Chapter 212

Nitish sat in the corner of his dimly lit apartment, staring at the urns containing the ashes of his parents. The once vibrant and confident man was now reduced to a shadow of himself, burdened by grief and the weight of injustice. It had been a month since the verdict, a month since he had stepped outside, a month since he had buried his parents and with them, a part of his soul.

The funeral rites were held with quiet dignity, following every custom his parents had taught him. Though the media had swarmed outside his residence, Nitish had refused to speak to anyone. The rituals were the only thing anchoring him, the only semblance of purpose in an otherwise shattered existence.

As the days passed, he found himself drowning in silence. The apartment, which had once been filled with laughter, family meals, and late-night cricket discussions, now felt like a tomb. He cried often, his sobs echoing in the empty rooms. He thought of his mother's gentle smile, his father's unwavering belief in him, and the sacrifices they had made for his career. And now, they were gone—gone because of lies, deceit, and the cruelty of a world that had turned against him.

News of Nitish's isolation spread like wildfire. Public sentiment, which had swung in his favor after the verdict, now turned to guilt. Social media platforms were flooded with posts from fans and celebrities expressing their regret and sorrow.

One voice stood out among them all: Sushant Singh Rajput.

In a heartfelt video posted to his social media accounts, Sushant addressed the nation. His voice was steady, but his eyes betrayed his own grief.

"I've known Nitish for years," Sushant began, his tone somber. "He's not just a friend—he's like a brother to me. Many of you might not know this, but when I was struggling with a massive debt of 200 crores, it was Nitish who stepped in and saved me. He didn't do it for attention or recognition. He did it because that's the kind of person he is—kind, generous, and selfless."

He paused, his voice thick with emotion. "Nitish is sensitive. He feels deeply for those he loves. But there's one thing you don't do—ever—and that's harm his family. You don't touch the people he cares about. And yet, that's exactly what has happened. His parents, who stood by him through everything, were harassed and hounded until they couldn't take it anymore. You killed his family."

The video caused an immediate uproar. Celebrities who had once criticized Nitish now scrambled to delete their tweets and posts. Public figures issued statements of apology, acknowledging their role in the vitriol that had led to his parents' deaths. #JusticeForNitish trended for days, but the damage had already been done.

Sushant's voice grew softer, tinged with fear. "I'm afraid of what he might do," he admitted. "Nitish isn't someone who lashes out without reason, but he's human. He's hurt, and he's angry. You all pushed him to this point. Now, he's alone, mourning the loss of his family while the rest of us try to move on. But he can't move on, can he?"

The video ended with Sushant urging the public to support Nitish, to show him the love and understanding he deserved. It was a call to action, a plea for redemption—not for Nitish, but for everyone who had failed him.

Inside his apartment, Nitish was unaware of the storm brewing outside. He spent his days in solitude, going through the motions of life but feeling utterly disconnected. He had deactivated his social media accounts, stopped answering calls, and refused to watch the news.

His only companion was his grief. At night, he would lie awake, staring at the ceiling, his mind replaying every moment of the trial, every word of criticism, every hateful comment. The anger burned within him, but it was tempered by an overwhelming sadness.

One evening, as he sat by the window, staring at the city lights, his phone buzzed. It was Rohith. Reluctantly, Nitish picked up.

"It's been a month, Nitish," Rohith said gently. "I know you're hurting, but you can't shut yourself off forever. The world needs to hear your side. You deserve to tell your story."

Nitish was silent for a long moment before responding. "What's the point, Rohith? They didn't care about the truth before. Why would they care now?"

"Because they do care now," Rohith replied. "The tide has turned. People are realizing what they've done. Even Sushant spoke out for you. He told everyone about how you helped him, how you saved him. Nitish, people are starting to see you for who you truly are."

Nitish's grip on the phone tightened. "And what good does that do me now? My parents are gone, Rohith. Nothing can bring them back."

"I know," Rohith said, his voice filled with empathy. "But you're still here. You're alive, and you have a voice. Use it. Not for them, but for yourself."

A week later, the announcement came. Nitish Reddy would hold a public press conference to address the events of the past few months. The news sent ripples through the nation, with everyone speculating about what he would say.

On the day of the conference, a sea of reporters, fans, and supporters gathered outside the venue. The atmosphere was electric, charged with anticipation and guilt. Celebrities tweeted their support, urging fans to stand by Nitish. Even those who had been silent during the trial now spoke out, expressing their sorrow for how he had been treated.

