02-09-2026, 04:44 PM
The first few weeks of my college life were a descent into a new, more immediate hell. The prestigious institute was a facade; behind its sandstone arches and manicured lawns lay a festering ecosystem of brutal, institutionalized hazing. Our seniors weren't just strict; they were petty tyrants who ruled the freshman hostel with casual cruelty. Any perceived slight—a failure to greet them loudly enough, an accidental bump in the mess line—was met with instant, public punishment. Slaps across the back of the head, kicks to the shins, forced to hold stress positions until our muscles screamed.
The worst of it was orchestrated. One sweltering evening, a week after classes began, we were rounded up after dinner. "Ground. Now. In your underwear," the senior's command brooked no argument. Trembling with shame, fifty of us first-year boys stood in the dusty hostel ground, stripped to our briefs or boxers, exposed under the harsh glare of the floodlights. The real humiliation wasn't the cold night air on our skin; it was the knowledge that the girls' hostel overlooked this ground. From darkened windows across the quadrangle, we could hear the shrieks of laughter, the catcalls, the phones held up to record our degrading dance. We were forced to perform a crude, shuffling jig while the seniors roared with laughter, pointing out the skinniest, the most awkward. I, at 5'6" and painfully thin, my ribs visible under pale skin, was a prime target. They called me "Skeleton," "Chhota Packet," making me spin until I was dizzy and nauseous, the girls' mocking laughter a searing chorus in my ears.
That night, curled on my stiff hostel bed, the physical bruises throbbing in time with my heartbeat, I cried silent, shuddering tears into my pillow. The bullying was bad, but it was the loneliness that was lethal. I thought of home. Not the empty Mumbai flat, but the idea of home that had died. And then, with horrifying, intrusive clarity, my mind would paint the picture of what "home" was right now.
It was a tuesday night. Around 10 PM. While I was nursing my shame and sore body, she would be with him. In my home, or some hotel room paid for with money that should have been for my father's legal defense. My mother, Parineeti. Her hands wouldn't be wringing in worry; they'd be wrapped around Aakash's neck, her nails digging into his skin. Her thick, shapely thighs—thighs my father had once shyly adored—would be locked around his waist, pulling him deeper into her as he moved. His lips wouldn't be speaking words of comfort; they'd be mangling with hers in a wet, hungry kiss, swallowing her moans. He would be fucking her bare, without a condom, without any obstacle, a claim of ownership so complete it erased even the ghost of precaution. There were no problems in their world, no bullies, no jail cells, no lonely sons in hostels. Just friction, and heat, and the utter conquest of a family.
Thinking about it gave me goosebumps—not of arousal, but of a sick, fascinated horror. It was a vortex I couldn't escape. My misery here was directly correlated to her pleasure there. My father's absence enabled their presence. Every slap from a senior was echoed by a slap of flesh on flesh in that distant bedroom.
Gradually, through sheer survival instinct, the acute disaster softened into a grim routine. The extreme hazing eased after the first month, settling into a background hum of disrespect and minor torments. I found a fragile refuge in the college's Electronics Club. The clubroom, smelling of solder and ozone, became my sanctuary. Here, amidst circuit boards and oscilloscopes, I wasn't the bullied skinny kid or the son of a disgraced father; I was someone who could make an LED blink in sequence. The small victories—getting a motor to run, debugging a faulty connection—gave me tiny, concrete droplets of happiness. It was a life lived in miniature, focused on the flow of current, not the torrent of my own reality.
Communication with my mother was another ritual, stripped of all warmth. Once a week, usually on a Sunday evening, I would queue for the common room's single, grimy landline phone. The calls followed a sterile script.
"Hello, Maa."
"Arjun. How are studies?"
"Fine. Going okay."
"Good. Eat properly. Don't waste money."
"Yes."
"Okay then."
They never lasted more than five minutes. The silences between the clichéd questions were vast and echoing. She never called hostel. Not once. Its number was in her phone, but my voice in her life was an obligation to be dispatched with efficiency. I imagined her ending the call, placing the phone down on a glass table in a sunlit living room that was no longer ours, and turning back to him, to the life that had no space for a son's stuttering updates.
