The small house nestled at the end of a red dirt road on the outskirts of Bhopal, once filled with the laughter of children, now echoed only with the slow footsteps of Old Man Ram – a man in his seventies with a hunched back and eyes clouded by age. Three years ago, Sarla – his wife – passed away after a severe illness, leaving him in solitude with the house that had once been the family’s home.

Vikram, his eldest son, used to work as a factory laborer but quit due to gambling and debt. Meena – Vikram’s wife – was initially gentle, but after living with her husband, she too became selfish, constantly complaining about their difficult life. They lived off Old Man Ram, were lazy, and grew increasingly unreasonable in their demands.

“Sell this house, and split the money with us! What do you need a big house for, living alone?” – Vikram roared at his father, while Meena stood by, silent but with cold eyes.

Old Man Ram remained silent. This house was a memory, a place where he and his wife had once grown gourds, a vegetable patch… where Sarla, before she passed, held his hand and said: “Try to keep the house, don’t let the children sell it… Where there are memories, there is still human connection.”

He couldn’t sell it. But his stubbornness made the atmosphere in the house heavy and suffocating, as if every meal was a silent battle.

One chilly morning in October, Vikram’s voice suddenly softened:

“Father, the weather is beautiful today. Meena and I want to take you for a walk. It’s been a long time since we went to the pine forest; a little fresh air would be good.”

Old Man Ram was surprised, but also secretly pleased. It had been so long since anyone had shown him such care. He changed his kurta, put on his turban, and got on the motorbike with his two children. They drove deep into the forest, where tall pine trees soared, and sunlight filtered through the canopy.

At the foot of an ancient tree, Vikram stopped and said:

“Father, rest here for a bit. Meena and I are going to look for some medicinal herbs for you.”

Old Man Ram nodded, his heart feeling warm. Vikram and Meena disappeared behind the trees. Old Man Ram sat down at the base of the pine, feeling the cool breeze. But then, he saw Vikram return, not with herbs, but with a large iron chain. Meena followed, carrying a hammer.

A premonition of ill omen struck him, and Old Man Ram tried to get up and run, but his old, frail legs were no longer swift. Vikram lunged, tightened the chain around his wrist, and then used the hammer to secure it to the ancient tree trunk. Old Man Ram screamed in horror:

“Vikram! What are you doing?! Are you mad?!”

Vikram said nothing, only looked at him with icy eyes. Meena stood by, her gaze emotionless.

“Father, just stay here for a few days and reconsider. When you agree to sign the papers to sell the house, we’ll come back for you.” – Vikram said, his voice flat, devoid of any emotion.

With that, they turned their backs and left, abandoning Old Man Ram alone in the desolate pine forest. His cries gradually faded into the vast emptiness.

One day passed. Then two. Old Man Ram struggled, clawing at the chain, but it was futile. His wrist was swollen and bleeding. His mouth was parched, his stomach aching with hunger. As night fell, the wind whistling through the pine trees sounded like wailing, insects chirped, and fear enveloped him. He called out his wife’s name, his children’s names, but only his own echo answered.

On the morning of the third day, a local villager walking through the forest discovered Vikram and Meena’s abandoned motorbike at the edge of the woods. Finding it strange, the person reported it to the village police. Law enforcement immediately organized a search.

More than three hours later, they found Old Man Ram at the base of the ancient tree. He lay motionless, his body shriveled, his breath so weak it was almost imperceptible. His wrist was swollen to twice its normal size, the chain still tightly bound.

The police immediately cut the chain and rushed him to the hospital. However, after three days without water or food, and enduring the cold nights in the forest, Old Man Ram was completely exhausted. He was admitted to the hospital, but doctors announced his condition was critical.

Vikram and Meena were arrested shortly after. They showed no remorse. When asked for their reason, Vikram merely stated coldly: “He refused to sell the house, and we had no money. It was just a lesson for him.”

Old Man Ram fell into a deep coma. When he briefly regained consciousness, he only whispered his wife’s name, then slipped back into unconsciousness. His life, a lifetime of gentleness and simplicity, ended tragically by the extreme greed of his own children.

The small house on the outskirts of Bhopal now stands abandoned. The laughter of children had long been silenced, and now, even the slow footsteps of the old father were no more. All that remained was the haunting specter of a horrifying crime, the degradation of family ties, and the costly lesson of bottomless greed.