“Long face, bushy unibrows, and eagle-like nose,” she muttered. I began sketching. The tension in the air was palpable. She was sitting at the chair’s edge clasping her palms. Her loud shallow breaths revealed her inner turmoil.

On a closer look, I noticed a deep red gash on her slender neck.

“She is the victim of chain snatching and has seen him up close. This is the fifth case in two months. Your sketch will help us nab him,” the sub inspector’s gruff voice resounded in my ears.

“Any peculiarities? It will help me refine the picture,” I nudged, moving the pencil between my forefinger and middle finger.

Beads of sweat made a beeline on her forehead.

Even with five years of experience as a forensic artist, extracting information from victims didn’t come easy. They relive the moment each time they unravel it.

“He had curly salt and pepper hair. A long scar ran vertically down his right cheek,” she sniffled.

I looked up with a start as a shiver ran down my tall frame. Regaining composure, I completed the sketch in silence.

“I will be back in fifteen minutes,” I bellowed and sprinted. I heard the inspector call,” Parinita, this is urgent. Where are…”

“Why are you keeping this? Haven’t I asked you to discard it?” I hollered, holding up the photo frame. I couldn’t stand to see his face.

“Pari, this is all that I have of him. It was not his fault. He was framed for the theft,” Ma mumbled. “If he was framed, why couldn’t he prove himself?” I looked pointedly at her as she snatched the frame and held it close to her chest.

I was fifteen when one afternoon the police barged in and handcuffed him. “He has stolen jewelry from a reputed showroom. One of his accomplices has spilled the beans about earlier thefts,” the constable elucidated seeing our tear-stricken faces. I failed to spot even an iota of guilt on his face. He walked away without looking back even once.  That was the last we saw him. We were framed for life and ostracized as thieves; our reputations were forever tarnished.

 We kept shunting places. Ma singlehandedly raised me. It was surprising that she never blamed him for anything. She had a picture of him framed and pined for him. Unlike her, I chose to forget but not forgive. Armed with a Master’s degree in Fine Arts I secured a job as a lecturer and worked part-time for the police.

Reaching home, I seized the frame from Ma’s cupboard as she watched stupefied.

 I ran back to the station like a woman possessed.

With one look at my sweaty anxious face, the inspector passed a glass of water.

“Check your records for Ravindra Gupta, an old acquaintance of ours.” I pulled out the photo from the frame and handed it over.

We have no choice over the frame of our life but we can choose what to put into it.