The Delgado's packed their lives into cardboard boxes.
Arya screamed at the movers, refusing to let them take the dining table.
"That's where we ate dinner every day," she cried.
Rohan didn't say a word. He just stared at the empty chair where his father used to sit.
California—their home—was no longer theirs.
Veena had made her decision, to move back home: back to India.
Rohan stared at her; disbelief etched across his face. "Maa, no! We can't just—leave everything behind. We've spent our whole lives here!" His voice was a mix of frustration and desperation. America had been their home—his home—everything he knew. The thought of starting over, of leaving it all behind, was unfathomable.
Arya, though younger, was no less vocal. "This is crazy! We've got everything here—friends, school, our lives. What about the future? You can't just uproot us like this!" Her tone was sharp, anger bubbling under the surface, but there was an edge of fear in her voice too.
Veena's response was calm, measured. She didn't shout, didn't argue. She didn't have to. Her silence spoke volumes, a quiet resignation that filled the room with an almost palpable heaviness. She wasn't asking for their permission. She was simply telling them what had to be done.
"I know you don't understand," Veena finally said, her voice steady. "But we can't stay here. Not anymore."
Rohan clenched his fists, trying to keep his composure. "But why? What happened, Maa? We can fix this; we can make it work." His words came out in a rush, like he was pleading for a miracle.
Veena didn't answer right away. Instead, her eyes seemed to drift into the past, to something they couldn't see—something she hadn't said out loud. Her silence was all the explanation he needed.
With a heavy heart, Rohan glanced at Arya, who stood frozen beside him, the same defiance and uncertainty written across her face. Both of them felt the crushing weight of the reality—the money was gone, the future uncertain. They had nothing left in America.
In the end, there was no argument left to be made. Without another word, they packed their belongings. Each of them, silent now, staring at the life they'd built, about to leave it behind.
The flight took off the next morning, California's golden coastline disappearing beneath a thick blanket of clouds. Rohan, staring out of the plane window, felt a tight knot in his chest. He'd never imagined leaving the place he had once called home, yet here he was—on his way to a land he only knew from stories. They landed in Indira Gandhi International Airport, Delhi under the weight of jet lag and grief. Waiting at the airport were Veena's father, Ramchandra Sharma, and her younger brother, Krishna Sharma. Ramchandra pulled her into a firm embrace—the kind that said "It's going to be okay" without saying it. Krishna's hug was shorter, polite. Reserved—cautious, even. Eight hours of clattering rails and crowded compartments later, they arrived in Lucknow under the night sky. Geeta, Krishna's wife, her lips tight and her eyes unreadable. She offered no smile, only a nod that barely masked the cold discomfort under her skin. Her son Shiv, a quiet 11-year-old, peered from behind her saree pleats and smiled—a rare warmth in a sea of strained faces. He stepped forward to help with the bags, a silent welcome that spoke louder than any adult's words.
The house was modest: a two-story structure with three rooms, three bathrooms, a kitchen, and a pooja room. The house, 'Sharma Niwas', stood quietly on the edge of a narrow street. Its name was etched into a rusting iron board at the gate, a silent sentinel of the old ways. The building showed signs of age—faded walls, chipped paint—but the bones were solid, and within it lingered the scent of turmeric and incense, memory and melancholy.
Ramchandra Sharma, once a senior officer in the local municipality, now lived on a modest pension, respected for his just and humble nature in the community. His wife, Meenakshi, passed away three years ago, leaving him alone and lonely. Rohan and Arya stepped into this world with hesitation, their sneakers squeaking against the marble floor, their eyes darting around a space they barely remembered. The last time they had visited was three years ago, for their Nanaji (maternal grandmother) Meenakshi's funeral. She had been a gentle soul with a voice like ghee and a smile that made them feel loved despite the ocean that separated them. She was the glue that had bound this household together. And in her absence, the fractures showed.
