Rohan, the youngest, a reclusive novelist living in Goa, simply wrote back one word: “Why?”
Arjun, the middle son, a washed-out film director drowning in debt, saw only money. “His property is worth crores. I’m going.”
“Then you will face my final wish,” the judge said.
Vikram, the eldest, a high-court lawyer in Chennai, scoffed. “The old man’s finally lost it.”
The room erupted. Vikram shouted, “You ruled it accidental! You were the judge!”
“I was the husband first,” Narsimhan said quietly. “And I failed. But before I die, I will have justice. Not legal justice. Mine. ”