Even as this numb normalcy established itself, the nights remained treacherous. Sleep was not an escape but a theater where my subconscious staged its darkest plays. I had recurring nightmares. In them, everything was burning—our old Mumbai flat, my college hostel, the Dubai jail—all consumed in silent, orange flames. But in the center of the conflagration, untouched by the fire, was a clear, cold spotlight. And under it, they were fucking. Aakash and my mother, moving with a relentless, mechanical passion on a bed floating in the inferno. I’d wake up gasping, drenched in cold sweat, the images seared behind my eyelids.
Lying in the dark, listening to the snores of my roommate, the thoughts would descend, sharp and unsparing.
At this exact moment, I would think, my father is crying. Not figuratively, but really crying. Sitting on a thin mattress in a Dubai jail cell, the weight of a death penalty over his head, regret like a poison in his veins. Regretting the transfer he fought for, the expansion he saw as his crowning achievement. He’d be thinking, Why did I go? Why did I leave them? He believed he was building an empire for his family. Look at it now. The empire was a prison cell.
At this exact moment, I would think, my brother Rohan is sleeping. A small, lonely figure in a dormitory filled with strangers' children, clutching the teddy bear I’d given him, unaware of the intricate web of betrayal that had exiled him to Bengaluru. His childhood was now measured in term breaks and sanctioned phone calls.
And at this exact moment, I would think, the anger coiling tight in my chest, my mother is the only one living in the home. The home that once held a beautiful, if imperfect, family of four. She is the sole occupant. And what is she doing? She is not grieving, not planning, not holding the fort. She is getting railed. Fucked like a whore. Taken like a cumdump by the very man my father despised most—the man he saw as an ungrateful, arrogant subordinate. Aakash wasn't just sleeping with his wife; he was defiling his home, his memory, his entire legacy, and she was not just allowing it, but arching her back for more.
The bitter refrain would echo in the dark: Why did he even get that transfer? He came home that day, waving the approval letter, his face lit with a pride I hadn't seen in years. He looked like he’d conquered the world. And we celebrated. A special dinner. He promised my mother diamonds from the Dubai Gold Souk. He promised me a new laptop for engineering. Look at us now. He’s in a foreign jail with no bail. I’m in a hostel being called "Skeleton." My brother is a paying guest in a edu. instit. far from home. And his sanskaari, traditional, "respectful" wife… the words would curdle in my mind, the vilest labels feeling like the only accurate ones… his whore, his slut, his cumdump… is being fucked senseless by the architect of our ruin. The greatest achievement of his life had been the trigger for its total annihilation. And the punchline was the sound of his enemy's pleasure, echoing in the empty house he worked his whole life to provide.
The worst of it was orchestrated. One sweltering evening, a week after classes began, we were rounded up after dinner. "Ground. Now. In your underwear," the senior's command brooked no argument. Trembling with shame, fifty of us first-year boys stood in the dusty hostel ground, stripped to our briefs or boxers, exposed under the harsh glare of the floodlights. The real humiliation wasn't the cold night air on our skin; it was the knowledge that the girls' hostel overlooked this ground. From darkened windows across the quadrangle, we could hear the shrieks of laughter, the catcalls, the phones held up to record our degrading dance. We were forced to perform a crude, shuffling jig while the seniors roared with laughter, pointing out the skinniest, the most awkward. I, at 5'6" and painfully thin, my ribs visible under pale skin, was a prime target. They called me "Skeleton," "Chhota Packet," making me spin until I was dizzy and nauseous, the girls' mocking laughter a searing chorus in my ears.
That night, curled on my stiff hostel bed, the physical bruises throbbing in time with my heartbeat, I cried silent, shuddering tears into my pillow. The bullying was bad, but it was the loneliness that was lethal. I thought of home. Not the empty Mumbai flat, but the idea of home that had died. And then, with horrifying, intrusive clarity, my mind would paint the picture of what "home" was right now.
It was a tuesday night. Around 10 PM. While I was nursing my shame and sore body, she would be with him. In my home, or some hotel room paid for with money that should have been for my father's legal defense. My mother, Parineeti. Her hands wouldn't be wringing in worry; they'd be wrapped around Aakash's neck, her nails digging into his skin. Her thick, shapely thighs—thighs my father had once shyly adored—would be locked around his waist, pulling him deeper into her as he moved. His lips wouldn't be speaking words of comfort; they'd be mangling with hers in a wet, hungry kiss, swallowing her moans. He would be fucking her bare, without a condom, without any obstacle, a claim of ownership so complete it erased even the ghost of precaution. There were no problems in their world, no bullies, no jail cells, no lonely sons in hostels. Just friction, and heat, and the utter conquest of a family.
