They always said I was the light of the house, glowing like some tiny LED bulb that refused to burn out.
Curious. Loud. Shamelessly alive.
I wanted to know why stars blinked, why pigeons circled the same sky like they were lost in a loop, why the wind sometimes whispered like it carried stories meant only for me.
No one ever answered properly.
Except my nanu.
She'd laugh, tuck a curl behind my ear and murmur,
"You've got a thousand skies in your head, bacha. Don't let anyone dim them."
If only she knew someone already had.
They put me in school at two and a half—
the youngest in my class, a tiny CEO of curiosity.
I talked too much, observed too deeply, trusted too easily.
Back then, I thought kindness was a permanent asset.
I didn't know some people treat innocence like open-source software—
free to exploit.
There was a man I called Mama—
not family by blood, but glued into our home like a fixture no one questioned.
He was everyone's favorite.
The man with the big smile.
The "safe" one.
The one trusted with every child, every secret, every room in the house.
He gave me chocolates, stroked my hair, praised me like I was some rare limited-edition toy.
Back then, I thought affection was love.
I didn't know affection could be a trap with soft edges.
One quiet afternoon, the house felt suspiciously still—
like the walls were holding their breath.
That's when he took my hand.
"Let's play a secret game," he said.
My small fingers trusted him.
My small mind didn't know resistance.
He led me to the room with the blue curtains—
the ones that always hung half-closed, like they were hiding something.
Inside, the fan turned slowly, like it was tired of witnessing things.
Sunlight slipped through the curtain slit in a thin, scared line.
Particles floated in the air—
golden, delicate, almost beautiful…
if I didn't know what was coming.
"Take off your frock," he whispered.
"Pick up the white things."
I didn't understand.
I didn't even breathe properly.
I just stared, confused, innocent, tragically obedient.
Before I could ask anything, his hands were already on me.
Cold.
Wrong.
A violation too complex for my tiny brain to translate into words.
My voice disappeared.
My thoughts collapsed.
My body froze like fear had pushed a shutdown button.
He smiled.
A smile that should've melted off his face.
"Good girl. Don't tell anyone, okay?
If you do… I'll be sad."
And God, at that age, making adults sad felt like the worst crime.
So I didn't speak.
Not then.
Not for years.
Outside, life played normally—
the smell of masala floating from the kitchen,
the clatter of steel plates,
the casual laughter of people who had no clue that a child's universe had crashed in a quiet room behind a half-closed curtain.
But inside me?
Something shifted.
A quiet fracture.
A splitting of childhood I couldn't name.
Even now, when I think back…
I don't know if that was the first time something in me died—
silently, politely, without any heroic explosion.
I picked up the "white things," yes.
But I walked out carrying something far heavier:
A silence shaped like a wound.
A wound shaped like a memory.
A memory shaped like a warning.
And the worst part?
That wasn't the last time.
Not even close.
— End of Part 1