The car rolled through the wide gate, tyres crunching over gravel until it stopped in front of the verandah. The house rose ahead — part mansion, part junkyard, verandahs stacked with strange objects that caught the afternoon light: brass statues with missing arms, half-built machines, glass jars lined like soldiers.
Arjun was waiting at the steps. His hair looked like it had been struck by lightning, spectacles tilted, kurta smudged with ink. He waved both arms as though Sid were a hero returning from war.
Before Sid could step out, something big and brown barreled across the yard. A dog — gangly, eager, tongue flopping out of its mouth. It skidded to a halt right in front of him, tail whipping like a broom gone wild.
"Bheema!" Arjun barked in mock sternness. The dog froze for half a second, then started wagging again, even harder.
On the verandah rail, a sleek grey cat lifted its head, eyes glinting like polished glass. She blinked once, then stretched in slow disdain, as if watching a clown tumble on stage.
Arjun grinned. "That's Bheema. Loyal, lovable, brain of a turnip. And that—" he gestured to the cat—"is Moony. Don't let her silence fool you. She rules us all."
Bheema tried to lick Sid's hand. Moony flicked her tail and turned her gaze away, as if embarrassed to share a world with such antics.
Sid kept his grip on his backpack straps and didn't smile.
His father stepped out, shook Arjun's hand, and said flatly, "He'll be with you until next admissions open."
Arjun's eyes twinkled. "Good. He'll learn more here than in any classroom."
No one explained what that meant.
Then his father slid back into the driver's seat. The car reversed, turned, and rumbled away down the road.
Sid stood there, watching the dust rise and fall, willing the car to stop, to turn back, to bring him home.
But it didn't.
"Your dad doesn't change his mind once it's made," Arjun said gently, watching Sid's eyes follow the road. He sighed, then clapped his hands together. "Come. Bag on the couch. Lunch first, sulking later."
The dining hall was cool, filled with the smell of tamarind and curry leaves. A banana leaf gleamed with oil, already laid out for him.
A woman in a faded cotton saree moved about the room, placing water tumblers on the table with practiced ease. "Lakshmi akka," Arjun said, waving casually. "She keeps us alive."
She gave Sid a small smile, no questions, no fuss, and disappeared back into the kitchen.
Sid sat, his back stiff, his plate reflecting his own pale face. Outside, Bheema barked at something invisible, while Moony's slow, disdainful meow cut through it like a critic.
Arjun served rice, humming tunelessly. "Eat, boy. Rasam's got enough pepper to wake the dead."
Sid spooned the food into his mouth. It was good — warmer, sharper than anything at school. But every bite sat heavy. He kept seeing the school canteen in his mind: clattering tiffins, his friends laughing. Here there was only the uneven tick of an old clock and the faint hiss of cicadas outside.
Arjun filled the silence with a story about a crow stealing his spectacles. Sid's lips twitched, but the smile never fully came.
After lunch, Arjun carried Sid's backpack to the stairs. "Come on. You'll want to see your room before Moony claims it for herself."
The corridor was long, lined with doors painted in different colors. Sid followed, dragging his feet — until his eyes caught one of them.
It looked almost ordinary, but something about it was off. The frame leaned crooked, as though the wall had bent to hold it. A faint light glowed beneath the crack, too steady to be sunlight, too soft to be a bulb.
Sid slowed. His hand twitched.
"This way," Arjun called, not breaking stride.
Sid looked one second longer, then hurried on.
The room at the end surprised him.
A computer sat on a desk by the window, its screen faintly dusty but waiting. A small television perched on a shelf. A bookcase sagged with mismatched volumes: science encyclopedias, comics, fat dictionaries. Another table held seashells arranged in spirals, coins in neat lines, a magnifying glass perched like a giant's eye.
The bed was made perfectly, blanket tucked tight.
Sid remembered napping here once when he was younger, a fleeting visit with his parents. But now the room looked different — fuller, readier, almost as though someone had been expecting him.
Bheema flopped dramatically across the doorway, panting, tail thumping the floor like a drum. Moony leapt onto the windowsill, curled into herself, and stared at the dog with bored superiority.
Sid dropped his backpack on the bed but didn't unpack. He sat there instead, staring at the computer screen, half-hoping it might flicker on with a message saying: It was all a mistake. Come back to school.
Dinner was quieter than lunch. Outside, crickets sang in the garden. Inside, the glow of the ceiling light cast soft shadows across the table. Bheema snored under it, paws twitching; Moony perched on the shelf, tail swishing with deliberate rhythm.
"You're angry," Arjun said suddenly, tearing a piece of chapati.Sid shook his head."Then you're scared."
Sid looked down at his plate.
Arjun studied him for a moment, then smiled faintly. "Don't worry, Sid. We are a family of oddballs. Look at me — what do people call me? Mad, eccentric, useless. Same with my grandfather. Every few generations, one of us refuses to fit neatly. Your father kept his distance so you wouldn't catch the oddity. But look at fate…"
He spread his hands, amused. "It brought you here anyway."
Sid's stomach tightened. I don't want to be an oddball. I don't want "fate." I just want to go back to school.
Moony sprang onto the table, swiped half a chapati, and leapt away. Arjun laughed, unbothered. "See? Even she refuses to follow rules."
Then his voice shifted, softer, almost like he was talking to himself."When God closes one door, many doors open. You just have to look carefully."
Sid glanced up, puzzled. But Arjun didn't explain. He only went on eating, humming under his breath.
Sid finished his meal in silence, hope still clinging stubbornly. Maybe tomorrow a letter would come. Maybe a teacher would arrive to say it was all a mistake.
But when he walked back down the corridor, he couldn't shake the memory of that crooked door. He hadn't meant to notice it. Yet it lingered, glowing faintly in the back of his mind.
What do I care about doors? Sid thought bitterly, hugging his arms tight. The only door I want is the one back to my classroom.