Krishna owned a small sweets and snacks shop, though humble was popular in the locality for its taste and quality. The kids were enrolled in a public school in the locality. Ram stretched his pension to fund Rohan and Arya's education. He helped whenever he could, but each rupee spent on Rohan or Arya became a spark in Geeta's eyes, igniting silent arguments and bitter glances that everyone pretended not to see. Rohan shared a room with his grandfather. Arya and Veena took Veena's old room, the one she had grown up in before marriage, now filled with memories of a past life she hadn't thought about in years. It was crowded, but at least they were together. Geeta, a woman who valued fairness—though only when it benefited her family—had reluctantly agreed to their stay because Ram had insisted. However, she couldn't hide her resentment toward the added mouths to feed.
School was a war zone of unfamiliar languages and unfamiliar expectations. Rohan found himself lost in the curriculum, unable to understand some of the Hindi terms or the cultural context. He had been a star back in California—popular, athletic, smart. Here, he was the weird new kid with a foreign accent and expensive shoes. Arya adapted faster. She always had a sharp tongue and a quicker mind. Within weeks, she had a small circle of friends and enough comebacks to survive any teasing.
Rohan, however, retreated into himself. The boy who once raced across soccer fields and debated politics over breakfast became quiet and withdrawn. He started spending more time on the roof at night, staring at the stars and wondering where it all went wrong.
Veena took up freelance tutoring to make ends meet. She taught local kids' mathematics and economics in the evenings, sitting on the veranda with a whiteboard propped up against the wall. She had not smiled in weeks, not genuinely. But she stood strong—like the foundation of a house battered by storms.
One night, as Rohan sat on the roof sketching nonsense in his notebook, Ram walked up with a cup of tea in each hand.
"You still see your father in your dreams?" Ram asked, placing a cup beside him.
Rohan didn't answer.
"Loss is like a wound that never scabs over," Ram continued. "You don't move on. You just learn to walk with a limp."
The old man patted Rohan's shoulder and walked away, leaving the boy with a warmth he didn't know he needed.
Days turned into weeks. Weeks turned into months.
Diwali came. For the first time in months, the house smelled of sweets, lights glowed in every room, and even Geeta offered a genuine smile as Arya helped her with decorations. Shiv clung to Rohan like a shadow, asking him questions about America, football, and video games. Something shifted that day. A crack in the gloom. A tiny flicker of belonging.
The past wasn't gone, not really. It lived on in memories and rituals, in the scent of Veena's parathas, in Hector's photo that sat on the living room shelf next to Meenakshi's like a guardian watching over them.
Rohan would never be the boy he was before.
But maybe… just maybe… he could become someone new.
As Rohan's Class 11th exams approached, Ramchandra passed away. It felt as though someone had dragged him to the depths of the ocean and ripped away his oxygen mask. A suffocating pressure bore down on his chest, as if the weight of it would crush his ribs, just to reach his heart and squeeze it until it burst, like an overinflated balloon.
The man who had once been their anchor was gone, and with his passing, Geeta's resentment became unbearable. Krishna, who had always been a loving presence in Rohan's life before his marriage, remained silent as they packed once again—this time, from a house that had never truly been theirs.
They found a one-room kitchen (1RK) on rent in a low-income neighbourhood. Veena started working for a tiffin service as a cook. Rohan dropped out of school to apprentice as an electrician to pay Arya's tuition.
Despite all odds, Arya excelled. She scored 97.4% in her 12th boards in Commerce with Maths. She dreamed of following in Veena's footsteps, of achieving what her mother had once dreamed—earning a bachelor's in economics and an MBA afterward. The pride in her eyes was a rare spark in their otherwise bleak world. As she walked into the kitchen, beaming, Rohan couldn't resist. "So, Miss 97.4%, when do we get to call you 'Madam CEO'?"
Arya shot him a playful glare, her hands on her hips. "Only when you stop acting like you're the older sibling, Mr. Genius," she teased, a mischievous grin spreading across her face.
Rohan laughed, his chest swelling with pride for his sister. In that moment, despite everything, their family was reminded that there was still hope, still laughter, still a future to reach for.
Then came the diagnosis.
Lymphoma. Aggressive. Deadly.
They fought. Oh, how they fought!
Rohan took on more work, his eyes hollow from exhaustion, while Veena pleaded with every hospital, every doctor. But the system didn't care. The money wasn't enough.
