The boy's first year began with a cry — his own, thin and fierce, echoing through the house like a promise. His grandmother held him then, her hands trembling with age but steady with love. She whispered things he would never remember but that seemed to live inside him, as if her voice had sunk into his bones.
By the time he turned one, she was gone. The house grew quieter after her passing, the rooms echoing with absence. His parents spoke less often about her, as if silence could soften the grief.
When he was five, a new voice entered the house — high and fragile, his baby sister's cry. He watched her from the edge of the bed, curious and uncertain, sensing that something had shifted. A door had closed with his grandmother's death, and now another had opened.
When his sister was born, the house filled with celebration — but not for him. The baby drew every smile, every hand, every word of love. He was still a child, but he already knew what it meant to be forgotten.
Soon after he finished LKG, his parents sent him to live with relatives in town. They said it was for his studies, but in his heart he wondered if it was because there was no space left for him.
In that house lived his aunt, Rohini, her children Surajit and Reshmi, and others who should have been family. But they never treated him as one of their own. Meals were given without affection, questions without listening, attention without care. He was a presence tolerated, not cherished.
At school, however, life was different. There, he laughed. He played. He had friends who called his name with joy, who shared marbles, secrets, and silly jokes. For a few hours each day, he was just another boy, not the forgotten child.
But every afternoon, when he walked back to the house, the laughter seemed to drain from his chest. The door would close behind him, and the silence inside felt heavier than stone. No one waited for him. No one wanted to hear about his day. He learned, slowly, that a house can be full of people and still feel empty.