HIS DECISION
--
CID Beauro
The clock struck 11:45 p.m., but the CID office in Mumbai was still bustling. Phones rang, officers moved briskly through corridors, and yet, one cabin remained cloaked in silence.
Senior Inspector Abhijeet sat alone in his cabin, his elbows resting on the desk, eyes fixed on the worn-out file in front of him—but he wasn't reading it. His mind was elsewhere, tangled in memories that refused to fade.
"Abhijeet, tumpe bharosa karna galti thi!"
"Ho sakta hai galti Abhijeet ki ho…"
Their words echoed endlessly in his head.
The CID team—his own family—had begun to doubt him. Subtle taunts had turned to open accusations. Looks of admiration were now replaced by suspicion. Every step he took, every decision he made, was now questioned.
He tried to ignore it at first. He told himself it was temporary, that the truth would prevail. But weeks passed, and nothing changed. The walls of CID Mumbai, once his sanctuary, now suffocated him.
Enough is enough.
He stood up with sudden determination. He grabbed his file, pushed back his chair, and without a word to anyone, walked out of the office. The night breeze hit his face as he stepped into the darkness outside. His car was parked in its usual spot, but tonight, his destination wasn't home.
It was CID Headquarters.
--
CID Headquarters, Mumbai
The receptionist looked up in surprise as Abhijeet entered.
"Sir, itni raat ko?"
"DCP sir se milna hai. Bula lijiye," he said, his voice firm but quiet.
Minutes later, he stood before DCP Raghavan, a man of stature and strong will. The DCP looked up from his papers, slightly surprised to see Abhijeet at this hour.
"Senior Inspector Abhijeet? Is everything alright?"
Abhijeet took a deep breath. "Sir, main yahan se transfer lena chahta hoon."
There was silence. DCP Raghavan leaned back in his chair, observing Abhijeet carefully.
"Any reason, Inspector?"
Abhijeet hesitated for a moment before speaking. "Sir, I don't feel like I belong in the Mumbai team anymore. Mera vishwaas tut gaya hai. Logon ki aankhon mein respect ki jagah shaq aa gaya hai. Main aur nahi seh sakta."
The DCP nodded slowly. "I've heard murmurs… But you're one of the finest officers, Abhijeet. Mumbai CID is known because of people like you."
Abhijeet didn't respond.
The DCP picked up a file, glanced through it, and then looked up again. "I had already
recommended you for a promotion. Senior officers in Delhi have approved it."
Abhijeet's eyes flickered with confusion.
"You're being offered the post of ACP – CID Delhi Zone. Congratulations."
Abhijeet was stunned. He hadn't expected this. A transfer, yes. But a promotion? Now?
"Sir… ACP?" he repeated.
"Yes," the DCP confirmed, handing him the official letter. "You deserve it. You've led the
toughest cases, fought through the most dangerous missions, and shown integrity even when others didn't. This isn't just a transfer. It's a fresh beginning. Take it."
Abhijeet stared at the letter in his hands. His name. His new post. His new city.
After all these years… he was leaving. Truly leaving.
He stood up slowly, nodded respectfully, and said, "Thank you, sir."
"Yes," the DCP confirmed, handing him the official letter. "You deserve it. You've led the
toughest cases, fought through the most dangerous missions, and shown integrity even whenothers didn't. This isn't just a transfer. It's a fresh beginning. Take it."
--
Abhijeet's House – Midnight
The key turned softly in the lock. The door creaked open, and Abhijeet stepped into the dim silence of his home.
His living room was neat, as always. On the shelf, a framed photo of the CID team stared back at him—him, Daya, ACP Pradyuman, Dr. Tarika and the others. He walked past it without a glance.
He went to his bedroom, opened his cupboard, and started pulling out clothes. Shirts, jackets, trousers—each one folded with the precision of a man who lived with discipline. His movements were methodical, robotic. But his mind… was chaos.
As he zipped up his bag, he sat down on the edge of his bed and let out a long breath.
"Kya main sach mein jaa raha hoon?"
His fingers brushed against a leather wallet lying beside his lamp. Inside it was a photo of his mentor—ACP Pradyuman. He stared at it for a long moment.
"Sir… aapko bataya tak nahi. Par main thak gaya hoon. Akele ladte-ladte… Har baar mujhse sawal kyun hote hain? Har baar mujhse vishwaas kyun chhinta hai?"
He went to his bedroom, opened his cupboard, and started pulling out clothes. Shirts, jackets, trousers—each one folded with the precision of a man who lived with discipline. His movementswere methodical, robotic. But his mind… was chaos.
He had a new post. A new life. A new start.
But why did it feel like something was missing?