kept reopening the register until the altered entry stopped feeling like proof and started feeling like an insult.

There is a petty part of me that wants Vardhan to know I found his little piece of theatre before he finished presenting it. I want the chalk dust, the shoes, all of it laid out so neatly that nobody can mistake his confidence for innocence. But private victory tastes cheap. If I win because I was obsessive, am I any better than him? At least he only planted one lie.

At the family table yesterday, nobody said, “I knew you would catch this.” Maybe they still see the dropout who caused trouble, and I am still waiting to become the person they can quietly trust. I want to confess that I still care what they think, though I have spent years pretending indifference is the same as strength.