27-01-2026, 02:09 PM
(This post was last modified: 27-01-2026, 02:33 PM by heygiwriter. Edited 1 time in total. Edited 1 time in total.)
Chapter 2: Shadows of Home
The day after the rowdies left his father broken in the courtyard, Vikram was twelve and alone in the world. His mother had died when he was still a baby, leaving only faint stories and an empty space no one filled. The village elders spoke in low voices, and by evening his mother’s brother—Uncle Ramasamy—came . he said, voice rough but not unkind. “You’ll stay with us.”
The house stood on the edge of the rural town, a modest tiled-roof building with a wide thinnai and a central courtyard where the women washed vessels and the men smoked beedis after work. It smelled of cow dung, wood smoke, and the faint sweetness of jasmine from the vine climbing the wall. Uncle's family lived in three small rooms: one for him and Aunt Lakshmi, one shared by the children, and a tiny kitchen. Vikram was given a mat in the corner of the children’s room, near the door where the night air came in cold.
Uncle loved him in his quiet way. He would pat Vikram’s head after dinner, slip him an extra dosa when Aunt wasn’t looking, and sometimes sit with him on the thinnai telling stories of their mother as a girl. But Aunt Lakshmi ruled the house like a queen with a thin smile and iron rules. “He’s not our blood debt,” she would say when Uncle tried to give Vikram more rice.
“We already feed too many mouths.” Her word was final—even Uncle could not override it.
Relatives from nearby houses piled on the work. Fetch water from the borewell two streets away, twice a day. Sweep the courtyard at dawn. Run to the market for turmeric or salt. Clean the cowshed. Carry firewood. Vikram’s hands grew calloused fast, his shoulders ached, but he never complained. Complaining only brought Aunt’s sharp tongue and a slap that stung longer than the pain.
One person made the days bearable: Malar. Uncle and Aunt’s daughter, a year younger, with long braided hair and eyes that smiled before her mouth did. When Vikram was first brought in, Malar had run to him with a small tumbler of buttermilk. “Drink,” she whispered. “Amma won’t see.” Over the months, she shared her tiffin secretly—half a vada, a piece of jaggery—slipped notes under his mat when Aunt scolded him too hard.
She never spoke of the childhood promise Uncle had once made in front of family elders: that one day, when they grew up, Vikram and Malar would marry. But Vikram remembered every word. It was the only vow that felt real in a house full of grudges.
college became his second home. The government high college was a kilometer away, whitewashed walls and a playground of cracked earth. There, teachers noticed him. “Vikram, your answers are sharp,” the Tamil teacher said after his first composition. “Keep this up.” He topped every test, earned praise in assembly, felt eyes on him that weren’t judging. After chores, he studied by the single kerosene lamp in the corner, pages yellow under the weak flame, dreaming of college, a job in town, a life where no one called him burden.
Malar studied in the same college, Class 9 when he was in 10. She walked the same path home, sometimes falling into step beside him. “You’re going to be someone big,” she said once, smiling shyly. “I know it.” Her affection was quiet but steady—sharing her umbrella in rain, defending him when other girls teased his patched uniform. Vikram believed in the promise. Uncle had said it. Malar never denied it. One day, they would leave this house together.
But Vicky was always there. A distant cousin who lived two houses away, same age as Vikram, same college. Broad-shouldered, loud, with a smirk that never left his face. He challenged Vikram in everything—cricket, marks, arguments. Worst of all, he eyed Malar openly. “Look at her walk,” he’d mutter to friends when she passed in the corridor, loud enough for Vikram to hear. “One day she’ll be mine.” Vikram clenched his fists but said nothing. Malar would marry him. Uncle had promised.
By the end of 12th standard, Vikram’s marks were the talk of the college. College admission letters came—engineering seat in a town thirty kilometers away. He showed Uncle first. “I want to go,” he said quietly.
Uncle rubbed his chin. “The mill is hiring. Two thousand salary to start. You can marry Malar soon. Stay here, kanna.”
The words hit like a slap.
Aunt overheard and stepped in, voice sharp. “Go to college if you want. But don’t expect a paisa from us. Work part-time or starve. I don’t care.”
Uncle looked down at his feet. He could not bypass her rule.
Vikram packed a small bag that night.
Malar met him behind the cowshed, eyes shining. “You’ll do it,” Keep this.. she gave up her savings of some few hundreads (Thousands for todays date)..
she whispered. “And when you come back, everything will be different.”
