Dad, I don’t know what to say to you, so I’m plucking up the courage to write. I might never let you read this book, but if you find it someday, believe me.

Every morning, while you’re busy at work, my stepmother wakes me up. I’m so thirsty, my throat is dry, but Mom never lets me drink water. Mom only gives me a glass of milk in a steel cup—just a small spoonful, as thin as water. I drink it quickly, but I’m not full.

Then when Dad asks: “Did you have breakfast?” Mom immediately smiles: “He’s already eaten, I’ve taken care of everything.” Dad is relieved, but I can go to school on an empty stomach.

Dad, you know, if I disobey, Mom will drag me into the room immediately after breakfast. The door closes, and between four cold walls, Mom forces me to slap my face one by one. Whenever I cry, Mom says coldly: “Cry, it’s even better if your dad hears. Let’s see if you choose dad or your life.”

I’m so scared, Dad. But then something even more terrifying happened…

Last night, Mom yelled: “You don’t deserve your bed, you don’t deserve a blanket or a pillow.” Then Mom spread me on a mat and laid me down in the cold stone corridor. In the middle of the night, I was shivering in the wind, my stomach growling with hunger, while in the other room, Dad and Mom slept peacefully, oblivious.

Many times I wanted to run and hug Dad, tell him everything, but Mom’s sharp gaze numbed me. I was afraid that if I said anything, tomorrow would be even worse.

Dad, I miss my real mom so much. I crave hot dal-rice, a full glass of water, and a loving hug. But these small things seem so far away now…

I wish Dad would read this someday, I wish Dad would agree: I’ve tried to be strong, but sometimes I feel like I can’t take it anymore.

Part 2 – A Full Glass of Water and the Panchayat Hearing

The next morning, I took my lunch box to school empty, my lips dry and chapped. My head was spinning during the flag-hoisting ceremony under the tricolor flag. Madam Verma (the headmistress) saw me, pulled me into the medical room, and gave me a steel glass full of cold water. After drinking the water, I wanted to cry because… it was the first full glass of water in days.

—Son, is something wrong at home?—Madam asked softly.

I nodded. But when she handed me a brown notebook and said, “If you can’t speak, then write,” my hands trembled. That afternoon, I wrote everything down: the glass of watery milk, the closed water bottle, the closed door, the slap, the rug spread on the cold stone corridor…

The First Crack

In the afternoon, Papa came home early because of the monsoon rain. Seeing me standing on the veranda, Papa asked:

— Have you had anything to drink?

I looked at the small water bottle chained in the kitchen. Stepmother smiled:

— She drank the milk, I’ll take care of everything.

Papa remained silent. Papa’s eyes fell on my bag, the zipper accidentally opened, and he saw the brown notebook. Papa opened it. The ink was still on it because my hands were sweaty. Papa read slowly, his lips tightly pressed together, his hand stopping at the line: “If I have to choose between Papa and my life, I’m afraid…”

Papa looked up. His voice was heavy:

— Neha, get the key to the water bottle. And don’t touch me with another finger.

The stepmother changed her face and said in a panic:

— She lied! I taught her!

Papa didn’t argue. He dialed 1098—Childline—in front of her stepmother, then called Madam Verma. “Tomorrow, meet me at the Panchayat Bhawan,” Papa said. “The Sarpanch and the District Child Protection Unit will be there.”

That night, I didn’t sleep in the hallway. Papa spread a thin blanket in the living room, placed a jug of water next to me, and said: “From now on, no one will turn off your water.”

Panchayat Bhawan: The Light Burns Lies

In the morning, the Panchayat Bhawan is packed: Madam Verma, the village head, the Anganwadi Didi, and two constables from the nearby police station. Aunt Sunita, a neighbor, says she saw her child huddled on the stone floor of the corridor twice in the middle of the night. The building’s security guard pulls up CCTV footage of the corridor: the frame is blurry, but clear enough to show the shadow of a woman stamping her feet on the carpet and mat, gesturing “shut up.”

Stepmother Neha tries to laugh, then bursts into tears, then screams. But the videotape and her child’s diary are on the table. Madam Verma opens the page and says: “I’m so thirsty that I can’t even swallow my spit.” The room falls silent.

The Sarpanch says in a low voice:

— Under Section 75 of the Children’s Act 2015 (India), action will be taken in cases of cruelty, starvation, and abuse of children. Currently, a temporary protection order: Mrs. Neha is not allowed to visit her child. The file has been sent to the Child Welfare Committee (CWC) and the Department of Women and Child Development.

A constable invited the stepmother to go to work. She turned and, pointing to her child, said:

— I raised you, is this how you repay me?

Father stood before the child:

— I let my child suffer. Not him.

Forgiveness and Return

In the afternoon, Father took the child to Mother’s (biological mother’s) house. The scent of lentils and ginger brought comfort to his heart. Mother embraced the child, her shoulders trembling. Father bowed his head:

— I was blind. I’m sorry, darling. I’m sorry, child.

Mother didn’t blame me, but simply extended another full glass of water to the child:

— Drink, son. From now on, you don’t need to ask permission to drink water.

In the evening, Father sat with the child and wrote a petition requesting psychological counseling for both father and child. The next day, the CWC issued its verdict: the child would live alternately with Mother and Father; the DCPU counseling team followed closely; The stepmother was barred from entry and forced to participate in a rehabilitation and therapy program. The case is considered criminal under Section 75.

Final Hearing and a “Deserving End”

A month later, the stepmother appeared with a lawyer at the district family court. She tried to spin the story into “discipline.” But CCTV footage, the child’s psychological evaluation, a neighbor’s testimony, and a diary all proved to be the sledgehammer of truth.

The judge read the verdict:

No contact for 2 years; immediate detention if violated.

Community service in a shelter home for 6 months, anger management, and psychological counseling mandatory.

Punishment under Section 75 of the JJ Act: fine + suspended sentence; filed.

Father’s custody rights have been strengthened; the CWC’s opinion is required in all decisions concerning the child.

The stepmother knelt down. She looked at her child, but the child didn’t have to look back. I held Father’s hand. Madam Verma, sitting in the back seat, nodded slightly. Sunita Aunty smiled, her eyes moist.

Outside the courthouse, the summer afternoon was fading. Papa bent down and said exactly three words:

— Papa was wrong.

I replied:

— I’m thirsty.

— Papa understood. — Papa opened the bottle, filled the steel cup, and placed it in my hand. “From now on, no one can take away my water, my voice, and my right to love.”

I drank it in one gulp. The cool water slid down my throat, washing away my dark days. At the end of the street, the sound of an auto-rickshaw mingled with the sounds of hot tea. My heart lightened, as if the door had slammed shut behind me… and the shadow that once terrified me now stood outside the light of the law.

This was the fitting end for the woman who turned water into a weapon of violence, her bed into a reward: she had to pay the price—before the law, before her conscience, and before the eyes of the entire community.

Dad signed me up for a parenting class at the community center.

I met with a counselor every week, and learned to speak up when I was treated badly.

Mom hung a drinking chart near the kitchen; each serving was marked with a painted steel cup.

The brown notebook opened to a new page. I wrote:

“Dad, I drank eight glasses of water today. And now I’m not afraid.”