My stepmother doesn’t let me drink water. Every morning, I’m only allowed to mix a single spoonful of milk with water. She lies to Dad, saying I’ve already had breakfast. And if I don’t obey, I am called to the room that very morning and…
Dad, I don’t know how to tell you this, so I’m gathering courage to write. Maybe I will never let you read this book, but if one day you do, you will believe me.
Every morning, while you are busy at work, my stepmother wakes me up. I am extremely thirsty; my throat feels dry, but she never lets me drink water. She only gives me a steel glass with a spoonful of milk—just one tiny spoon, diluted like water. I drink it quickly, but it doesn’t fill my stomach.
Then, when Dad asks, “Did you have breakfast?” Mom immediately smiles: “He ate, I took care of everything.” Dad feels reassured, but I have to go to school on an empty stomach.
Dad, you know, if I disobey, right after breakfast, Mom drags me into the room. The door is closed. Between four cold walls, she forces me to take slaps on my face one by one. Whenever I cry, Mom says in a cold voice:
— “Cry. If your Dad hears you, that’s even better. Let’s see whether you choose your dad or your life.”
I am terrified, Dad. But then something even worse happened…
Last night, Mom shouted:
— “You’re not worthy of your bed. You don’t deserve a blanket or pillow.”
Then she laid me on a mat in the cold stone corridor. In the middle of the night, I shivered in the cold air, my stomach growling with hunger, while in the next room, Dad and Mom slept peacefully, unaware.
Many times I wanted to run to Dad and hug him, to tell him everything, but Mom’s sharp gaze froze me. I was scared that if I said anything, tomorrow would be even worse.
Dad, I miss my real mother so much. I crave hot dal-rice, a full glass of water, and a loving hug. But it seems those little things are now very far away…
I wish, one day, Dad, you read this. I wish you would believe me: I tried to be strong, but sometimes I feel I cannot endure anymore.
The next morning, I went to school with an empty tiffin, my lips dry and cracked. During the flag-hoisting ceremony under the tricolor, my head was spinning. Madam Verma (headmistress) noticed me, pulled me into the medical room, and gave me a steel glass filled with cold water. After drinking it, I wanted to cry because… it was the first full glass of water in many days.
— “Child, is something wrong at home?” Madam asked gently.
I nodded. When she handed me a brown notebook saying, “If you can’t speak, write it down,” my hands started trembling. That afternoon, I wrote everything: the diluted milk glass, the locked water bottle, the closed door, the slaps, the mat in the cold stone corridor…
The First Crack
In the afternoon, due to monsoon rains, Dad came home early. Seeing me standing in the veranda, he asked:
— “Did you drink anything?”
I looked toward the kitchen, where water bottles were locked with a small chain. My stepmother smiled:
— “He drank the milk. I’ve got it all handled.”
Dad remained silent. His eyes fell on my bag; the zipper accidentally opened, revealing the brown notebook. Dad opened it. The ink was still wet because my hands were sweaty. He read slowly, his lips pressed tightly together, his hand stopping at the line:
“…If I had to choose between my Dad and my life, I am afraid…”
Dad looked up, his voice heavy:
— “Neha, bring me the key to the water bottle. And don’t touch it with your other finger.”
Stepmother’s face changed; she stammered:
— “She lied! I taught her that!”
Dad did not argue. In front of my stepmother, he dialed 1098—Childline—and then called Madam Verma.
— “Meet me at the Panchayat Hall tomorrow,” Dad said. “The Sarpanch and the District Child Protection Unit will be there.”
That night, I did not sleep in the veranda. Dad laid a thin blanket in the meeting room next to me, placed a jug of water by my side, and said:
— “From now on, no one will ever stop you from drinking water.”
Panchayat Hall: Jyoti Burns the Lies
The next morning, the Panchayat Hall was packed: village Sarpanch Madam Verma, Anganwadi teacher, two nearby police constables. Neighbor Aunty Sunita reported that she had seen her child twice at night on the cold stone floor. The security guard pulled CCTV footage of the corridor: the frame was blurry, but clear enough to see the shadow of a woman stamping on a mat and signaling “be quiet.”
Stepmother tried to laugh, then broke down crying and screaming. But the video tape and the child’s diary were placed on the table. Madam Verma opened a page and read:
— “I was so thirsty that even swallowing spit was painful.”
The room went silent.
The Sarpanch spoke in a low voice:
— “Under Section 75 of the Juvenile Justice Act, 2015 (India), cruelty, starvation, and humiliation of children is actionable. A temporary protection order: Mrs. Neha is not allowed near her child. The file has been forwarded to the Child Welfare Committee (CWC) and the Department of Women and Child Development.”
A constable asked the stepmother to leave for work. She turned, pointing at her child:
— “I raised you; is this how you repay me?”
Dad stood firmly in front of the child:
— “I let my child suffer. Not her.”
Apology and Return
In the afternoon, Dad took the child to her mother’s (biological mother’s) home. The aroma of dal and ginger brought comfort. Mother hugged the child, her shoulders shaking. Dad bowed his head:
— “I was blind. Forgive me, my dear. Forgive me, child.”
Mother did not blame me; she simply gave the child another full glass of water:
— “Drink it, son. From now on, you don’t need to ask for water.”
That evening, Dad sat with the child and wrote a petition demanding psychological counseling for both father and child. The next day, the CWC ruled: the child will stay alternately with mother and father; DCPU counselors will closely monitor; stepmother barred from access, required to undergo rehabilitation and therapy. Under Section 75, it is considered a criminal offense.
Final Hearing and the “Just Ending”
A month later, in the District Family Court, stepmother appeared with a lawyer, attempting to frame her actions as “discipline.” But the CCTV, child’s psychological evaluation, neighbor testimonies, and diary proved the truth.
The judge ruled:
Step-mother fell to her knees. She looked at her child, but the child did not need to turn back. I held Dad’s hand. Madam Verma in the back nodded slightly. Aunty Sunita smiled, her eyes moist.
Outside the courthouse, the hot afternoon faded. Dad bent down and said three simple words:
— “Dad was wrong.”
I replied:
— “I’m thirsty.”
— “Dad understands.” — Dad opened a bottle, filled a steel cup, and handed it to me.
— From now on, no one will take away my water, my voice, or my right to love.
I drank it in one gulp. The cold water went down my throat and washed away my dark days. At the end of the street, the sound of an auto rickshaw mingled with the aroma of hot tea. My heart felt light, as if the door had slammed shut behind me… and the shadow that once scared me now stood outside, under the law’s light.
This was the rightful ending for the one who made water a weapon of violence and a bed a reward: she had to pay the price—before the law, her conscience, and the entire community.
Dad enrolled in parenting classes at the community center.
I met with a counselor weekly, learning to raise my voice whenever I was treated badly.
Mother hung a drinking chart by the kitchen; every meal had a painted steel cup filled with water.
The brown notebook opened to a new page. I wrote:
— “Dad, today I drank eight glasses of water. And now I am not afraid.”