Chapter 1: The Day the Sun Dimmed
The small living room glowed with warmth, laughter spilling from every corner like sunlight through a cracked window. Soma, a lanky 16-year-old with a mop of dark hair and eyes bright with curiosity, sat cross-legged on the worn rug, surrounded by a chaotic sprawl of plastic blocks, action figures, and a cardboard castle teetering on the edge of collapse. His mother, Rina, perched on the couch, her cotton sari a vibrant swirl of reds and golds, leaned forward with a playful growl, her hands clawing the air like a dragon's talons. In the kitchen, his father, Arjun, hummed a soft Bengali tune, flipping parathas on a sizzling tawa, the buttery aroma of ghee and cumin curling through the house.
"King Soma!" Rina roared, lobbing a cushion at him. "Your kingdom quakes before my fiery wrath!"
Soma ducked with a squeal, his pulse quickening with delight as he snatched a wobbly plastic sword from the floor. "Never!" he shouted, thrusting the toy skyward. "The Sword of Ultra-Shine will vanquish you!" His grin stretched wide, his voice brimming with triumph, as if the room itself sparkled with his joy.
Rina flopped onto the rug, clutching her chest in mock defeat. "Nooo! Not the Ultra-Shine!" she gasped, her laughter tangling with Soma's as she rolled dramatically, her sari twisting around her like a fiery banner.
Arjun stepped in, balancing a plate of steaming parathas, his gentle smile softening the lines of his face. "Alright, warriors, truce. Breakfast for the birthday king." He set the plate down, ruffling Soma's hair. "Sixteen years old, champ. Big day ahead."
Soma beamed, his chest swelling with pride. It wasn't just any morning—it was his 16th birthday, a day that shimmered with promise. His parents had planned a trip to his favorite amusement park, a sprawling wonderland of roller coasters and cotton candy he'd been dreaming about for weeks. He'd chattered endlessly about the Ferris wheel's dizzying heights, the haunted house's eerie thrills, and the way the lights would dance against the night sky. *This is going to be the best day ever*, he thought, his fingers fidgeting as he tore into a flaky paratha, its warmth spreading through him.
The morning unfolded in a blur of joy. Arjun recounted a story of Soma's first birthday, when he'd smeared mango cake across his face, making them laugh until tears fell. Rina chimed in, her eyes twinkling as she described Soma's tiny hands grabbing at balloons. Soma soaked it in, his heart full, believing these moments—his parents' laughter, their warmth—would last forever.
They packed a bag with homemade aloo tikki, wrapped in foil to stay warm, and slung a camera over Arjun's shoulder to capture every smile. Piling into their creaky old Maruti, Soma wedged himself in the back, his knees bumping the front seats, humming a Bollywood tune stuck in his head. Rina turned to ruffle his hair, her smile as bright as the marigolds in her garden. Arjun's eyes crinkled in the rearview mirror, meeting Soma's with a quiet promise. The road stretched ahead, lined with dusty trees and the hum of distant traffic, carrying them toward a day Soma was sure he'd never forget.
Then, in a heartbeat, it all shattered.
A truck veered into their lane, its horn blaring like a banshee. The world tilted, the stench of burning rubber choking the air. Tires screeched, metal buckled, and the car flipped in a dizzying whirl. Rina's scream sliced through the chaos, sharp and desperate, her hand reaching for Soma's. Arjun's arm stretched back, his fingers grazing Soma's knee, a fleeting anchor. "Soma!" he shouted, his voice breaking. Glass sprayed, glinting like jagged stars in the sunlight. Soma's head slammed against the window, pain flaring white-hot, his thoughts screaming, *No, no, this can't be happening!* Darkness swallowed him, cold and absolute.
Silence settled, not the gentle hush of their living room, but a heavy, endless void that pressed against his ribs.
Soma woke to the sterile beep of a hospital room, his head throbbing under tight bandages, his left arm limp in a sling. The fluorescent lights stung his eyes, and the air reeked of antiseptic, sharp and unfamiliar. His fingers brushed something small in his pocket—his mother's tiny gold earring, one she'd worn that morning, somehow tucked into his jeans during the chaos. He clutched it, its edges biting into his palm, a tether to the warmth now gone. A nurse hovered nearby, her voice soft but distant. "You're lucky, beta," she said, her smile meant to comfort. "You made it through."
*Lucky?* The word burned, bitter and wrong. Soma's pulse roared in his ears, a hollow ache spreading like ink. He didn't need her to say it—he knew. The absence of his parents' warmth, their laughter, pressed against his chest, heavier than the bandages. *They're gone*, he thought, his fingers tightening around the earring until his knuckles whitened. *How is that lucky?*
He lay there, staring at the ceiling, the crash replaying in his mind—the screech, his mother's scream, his father's desperate reach. *If I hadn't begged for the amusement park, if I hadn't been so stubborn, would they still be here?* The thought clawed at him, guilt twisting in his gut. He wanted to cry, to scream, to demand why this had happened, but his voice felt locked away, buried under the weight of it all. Instead, he curled his fingers around the earring, its shape a silent promise to hold onto them, even if the world had other plans.
