It was 2:18 AM at the emergency center in Mumbai. Rain poured down heavily, drowning the city in a chilling silence. Dispatch officer Meera, seasoned in emergency calls, had no idea the next ring would haunt her for months to come.

The shrill tone of the phone pierced through the night. Meera picked up, her voice calm and steady:

“112 Emergency, this is Meera speaking. Please stay calm. What’s happening?”

On the other end, the patter of rain mixed with faint, ragged breathing. Then, a tiny, trembling voice—like that of a child fighting back tears:

“Ma’am… my name is… Anvi…”

Meera’s heart sank. She could feel the despair in the child’s whisper. Without hesitation, she activated the recording and location tracker system, gesturing to her colleague to trace the signal.

“Anvi, where are you? Can you tell me the address, sweetheart?”

“I… I don’t know… It’s very dark here… I’m cold…” – her voice drifted off, swallowed by the surrounding shadows.

The screen blinked. GPS slowly locked onto an address: House No. 18, Tilak Nagar Road, a deserted residential stretch on the outskirts of Mumbai—one of those places forgotten by time.

“Anvi, do you hear anything around you? Is someone else there?” Meera asked, keeping her voice soothing.

“I’m… locked in the bathroom… for a long time. I’m hungry… and thirsty… I hear rats…” – the sobs were faint but sharp, slicing into Meera’s heart.

She swallowed hard and steadied herself:

“It’s okay, Anvi. I’m here with you. The police are on their way. Just keep talking to me, alright?”

Silence. Only the sound of dripping water and faint rustling echoed over the line. Then Anvi whispered:

“Papa said… if I’m naughty… he’ll lock me in here forever… But I was good… why didn’t he come back…”

Meera’s skin crawled. A cold shiver ran down her spine. She pressed further:

“Anvi, is anyone else in the house?”

“I… I don’t know… But… a while ago I heard knocking outside the door…”

Meera shot up from her chair and called out to Sub-Inspector Aryan nearby:

“Child locked in a bathroom! Address: No. 18, Tilak Nagar Road. Dispatch a patrol immediately!”

Aryan nodded and issued the alert. Officer Neha and Constable Imran jumped into the patrol jeep and drove headlong into the stormy night.

Back in the Call Center

Meera continued speaking into the headset:

“Anvi, do you know how long you’ve been in there?”

“I… I don’t know… It’s always dark… I haven’t seen the sun… There’s just a mirror… and the tap…” – her voice weakened, like her strength was draining with every word.

The signal began to break. Meera clenched her headset.

“Anvi? Can you still hear me? Don’t hang up!”

“Ma’am… if Papa comes back… don’t tell him I called… He’ll hit me…”

“You’re safe now, Anvi. You’re so brave. The police are almost there—they’ll take you out.”

Suddenly, there was a faint click—like a lock turning or a door being nudged. Meera held her breath:

“Anvi? Are you still there?”

No response. Only the static and the rain. Meera removed her headset, her face pale as she turned to Aryan:

“We lost contact.”

Aryan nodded grimly:

“Neha’s team is almost at the location. I’ll call for backup with floodlights and a rescue team.”

On the Scene: Tilak Nagar

The patrol vehicle turned into a narrow, dimly lit lane. The houses were old and crumbling, some clearly abandoned. Streetlights flickered in the rain as puddles filled the road. A stray dog, skeletal and snarling, stared at them from the shadows, its eyes reflecting the car’s headlights.

“There it is—House No. 18,” said Imran, switching off the engine. They stepped out, boots splashing in murky water. Flashlights cut through the darkness as they approached a wooden staircase leading to flat 2011—mildewed and foul-smelling. The front lock showed signs of being recently forced.

Neha knocked firmly:

“Police! Is anyone inside?”

No answer. A heavy silence settled.

“I don’t like this feeling,” Neha whispered, hand instinctively resting on her holstered weapon.

Imran retrieved a crowbar from the gear bag. BANG!—the door burst open to reveal a pitch-dark apartment. A wave of mold and decay hit their nostrils. The flashlight scanned the living room: empty, save for some torn blankets, old boxes, and stained flooring.

They moved carefully, boots creaking on rotting wood. Outside the bathroom door, Neha paused and leaned in.

“I hear… shallow breathing,” she whispered.

Imran gently pushed open the door. The flashlight beam revealed a girl around 7 years old, frail and curled up in the corner of a cold, grimy bathroom. Her nightdress was torn and dirty. Her wide eyes stared blankly into the light, arms clutched tightly around a pillow. Tears ran silently down her cheeks.

“Anvi… is that you?” Neha asked gently.

The child gave a weak nod, unable to speak.

Neha knelt and wrapped her in a blanket, while Imran called for emergency medical support. They rushed her to the hospital.

Doctors later confirmed she was severely malnourished, with old bruises and signs of prolonged confinement—likely for weeks.

Justice and Aftermath

A few days later, Anvi’s father, Rajesh Kumar, was arrested while attempting to sneak back into the flat. He was eerily calm, showing no remorse. At the police station, he said:

“She’s stubborn. She needs to learn silence.”

Rajesh had been raising Anvi alone after his wife passed away. But instead of love and care, he turned the rented flat into a prison for his own daughter. Every time he lost his temper, he locked her in the bathroom with nothing but a cracked mirror and a rusted tap.

After months of investigation, Rajesh was charged with child abuse, unlawful confinement, and endangerment of life. Anvi was transferred to a children’s welfare shelter. Though her body slowly began to heal, her wounded soul would take much longer.

But in her dreams, one voice still echoes—calm, kind, and filled with hope:

“You’re very brave. The police are almost there.”

One midnight call. A fragile voice from a darkened room. And the quick thinking of a dispatch officer saved an entire life.