19-10-2025, 11:14 PM
(This post was last modified: 11 hours ago by lee.jae.han. Edited 10 times in total. Edited 10 times in total.)
## Update 1: A New Beginning in the Village
My name is Avi. I was just a child when a road accident stole my mother and father, leaving me an orphan. My father was the eldest of his five siblings: three sisters and one younger brother, my chacha.
My Chacha has a complicated history. He married three times, not for passion, but in a desperate, frustrated search for a son. His first wife, Suman (Badi Chachi, 32), and his second, Seema (Majeli Chachi, 29), never had children. That’s why he took a third wife, Meena (Chhoti Chachi, 27).
My three paternal chachis (buas) live nearby. Pooja (Badi Bua, 42) married young—before she was eighteen, which means she married even before my father. She has two older daughters, Sweta (22) and Sital (21), and a younger son, Raj (18). Then there are the twins, Neha (40) and Neeta (40). Neha Bua has two daughters, Komal (19) and Kavita (18). And Neeta Bua has twins herself, Leena (18) and Rajesh (18).
All my cousins are younger than me, Avi (20), except for Badi Bua’s two daughters.
After the accident, my Dadaji brought me to the village to live with my Chacha and his wives. Badi Chachi was the one who insisted on it. She must have seen me as the son she was always denied, a desperate way to fill the empty space in her life.
A lot of time has passed since my parents died. I’m twenty now. The accident was a huge, life-shattering shock. It took me three years to claw my way out of that suffocating sadness.
For those three years, I existed in a fog. I had no appetite; food tasted like dust. Thirst was a feeling I simply ignored. I didn’t speak to anyone, didn't leave the house to play, and certainly didn't look at a scho*l book. Every moment was a dull, aching replay of my parents' faces.
Neha Bua was the only one who seemed to hate my sadness. She didn't offer comfort; she offered pain. When she was near me, she’d often grab my ear, her grip surprisingly sharp, and yank hard. "Stop this moping, boy!" she'd hiss, her voice low and dangerous. "You're a burden on everyone."
But they say you cannot cry forever for someone who is gone. Suman Chachi was the steady force that pulled me back. One evening, she simply sat beside me and held my hand, saying nothing, until I finally looked up and saw the raw, quiet worry in her eyes. It was that silent plea that broke the spell. I decided, right there, to start my new life.
It was difficult to fill that three-year chasm. But I didn't lose heart. Suman Chachi enrolled me in the village scho*l. I was much older than the other boys, my twenty years standing out amongst the small, energetic children. It made me feel utterly alone in the classroom; I had no friends, no one who understood the lingering echoes of my grief.
This was the beginning of everything.
My name is Avi. I was just a child when a road accident stole my mother and father, leaving me an orphan. My father was the eldest of his five siblings: three sisters and one younger brother, my chacha.
My Chacha has a complicated history. He married three times, not for passion, but in a desperate, frustrated search for a son. His first wife, Suman (Badi Chachi, 32), and his second, Seema (Majeli Chachi, 29), never had children. That’s why he took a third wife, Meena (Chhoti Chachi, 27).
My three paternal chachis (buas) live nearby. Pooja (Badi Bua, 42) married young—before she was eighteen, which means she married even before my father. She has two older daughters, Sweta (22) and Sital (21), and a younger son, Raj (18). Then there are the twins, Neha (40) and Neeta (40). Neha Bua has two daughters, Komal (19) and Kavita (18). And Neeta Bua has twins herself, Leena (18) and Rajesh (18).
All my cousins are younger than me, Avi (20), except for Badi Bua’s two daughters.
After the accident, my Dadaji brought me to the village to live with my Chacha and his wives. Badi Chachi was the one who insisted on it. She must have seen me as the son she was always denied, a desperate way to fill the empty space in her life.
A lot of time has passed since my parents died. I’m twenty now. The accident was a huge, life-shattering shock. It took me three years to claw my way out of that suffocating sadness.
For those three years, I existed in a fog. I had no appetite; food tasted like dust. Thirst was a feeling I simply ignored. I didn’t speak to anyone, didn't leave the house to play, and certainly didn't look at a scho*l book. Every moment was a dull, aching replay of my parents' faces.
Neha Bua was the only one who seemed to hate my sadness. She didn't offer comfort; she offered pain. When she was near me, she’d often grab my ear, her grip surprisingly sharp, and yank hard. "Stop this moping, boy!" she'd hiss, her voice low and dangerous. "You're a burden on everyone."
But they say you cannot cry forever for someone who is gone. Suman Chachi was the steady force that pulled me back. One evening, she simply sat beside me and held my hand, saying nothing, until I finally looked up and saw the raw, quiet worry in her eyes. It was that silent plea that broke the spell. I decided, right there, to start my new life.
It was difficult to fill that three-year chasm. But I didn't lose heart. Suman Chachi enrolled me in the village scho*l. I was much older than the other boys, my twenty years standing out amongst the small, energetic children. It made me feel utterly alone in the classroom; I had no friends, no one who understood the lingering echoes of my grief.
This was the beginning of everything.
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