Arjun's childhood was full of silences. His parents weren't cruel; they clothed him, fed him, sent him to good schools. But there was always a distance, as if their love had been translated into discipline and duty.
When Arjun returned from school with a drawing he was proud of, he ran to Meera. "Amma, look! I won the first prize in art."
Meera was folding laundry. She glanced at the paper for a second, smiled faintly, and said, "Very good, Arjun. Now go wash your hands. Lunch is ready."
That was all. No hug, no laughter, no display of pride.
At dinner, Raghavan spoke mostly about expenses. "Electricity bill has gone up again. If we cut down the fan during the day, we can save at least fifty rupees this month."
Arjun poked at his rice quietly. His world shrank into textbooks and cricket, but deep inside, he longed for something warmer than savings and sacrifices.
One evening, when he was fifteen, he asked, "Appa, why don't we ever go anywhere? My friends' families go on trips. Can't we go to Ooty or Kodaikanal?"
Raghavan didn't even look up from his account book. "Trips are waste of money. You'll understand when you're older."
Arjun said nothing, but in that silence, a small wall was built inside his heart.