Days blurred in the hospital, marked only by the flicker of a wall calendar—August 9, 2024, six days since his birthday and the crash—and the ache in his arm. Then his uncle Rajiv swept in, a tall figure in a sharp suit, sunglasses perched on his nose despite the dim lights. He shook hands with the doctor, his voice smooth as he signed papers with a flourish. When he turned to Soma, his smile was too wide, too polished, like a salesman closing a deal. "You're coming with me, kid," he said, clapping Soma's shoulder too hard. "Family sticks together, right?" But his eyes glinted, cold and calculating, and Soma's stomach twisted. *He doesn't care*, he thought, gripping the earring in his pocket. *He's not here for me.*
At Rajiv's sleek apartment, the truth unraveled. The place was all glass and steel, cold and sterile, nothing like the warm chaos of home. Rajiv barely spoke to Soma, his attention fixed on his phone or a polished desk piled with documents. One evening, Soma caught him slipping Arjun's old watch—a scratched, silver thing his father had worn daily—into a drawer, his lips curling as if it were a trophy. Another night, Soma overheard him on the phone, his voice casual as he spoke to lawyers. "Arjun's company? It's mine now. The kid doesn't need it." Soma's father's business, years of sweat and pride, slipped into Rajiv's hands. Rina's jewelry, the gold bangles she'd worn with a smile, were sold, the money vanishing. The family home, where Soma had built his cardboard castle, was transferred to Rajiv's name. All of it, gone.
Soma watched from the corner of the room, a mute witness, his grief chaining his voice. *Why?* he thought, staring at Rajiv's smug face as he signed another paper. *Did you hate Dad? Was it jealousy? Money?* He wanted to shout, to rip the papers away, but his body felt heavy, his anger trapped behind a wall of silence. Once, he refused the plate of rice Rajiv offered, pushing it away with trembling hands, a small rebellion against the man stealing his world. But it changed nothing.
Each night, Soma lay on the stiff couch, clutching his mother's earring, his mind replaying his parents' laughter, their warmth. *I should've said something*, he thought, guilt gnawing at him. *I should've stopped him.* But he was just a kid, and Rajiv was a storm he couldn't fight.
Two weeks after the accident, a sharp knock shattered the stillness of Rajiv's apartment. Soma, curled on the couch, his eyes heavy from sleepless nights, looked up. An old woman of about five feet five inches in height stood in the doorway, her cotton sari crisp with blues and whites, her silver hair pulled into a tight bun. His grandmother, Savitri—small and stooped with age, yet her eyes burned with a fierce fire that made Rajiv step back, her presence filling the room despite her diminutive size. Soma remembered her quiet visits, the mishti she'd bring wrapped in simple paper, the vivid stories of his grandfather's daring adventures across distant lands, told in her soft, rhythmic voice. Now, that inner strength radiated from her, unyielding and unbreakable.
"I'm taking the boy," Savitri said, her voice sharp as a blade. "You've taken enough—Arjun's work, Rina's memories, their home. You think papers can steal my blood? You dishonor your brother's name."
Rajiv smirked, leaning against the doorframe, his sunglasses glinting. "You've got no say, old woman. He's mine legally. Court says so."
Savitri stepped closer, her gaze unflinching, her voice low and fierce. "Arjun trusted you, and you spit on his grave. You'll answer for this one day, Rajiv. Not to me—to something bigger." Her words carried the weight of years, of a woman who'd buried her husband and now stood to protect her grandson.
Soma's pulse hammered, a spark of hope flickering in the dark. *She sees me*, he thought, his fingers tightening on his bag. *She's fighting for me.* For the first time in days, he felt a crack in the weight pressing him down. He stood, grabbing his small bag, his movements quick despite the ache in his arm. As he followed Savitri out, Rajiv's glare burned into his back, but Soma didn't look at him. In the elevator, Savitri's hand brushed his, steady and warm, and he felt a quiet strength settle in his chest.
Savitri lived in the countryside, far from the city's clamor. Her house was small but alive, its walls steeped in the scent of turmeric and the faint sweetness of jaggery simmering on a clay stove. Two vibrant flower beds flanked the front, bursting with marigolds and roses, while in the back, a small garden stretched out like a sanctuary. Holy basil brushed Soma's fingers as he passed, its scent like a whispered prayer. A creaky wooden swing swayed in the breeze, groaning softly under the weight of memory. The house felt like a refuge, a place where time moved slower, where the world's sharp edges dulled.
Soma settled into a quiet rhythm. He enrolled in a nearby school, his backpack heavy with books he barely opened. He helped Savitri in the garden, his hands learning the cool weight of soil as he watered plants, the marigolds glowing like tiny suns. He carried pots of dal to the table, stirred kheer as Savitri hummed old Bengali songs, and swept the courtyard as the sun dipped low. Each task was small, but it tethered him to something real, something his parents would have loved.
Yet the light in him had dimmed. At night, he lay awake, clutching his mother's earring, the crash replaying in his mind—the screech, her scream, his father's desperate reach. *If I'd said no to the park, would they still be here?* he wondered, his throat tight with guilt. He didn't cry, didn't scream—something inside him had quieted, a spark snuffed out. He smiled for Savitri, faint and fragile, but it was a shadow of the boy who'd wielded the Sword of Ultra-Shine.
Time passed. Not fast. Not slow. Just… passed.
Every day, he walked to school, helped Savitri water the garden, ate quietly, and slept early. He stopped asking questions about things he couldn't change. He smiled again—but only a little.
Because even if the sun had returned, for Soma, it never quite shone the same way again.
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