Nitish stood before the sea of reporters and flashing cameras, his face a mask of steely resolve. His month of isolation had taken its toll; his eyes were sunken, his frame leaner, and the spark of joy that once defined him was nowhere to be seen. Yet, his presence exuded a quiet power, an unyielding defiance against the world that had wronged him.

The room was silent as Nitish adjusted the microphone. He glanced briefly at the crowd, his gaze passing over familiar faces, some of whom had once vilified him and were now desperate to hail him as a hero. He took a deep breath and began to speak.

"Thank you all for being here today," he started, his voice steady but heavy with emotion. "It's been a month since the verdict—a month since I lost everything that mattered to me. My parents, my peace, my trust in the world. Over this time, I've had to reflect on what it means to be me, to be Nitish Reddy."

The room was so silent that even the faint clicking of camera shutters seemed deafening. Nitish's words carried the weight of grief, anger, and disillusionment.

"For months, I was branded a monster by people who didn't know me, by a world that didn't care about the truth. And when the truth finally came out, the same people who condemned me suddenly wanted to celebrate me. As if their applause could erase the pain, the damage, the lives destroyed. It can't."

He paused, his voice cracking slightly as he spoke of his parents. "My parents… They were the only ones who stood by me when the world turned against me. They endured your hatred, your harassment, and your lies, and they paid the ultimate price for believing in me. They're gone because of you. Every headline, every accusation, every word of vitriol—you all killed them."

Tears welled in his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. His jaw tightened as he continued, his voice hardening. "And now you want to make me your hero again. You want to cheer for me, to celebrate my innocence, to move on as if nothing happened. But I can't move on. Not like this."

Nitish gripped the edges of the podium, his knuckles turning white. The room felt suffocating, the weight of his words pressing down on everyone present.

"I've thought long and hard about what comes next," he said, his tone steadying. "Cricket has been my life. It's given me everything—fame, fortune, purpose. But it also took away the most important things from me. It made me a target for lies and deceit, and it cost me my family."

He paused, letting his words sink in before delivering the bombshell. "That's why I've decided I will no longer play for the Indian cricket team."

The room exploded into chaos. Reporters shouted questions, fans gasped audibly, and the buzz of disbelief filled the air. Nitish raised his hand to silence them, his expression unyielding.

"I know this will disappoint many of you," he said, his voice cutting through the noise. "But I can't represent a country that stood by and watched as my life was torn apart. A country where people turned against me without a shred of evidence. I'm grateful for the opportunities I've had, but I've made my decision."

He let the murmurs settle before continuing. "I have accepted an offer to play for the Ireland national cricket team. They've given me a chance to start fresh, to play the game I love without the burden of everything that has happened here."

The room erupted again, reporters firing rapid questions and accusations. "Are you abandoning India?" one shouted. "How could you turn your back on the team that made you?" another demanded.

Nitish met their questions with calm composure. "I'm not abandoning India. India abandoned me. When I needed support, when I needed people to believe in me, this country chose to crucify me instead. Playing for Ireland is not about betrayal; it's about survival. It's about finding a place where I can breathe again."

The crowd fell silent once more, the weight of his words settling over them. Even the most critical reporters seemed momentarily at a loss for words.

Nitish's voice softened as he delivered his final statement. "I don't want your forgiveness, your applause, or your redemption. I've learned that people will judge you no matter what you do, no matter how much you give. I will play cricket for Ireland, but I will live for myself. This is not the end of my journey—it's a new beginning."

With that, he stepped back from the podium, leaving the room in stunned silence. As he walked out, the crowd outside erupted into cheers, their chants of "Nitish! Nitish!" ringing in his ears. He paused at the top of the courthouse steps, turning to face the sea of people.

For a brief moment, his gaze softened, but then he remembered the past—the lies, the betrayals, the death of his parents. His jaw clenched, his eyes reddened with suppressed anger and grief. He turned back to his car, gripping the door handle tightly, his knuckles white from the force.

As he opened the door, he flicked a defiant glance back at the crowd, his expression unreadable. Then, with a loud slam, he closed the door and drove away, leaving behind a stunned nation grappling with the consequences of its actions.

Inside the car, Nitish stared out the window, the weight of his decision pressing down on him. For the first time in months, he felt a sliver of clarity. He was no longer playing for the approval of a fickle world. He was playing for himself, for the love of the game, for the memory of his parents.

And as the car disappeared into the distance, the crowd outside slowly began to disperse, their cheers replaced by a heavy silence. They had lost more than a cricketer—they had lost a hero. And in the quiet of their regret, they began to understand the cost of their betrayal.