The sun blazed overhead, the April heat pressing down like a weight too heavy to shake off. The road shimmered in the noon haze, stretching out in endless nothingness. It was the kind of heat that made people retreat indoors, leaving the streets empty—except for two idiots, drenched in sweat, struggling to push a lifeless scooter forward.
Ayaan groaned, wiping his face. “You know whose fault this is, right?”
Nishkarsh shot him a look. “Oh, please. Don’t even start.”
“No, no, this is all because of you! You said there was enough petrol to get to the market and back!”
Nishkarsh scoffed. “Because you said you filled the tank last week, you moron.”
“All of this, all of this, just because you had to buy a house uniform today?” Nishkarsh muttered, swiping at his forehead.
Ayaan groaned again. “You don’t understand! If I don’t show up in that uniform by Monday, Mr. Prajapati—that baldy—will eat me alive, bro! He already lectured me for half an hour yesterday. And you know I don’t like getting involved with teachers—it messes with my image, bruh.”
Nishkarsh rolled his eyes. “Your image? Dude, you’re pushing a scooter in the middle of nowhere at noon.”
Ayaan sighed dramatically. “Exactly! Where is everyone? Usually, there’s at least one idiot roaming around on a scooty, but today—nothing. Just my luck.” He threw up his hands. “And on top of that, neither of us even has recharge on our phones! Saala, it’s like the universe is personally punishing us.”
“Wait,” Nishkarsh said suddenly, his brain sparking with an idea. “Sankshipt’s house is nearby.”
Ayaan turned to him, hopeful. “And?”
“And, idiot,” Nishkarsh said, exasperated, “he has a scooty. We can borrow it, go get petrol, and save our poor legs from an untimely death.”
Ayaan grinned. “Nishkarsh, you absolute legend.”
“I know.”
They pushed Ayaan’s dead bike toward Sankshipt’s house, the midday heat burning through their already exhausted bodies.
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Inside Sankshipt’s House...
The living room carried the weight of memory.
A large painting dominated one wall—his father in his crisp Indian Army uniform, standing tall with quiet pride. Beside him, a woman in a soft pastel saree, her arms wrapped around a much younger Sankshipt. His mother. Gone now, but forever captured in this frozen moment, her warmth still lingering in the house like a whisper that refused to fade.
The room had a quiet elegance—dark wooden furniture, a glass cabinet filled with old medals and photographs, the faint scent of sandalwood from an incense stick burning in the temple corner. A brass nameplate sat near the entrance, polished so well it reflected the afternoon light.
Sankshipt sat on the carpet, a thick geography textbook open in front of him, highlighter in hand. His little sister sat across from him, her head resting on one arm as she lazily doodled in her notebook, clearly more interested in daydreaming than studying.
The fan whirred overhead, stirring the heavy summer air, but it wasn’t enough. Sweat clung to Sankshipt’s back, but he barely noticed—his eyes were locked on the map of India, tracing the winding rivers and mountain ranges as if memorizing them could offer him some kind of escape.
His mind had just started drifting—lost somewhere between the Thar Desert and the Eastern Ghats—when—
DING-DONG!
The doorbell rang. Once.
Then twice.
Then a full-blown assault.
DING-DONG! DING-DONG! DINGDONGDINGDONGDINGDONG—
His sister jerked up, startled. “Bhaiya?”
Sankshipt sighed, rubbing his temples. “If this is one of Papa’s courier guys again—”
DING-DONGDINGDONGDINGDONG!!!
Frowning, he pushed himself up, already bracing himself for whatever nonsense was waiting on the other side.
He unlatched the door and swung it open—
“Areeeee bhaiiiiii!”
Ayaan practically collapsed into him, one arm dramatically slung around his shoulders. His shirt was soaked through with sweat, his hair a chaotic mess. Behind him, Nishkarsh stood, looking equally exhausted, his hands on his knees like he’d just finished a marathon.
Sankshipt blinked. “...What the hell?”
“Water,” Ayaan gasped dramatically, dragging himself inside like a dying soldier from a war movie. “I need water, bro, or this is it. This is how I go.”
“Same,” Nishkarsh groaned, stumbling in behind him.
Before Sankshipt could react, they both invited themselves in, collapsing onto the sofa like they owned the place. Ayaan sprawled out, one arm over his forehead like he had barely survived the apocalypse. Nishkarsh sat back, legs stretched out like he was at a beach resort.
Sankshipt closed his eyes for a second, rubbing his forehead. “ok wait”
He grabbed a cold water bottle from the fridge and tossed it at them. Ayaan caught it first, chugging half of it like a dehydrated camel while Nishkarsh waited, visibly irritated.
Sankshipt’s little sister glanced up from her notebook. “Hello.”
