She was building a life. He was fighting the system.
She didn't believe in distractions. He couldn't look away.
When a fierce, duty-bound woman meets a man with rebellion in his veins, love doesn't arrive gently-it breaks in, uninvited.
He fell firs...
Cast poga poga dhaan therinjipenga... and feel free to imagine whoever you think fits best in this world. Unga imagination-ku full freedom!
Marubadiyu unga ellaraiyu sandhikradhula... mikka magizhchi🤎😇
Vote and comment panna marandhradhenga pa...!!
Enjoy reading!
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Framed on the peeling wall was a faded photograph of Dr. B.R. Ambedkar, surrounded by portraits of other leaders-most half-tilted, coated with dust, like no one had looked up in years. I stared at Ambedkar's image for a moment longer. His words echoed in my mind, 'Freedom of mind is real freedom.' But in a place like this, filled with locked minds and closed doors, that quote felt more like a joke. The irony hung heavy in the air-like the stench of dried sweat and old files. If Ambedkar had walked into this room today, I wondered if he'd feel proud... or just tired.
Across from me, Inspector Kalidas sat, one nostril stuffed with cotton, the other bandaged with a neat plaster that didn't do much to hide his bruised ego. His glare could've burned holes through concrete. But I didn't flinch. I held his stare like it was a game of who'd blink first. Spoiler: he blinked.
A junior lawyer walked past me, files tucked under his armpit, his robe fluttering. He paused, looked at me, and gave a polite nod-more out of habit than respect. I gave a slight nod back, rubbing my fingers across the rough patch of my jawline. My beard had grown messier over the past few days in the cell. My kaapu string clung tightly to my wrist, and my golden chain peeked out from under my slightly unbuttoned black shirt, still smelling faintly of sweat and dust.
I was once like him-the lawyer. Clean-cut, sharp-tongued, always quoting sections and precedents like gospel. But I hated every second of it. Not the law itself-but the way it was used. Twisted. Bent. Shaped by power and money. I walked away when I realized justice didn't live in courtrooms-it died there.
And now, here I was again. Not as an advocate. Not even as an accused. Just as someone who punched the wrong man for doing the wrong thing-and called it the right one.
The door creaked open behind me. Heavy footsteps, familiar ones, echoed down the corridor. I didn't turn. I didn't need to. Only one man walked like that-half frustrated, half defeated. Sathya Prakash. My brother.
"Vaa da," he muttered, low and sharp, the paper in his hand already crumpled from how tight he was gripping it. His eyes flicked past me-to the man sitting opposite. Inspector Kalidas. The man I decked last night.
Kalidas adjusted his nose plaster and straightened slightly in the chair, his glare tightening. If his eyes could arrest me, they would've thrown me into solitary for life.
