Chapter 3: The Smile That Fades
There was a time, buried in the fog of half-forgotten childhood memories, when Aarav remembered his father smiling at him—not with mockery or expectation, but with genuine warmth, pride, and perhaps even love. He wasn't sure what he had done to earn that smile. Maybe it was when he first learned to write his name, or when he recited a Hindi poem in front of relatives and didn't falter once. But the memory was faint.
That smile had been his sun once.
But now, it was just a flicker—something that came and went so quickly that Aarav began to question if it had ever truly existed.
He had learned early that smiles in his household had value. They were not given freely. They were rewards. Trophies. Signs that you had done something worthwhile—scored high marks, won a certificate, stood first in class. And when they came, they came with strings. "Good job, now maintain it." Or, "Let's see if you can do even better next time." They never stayed long. The warmth vanished almost as soon as it arrived, leaving behind only the cold shadow of new expectations.
When Aarav scored 81%, he had held onto hope—not even for celebration, just for a moment. A flicker of his father's eyes, a softening of his voice, a brief nod that said, I see you. But none of it came. Just a scan of the paper and another sigh.
"Better, but not enough."
The words sank into Aarav's chest like rain into dry earth—no splash, no resistance, just quiet absorption. He had nodded, folded the report card carefully, and walked back to his room. That evening, when his mother placed a few extra pieces of his favorite paneer in his plate, he wondered for a brief second if it was a silent reward. But when she told him to eat quickly and return to studies, the thought vanished.
He ate in silence, staring at his plate, wondering why food tasted like paper on good days and shame on bad ones.
At school, things were no better. His marks didn't impress the class toppers, and his silence didn't invite attention. He wasn't bullied exactly—but he wasn't remembered either. He was the boy who floated somewhere between presence and absence.
Once, in English class, they were asked to write a short story. Aarav, cautious and afraid of doing something "useless", hesitated. But something tugged at him—perhaps the weight of too many unspoken thoughts—and he began writing. The story poured out of him like water from a dam: a tale of a lonely kite that longed to fly high but was tied too tightly to the ground. It was simple, soft, and painfully personal. He submitted it without a second glance, unsure whether to feel ashamed or hopeful.
The next day, the teacher read his story aloud to the class.
It was the first time in years he felt visible. Her voice carried his words into the room, and for once, everyone listened. No laughter. No taunts. Just quiet attention. After the bell rang, the teacher stopped him and said, "You have a gift, Aarav. You should write more."
For a full hour afterward, Aarav felt something stir inside him—a warmth he had long forgotten. It wasn't joy. Not exactly. It was recognition. Validation. A sense that maybe he wasn't invisible after all.
When he got home that day, he wanted to share it. He hadn't planned to, but as he stood in the kitchen doorway, watching his father read the newspaper and sip tea, the words tumbled out before he could stop them.
"Papa, today the teacher read my story aloud in class."
Raghav didn't look up. "Story?"
"Yes. English teacher asked us to write one. Mine was read out loud."
"Hmm," he muttered, still not looking up. "And how much did you score in Science this time?"
The warmth vanished. The smile died on Aarav's lips before it could even fully form.
"I didn't get the marks yet," he said, voice low.
"Then focus on that. These stories won't take you anywhere."
That was the moment Aarav learned something cruel: happiness, for some people, is not worth sharing unless it fits inside a report card. His teacher's words had lifted him, but his father's indifference grounded him again. Not in a gentle landing, but a crash.
He didn't write another story for months.
He didn't smile either—not the kind that reaches the eyes. His smiles became polite, automatic. Reflexes he used when someone expected him to be "okay." A neighbor would ask, "All good, beta?" and he'd nod and smile. A teacher would say, "How are you, Aarav?" and he'd respond with a practiced "Fine, ma'am," followed by a hollow grin.
But inside, he knew he wasn't smiling. Not really. Not in the way he used to when he was five and got a toffee just for saying "thank you," or when he danced in the rain and laughed as his clothes got soaked. Those smiles were real. Honest. Untouched by performance. But now—now he smiled for survival.
Because a smile was safer than questions.
And questions were dangerous.
The rare times his father did smile at him were often at someone else's expense—like when he told guests that Aarav didn't waste time on clothes or parties, unlike other kids. "He's a simple boy," Raghav would say proudly, unaware that Aarav was simple only because he had been taught that choosing anything else was wrong.
He had once saved his pocket money for months to buy a hoodie he liked. It had a navy blue base with a small white feather on the chest—a quiet, subtle design. When he wore it the first time, proud and shy, Raghav frowned immediately.
"What is this? Looks like a girl's hoodie. Are you wasting money on fashion now?"
The words were like acid on skin—burning more because he had tried, because he had chosen, because he had hoped.
Aarav never wore it again.
He folded it and placed it at the bottom of his wardrobe, where old clothes waited to be handed down or forgotten. And with it, he folded another part of himself. Another attempt. Another hope.
By the time he turned fifteen, he had mastered the art of making himself small—physically, emotionally, verbally. In group photos, he stood at the side. In class discussions, he remained silent even when he knew the answer. In shops, he never pointed at something he liked. In life, he existed in the margins.
His brother Veer, by contrast, filled space. He talked, laughed, demanded, argued. And was loved for it.
Aarav didn't resent him. Not exactly. Veer was just playing the game differently. And winning.
But sometimes, late at night, when Veer was asleep and the house was silent, Aarav would lie awake and wonder: Why am I not enough? He had asked this question a hundred times in his mind, never aloud. Not because he didn't want an answer—but because he feared the answer might be, Because you're not.
And so, he built a life around low expectations. If he didn't hope, he couldn't be disappointed. If he didn't try, he couldn't fail. If he didn't smile, he couldn't watch it fade.
It was easier that way.
Safer.
One evening, while walking home alone, he passed by a group of boys from his class laughing around a street vendor, sipping juice and teasing each other. They didn't even notice him. He paused, just for a second, and then kept walking. He had money in his pocket. He could've joined them. But he didn't know how.
How to enter a conversation.
How to take space without feeling like a burden.
How to laugh freely without thinking someone would say, "You're trying too hard."
So he walked on.
He stopped at the usual paan shop where the old man knew him and offered a silent nod. Aarav bought a small chocolate, not because he wanted it, but because it gave him something to hold, something to distract from the hollow ache that came from being invisible.
When he reached home, his father wasn't back yet. His mother was chopping vegetables in the kitchen. The TV played a loud soap opera no one was watching. The house was as it always was—familiar and indifferent.
He placed his bag on the table, sat down, and stared at the chocolate in his hand.
He unwrapped it slowly, placed it on his tongue, and waited for the taste.
It was sweet.
But it didn't make him smile.
Not anymore.
Because smiles, like stories, had stopped being safe.
They faded too fast.
And left him colder than before.