Thinking about it gave me goosebumps—not of arousal, but of a sick, fascinated horror. It was a vortex I couldn't escape. My misery here was directly correlated to her pleasure there. My father's absence enabled their presence. Every slap from a senior was echoed by a slap of flesh on flesh in that distant bedroom.
Gradually, through sheer survival instinct, the acute disaster softened into a grim routine. The extreme hazing eased after the first month, settling into a background hum of disrespect and minor torments. I found a fragile refuge in the college's Electronics Club. The clubroom, smelling of solder and ozone, became my sanctuary. Here, amidst circuit boards and oscilloscopes, I wasn't the bullied skinny kid or the son of a disgraced father; I was someone who could make an LED blink in sequence. The small victories—getting a motor to run, debugging a faulty connection—gave me tiny, concrete droplets of happiness. It was a life lived in miniature, focused on the flow of current, not the torrent of my own reality.
Communication with my mother was another ritual, stripped of all warmth. Once a week, usually on a Sunday evening, I would queue for the common room's single, grimy landline phone. The calls followed a sterile script.
"Hello, Maa."
"Arjun. How are studies?"
"Fine. Going okay."
"Good. Eat properly. Don't waste money."
"Yes."
"Okay then."
They never lasted more than five minutes. The silences between the clichéd questions were vast and echoing. She never called hostel. Not once. Its number was in her phone, but my voice in her life was an obligation to be dispatched with efficiency. I imagined her ending the call, placing the phone down on a glass table in a sunlit living room that was no longer ours, and turning back to him, to the life that had no space for a son's stuttering updates.
Even as this numb normalcy established itself, the nights remained treacherous. Sleep was not an escape but a theater where my subconscious staged its darkest plays. I had recurring nightmares. In them, everything was burning—our old Mumbai flat, my college hostel, the Dubai jail—all consumed in silent, orange flames. But in the center of the conflagration, untouched by the fire, was a clear, cold spotlight. And under it, they were fucking. Aakash and my mother, moving with a relentless, mechanical passion on a bed floating in the inferno. I’d wake up gasping, drenched in cold sweat, the images seared behind my eyelids.
Lying in the dark, listening to the snores of my roommate, the thoughts would descend, sharp and unsparing.
At this exact moment, I would think, my father is crying. Not figuratively, but really crying. Sitting on a thin mattress in a Dubai jail cell, the weight of a death penalty over his head, regret like a poison in his veins. Regretting the transfer he fought for, the expansion he saw as his crowning achievement. He’d be thinking, Why did I go? Why did I leave them? He believed he was building an empire for his family. Look at it now. The empire was a prison cell.
At this exact moment, I would think, my brother Rohan is sleeping. A small, lonely figure in a dormitory filled with strangers' children, clutching the teddy bear I’d given him, unaware of the intricate web of betrayal that had exiled him to Bengaluru. His childhood was now measured in term breaks and sanctioned phone calls.
And at this exact moment, I would think, the anger coiling tight in my chest, my mother is the only one living in the home. The home that once held a beautiful, if imperfect, family of four. She is the sole occupant. And what is she doing? She is not grieving, not planning, not holding the fort. She is getting railed. Fucked like a whore. Taken like a cumdump by the very man my father despised most—the man he saw as an ungrateful, arrogant subordinate. Aakash wasn't just sleeping with his wife; he was defiling his home, his memory, his entire legacy, and she was not just allowing it, but arching her back for more.
The bitter refrain would echo in the dark: Why did he even get that transfer? He came home that day, waving the approval letter, his face lit with a pride I hadn't seen in years. He looked like he’d conquered the world. And we celebrated. A special dinner. He promised my mother diamonds from the Dubai Gold Souk. He promised me a new laptop for engineering. Look at us now. He’s in a foreign jail with no bail. I’m in a hostel being called "Skeleton." My brother is a paying guest in a edu. instit. far from home. And his sanskaari, traditional, "respectful" wife… the words would curdle in my mind, the vilest labels feeling like the only accurate ones… his whore, his slut, his cumdump… is being fucked senseless by the architect of our ruin. The greatest achievement of his life had been the trigger for its total annihilation. And the punchline was the sound of his enemy's pleasure, echoing in the empty house he worked his whole life to provide.
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