“Hey,” Ayaan muttered, barely acknowledging her. But then, something caught his eye. His gaze snapped to her open notebook, and his expression morphed into sheer horror.
“Oh my God,” he whispered, pointing. “School used to be so easy.”
Sankshipt followed his gaze. She was using one of those dotted books, the kind LKG and UKG kids used to trace letters.
Nishkarsh leaned over and took one look before bursting out laughing. “Bro, even with that, you still used to fail.”
Ayaan tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling. “I never had marks less than full before 10th grade, bro. Think about yourself, borderline failure.”
Nishkarsh smirked. “Still, now, you’re not even touching the borderline, bro.”
Ayaan shot up. “Oh, you wanna talk about academics? Bro, you passed boards in 10th by luck—”
“Luck is still better than what you had,” Nishkarsh smirked.
Sankshipt cut in, his tone flat, but there was something genuinely curious about it. “Why?”
Both of them paused. Sankshipt leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees. “What happened that you don’t get good scores anymore? I don’t think 10th was that difficult. I mean, I always thought you were a good for nothing because you kept roaming around all day. And you weren’t in my school back then….so I didn't know…I mean… how?” He asked it so directly, without hesitation, that Ayaan actually blinked.
“Uh—uh, bro, you don’t have to be so honest,” Ayaan muttered.
Nishkarsh struggled to contain his laugh, hiding his face behind his palm.
Ayaan exhaled, rubbing his face. “I used to score well. My dad got too satisfied and kept asking for more. Like, constantly. And I hate pressure, bro. So now? I just don’t give my math teacher—aka my father—anything. And because of him, I even took Math with Commerce.” He let out a dry laugh. “Isn’t that enough for him?”
Sankshipt studied him for a second. Then, simply, he said, “You shouldn’t treat him like that.”
Ayaan’s expression shifted slightly, irritation flickering across his face. “Bro, you don’t know him like I do.”
Sankshipt’s expression didn’t change. His voice remained steady. “You don’t know a parent’s value until you lose them.”
Ayaan stopped.
Nishkarsh, who had been seconds away from laughing again, suddenly looked away.
For the first time since they barged into the house, silence settled between them.
Sankshipt’s sister kept doodling in her notebook, unaware of the shift in the room. Sankshipt exhaled, finally taking a seat.
“It’s awkward, isn’t it?” he said, voice quieter now. “But it’s just advice, bro.” He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. “I always listened to my father. Followed everything he said. He taught me that men should be strong, powerful. That a mother is just… there to feed us.” His fingers curled slightly. “And I made my mum feel like shit without even realizing it. Until one day, I came home from school and found her in the hospital.” His voice cracked. “And the doctor was saying there was a very less chance.”
No one spoke.
Sankshipt’s gaze drifted to the photo frame on the wall. His mother, holding him in her arms. She looked pale in the picture. But not as pale as the last time he saw her, when everyone was crying.
His sister hummed softly, still lost in her doodles.
Sankshipt looked at her, memories from just a day ago—when he lost control and broke down, a mess of emotions—rising in his mind like a thick December fog.
He had gone to give her sister, the lunchbox. On the classroom wall, there were drawings labeled "My Family." He saw his sister’s paper among them. Three stick figures—him, his sister, and their father.
No mother.
His eyes lowered, something heavy settling in his chest. He crouched beside her, pointing at the drawing.
“Why didn’t you draw Mumma?”
His sister had blinked up at him, confused. “Because you never did.”
She had pulled out an old scrapbook of his—one she had used as a reference. And sure enough, his own childhood drawings looked the same. Him, and his father. No sign of their mother.
She had been erased long before she was gone.
Sankshipt let out a slow breath, looking away from the frame.
Ayaan put a hand on his shoulder. “Bro, I’m sorry. I understand. You’re so strong. I could never—I mean—uh, you’re actually strong.”
His gaze drifted across the house—the dishes in the sink, waiting for Sankshipt’s hands. The bed, neatly made, Sankshipt made it last night. And the night before that. Now, every night. The books stacked with precision, the spotless floor, the air still carrying the weight of someone who once lived here.
His father was in another state, protecting the country. And the house stood frozen in time, just as it was when his mother used to breathe in it.
Sankshipt didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.
A minute passed. Then another.
The silence stretched, thick and unmoving, until Nishkarsh broke it with a glance at the clock. “Bro, it’s almost 4:30. Let’s go before the shop closes.”13Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡrvHMmUc1NE
Ayaan nodded. They grabbed Sankshipt’s scooty and stepped out, voices fading into the street.
Sankshipt stood at the doorway, watching them disappear. Then, slowly, he shut the door.
And for a fleeting second, he wished he never had to open it again.
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