Arya's body betrayed her slowly. Her skin paled, her strength withered as the cancer spread like a silent storm inside her. Arya's once vibrant laughter turned to laboured breaths, her sharp wit dulled by exhaustion. She would smile through the pain, her voice steady with conviction. "I'll be fine," she'd whisper, even as her body betrayed her. The hair that once cascaded down her back fell out in clumps, and she grew thinner, her bones jutting sharply against her skin. Every step became a struggle. Her once bright eyes were now clouded with exhaustion, yet there was a determination in them—a will to hold on, just a little longer, to make it to college.
She would smile through the pain, telling Rohan and Veena, "I'll be fine, I'll be healed by tomorrow." She said it with such conviction, as though if she believed it enough, it would come true. Her dreams of a future—of going to college, of helping her family, of escaping the crushing cycle of poverty—kept her going, even as her body betrayed her every day.
For almost two years, Arya fought, never letting her hope slip entirely. But on the 10th of April, 2022, the inevitable happened. She died; her body too weak to fight any longer. And with her passing, the world grew a little dimmer.
Rohan was left holding on to the memory of her smile, the one that told him, no matter how much she was suffering, everything would be okay. But deep down, he knew it wasn't.
Three months later, Veena followed. Her heart, already shattered by the loss of her daughter, couldn't bear the weight of the sorrow any longer. It fractured completely, and with it, the last threads of her strength snapped.
Rohan didn't cry. Not at the funerals. Not in the weeks that followed. Not when he packed their few belongings into boxes, each item a painful reminder of a life now gone. He didn't scream. He didn't rage against the unfairness of it all. Instead, he simply… stopped living.
It wasn't that he didn't feel. It was the opposite—he felt everything so intensely that it consumed him entirely. Each breath felt like a betrayal, each heartbeat a cruel reminder that life was still moving on, despite the fact that his had come to an abrupt, jarring halt. His eyes were empty, hollow, as though something essential had been ripped from him, leaving only the shell of who he once was. There was no longer any joy to be found, no motivation to push forward. The world became a blur, and Rohan drifted through it like a ghost, a mere shadow of the person he used to be.
He left Lucknow. Moved to Delhi. Opened a small electrical repair shop, the hum of broken machines the only sound that filled his days. Above it, in a cramped single room, he slept in the silence of his own grief. His days bled into one another, each indistinguishable from the last—quiet, colourless, empty. The world moved around him, but he stood still, lost in the haze of his own numbness. There was no past, no future—only the present, a blur of routine that felt more like a slow death than living.
Until one rainy night.
He was locking up his shop when he heard screams.
Down a narrow alley, three men were tearing the clothes off a girl, trying to silence her.
And that's when he saw Arya.
It wasn't her, but his mind didn't care. Trauma twisted his vision. He ran—not out of heroism, but desperation.
He fought them, desperate to defend himself. The girl screamed, her voice a sharp cry that echoed into the night. Lights flickered on in nearby houses, and shadows moved in windows as people began to gather, drawn by the commotion.
Panic surged through the attackers. One of them, furious and terrified, fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a knife. With a quick, violent motion, he drove it into Rohan, the cold steel sinking into his flesh.
Once. Twice. Nine times.
The knife dug into him with each strike, but he didn't move. His body felt numb, like it was no longer his own. He couldn't. The pain was unbearable, yet distant—fading into the background as his mind refused to accept what was happening. He was trapped in that moment, suspended between life and death, unable to fight, unable to flee. Every breath became harder, slower, each one a battle, but still, he couldn't move.
The pain had numbed into a distant throb—his body too broken, his mind too tired. The alley was empty now. The men who did this to him had vanished into the shadows like the cowards they were.
He had stopped them. At least… he thought he had.
Three drunk bastards, a girl screaming for help, and him—some idiot playing hero.
"Why the hell did I do that?" he thought, his lips twitching into something between a smirk and a wince.
Rohan collapsed as the rain began to fall. He lay there, bleeding, fading, the world swimming in and out of focus.
The girl had run away too. He didn't blame her. If he could, he'd run too.
But all he could do now was lie there, drenched, bleeding from multiple stab wounds, watching the storm swirl above him like a cosmic punishment.
He remembered his mother's parathas, his father's laugh, Arya's dreams.
And then—darkness.On the night of 10th November 2025, Rohan died.
But death is not always the end.
Sometimes, it is the beginning.