Mistaken Identity

Holding the lifeless body of his little son wrapped in a white cloth tenderly in his hand, the sub-inspector headed for the burning ghat. Tears welling out of his blood-shot eyes had drenched every hair of his handlebar moustaches.

He had momentarily forgotten under the influence of liquor that the person before him was not any prisoner from his jail, but his own little son. The blow delivered with the full force of his heavy hand had cracked the skull of the boy like a melon and he had fallen down dead at his father's feet like a tree struck by lightning.