He left at dawn, the village still asleep, carrying only hope and the memory of her smile.
The day after the rowdies left his father broken in the courtyard, Vikram was twelve and alone in the world. His mother had died when he was still a baby, leaving only faint stories and an empty space no one filled. The village elders spoke in low voices, and by evening his mother’s brother—Uncle Ramasamy—came . he said, voice rough but not unkind. “You’ll stay with us.”
The house stood on the edge of the rural town, a modest tiled-roof building with a wide thinnai and a central courtyard where the women washed vessels and the men smoked beedis after work. It smelled of cow dung, wood smoke, and the faint sweetness of jasmine from the vine climbing the wall. Uncle's family lived in three small rooms: one for him and Aunt Lakshmi, one shared by the children, and a tiny kitchen. Vikram was given a mat in the corner of the children’s room, near the door where the night air came in cold.
Uncle loved him in his quiet way. He would pat Vikram’s head after dinner, slip him an extra dosa when Aunt wasn’t looking, and sometimes sit with him on the thinnai telling stories of their mother as a girl. But Aunt Lakshmi ruled the house like a queen with a thin smile and iron rules. “He’s not our blood debt,” she would say when Uncle tried to give Vikram more rice.
“We already feed too many mouths.” Her word was final—even Uncle could not override it.
Relatives from nearby houses piled on the work. Fetch water from the borewell two streets away, twice a day. Sweep the courtyard at dawn. Run to the market for turmeric or salt. Clean the cowshed. Carry firewood. Vikram’s hands grew calloused fast, his shoulders ached, but he never complained. Complaining only brought Aunt’s sharp tongue and a slap that stung longer than the pain.
One person made the days bearable: Malar. Uncle and Aunt’s daughter, a year younger, with long braided hair and eyes that smiled before her mouth did. When Vikram was first brought in, Malar had run to him with a small tumbler of buttermilk. “Drink,” she whispered. “Amma won’t see.” Over the months, she shared her tiffin secretly—half a vada, a piece of jaggery—slipped notes under his mat when Aunt scolded him too hard.
She never spoke of the childhood promise Uncle had once made in front of family elders: that one day, when they grew up, Vikram and Malar would marry. But Vikram remembered every word. It was the only vow that felt real in a house full of grudges.
college became his second home. The government high college was a kilometer away, whitewashed walls and a playground of cracked earth. There, teachers noticed him. “Vikram, your answers are sharp,” the Tamil teacher said after his first composition. “Keep this up.” He topped every test, earned praise in assembly, felt eyes on him that weren’t judging. After chores, he studied by the single kerosene lamp in the corner, pages yellow under the weak flame, dreaming of college, a job in town, a life where no one called him burden.
Malar studied in the same college, Class 9 when he was in 10. She walked the same path home, sometimes falling into step beside him. “You’re going to be someone big,” she said once, smiling shyly. “I know it.” Her affection was quiet but steady—sharing her umbrella in rain, defending him when other girls teased his patched uniform. Vikram believed in the promise. Uncle had said it. Malar never denied it. One day, they would leave this house together.
But Vicky was always there. A distant cousin who lived two houses away, same age as Vikram, same college. Broad-shouldered, loud, with a smirk that never left his face. He challenged Vikram in everything—cricket, marks, arguments. Worst of all, he eyed Malar openly. “Look at her walk,” he’d mutter to friends when she passed in the corridor, loud enough for Vikram to hear. “One day she’ll be mine.” Vikram clenched his fists but said nothing. Malar would marry him. Uncle had promised.
By the end of 12th standard, Vikram’s marks were the talk of the college. College admission letters came—engineering seat in a town thirty kilometers away. He showed Uncle first. “I want to go,” he said quietly.
Uncle rubbed his chin. “The mill is hiring. Two thousand salary to start. You can marry Malar soon. Stay here, kanna.”
The words hit like a slap.
Aunt overheard and stepped in, voice sharp. “Go to college if you want. But don’t expect a paisa from us. Work part-time or starve. I don’t care.”
Uncle looked down at his feet. He could not bypass her rule.
Vikram packed a small bag that night.
Malar met him behind the cowshed, eyes shining. “You’ll do it,” Keep this.. she gave up her savings of some few hundreads (Thousands for todays date)..
she whispered. “And when you come back, everything will be different.”
He left at dawn, the village still asleep, carrying only hope and the memory of her smile.
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