Elijha stepped into the dimly lit one-room house he called home. The wooden door creaked on its hinges, barely holding together after years of wear. A weak, flickering light bulb swung from the ceiling, casting trembling shadows across the cracked walls. The scent of dampness filled the air, mixing with the faint aroma of burnt wood from their small clay stove.
In one corner of the room, his mother, Mira, sat cross-legged on the cot, stitching a torn saree under the dim light. The deep lines on her face told stories of suffering, of silent battles fought without a single complaint. Opposite her, his younger sister, Ria, hunched over a stack of borrowed textbooks, tracing the words with her fingers as she tried to study. A half-melted candle flickered beside her, its small flame struggling against the darkness.
Elijha placed a small cloth bundle on the wobbly wooden table in the center of the room. "Ma, did you eat?"
Mira looked up, startled from her thoughts. Her eyes met his, filled with something between exhaustion and quiet love. She shook her head. "I was waiting for you."
Elijha clenched his jaw. "I told you not to do that," he muttered, untying the bundle to reveal a handful of rice, two dry rotis, and a few pieces of vegetable curry. He divided the food evenly and pushed a plate toward her. "Eat, Ma."
She hesitated, her fingers barely touching the food. Her eyes flickered toward Ria.
"Ria already ate," Elijha said quickly, his voice firm. It was a lie. He had seen the untouched plate near her books, but he wouldn't let his mother starve herself for them.
Mira sighed but took a small bite. She chewed slowly, savoring the taste, as if making it last longer.
Ria, still bent over her books, finally spoke, her voice soft but steady. "Bhaiya, one day, I'll become a doctor and take care of Ma."
Elijha forced a smile. "Of course you will," he said.
But inside, something twisted in his chest. One day... but how many days until then?
The burden of survival was crushing, suffocating. They barely had enough to eat, barely had enough to keep Ria in school. Every night, Mira worked late into the darkness, stitching clothes for meager pay. Every morning, Elijha took up whatever work he could find—loading sacks in the market, running errands for shopkeepers, sometimes even fixing broken radios for a few rupees.
And yet, it was never enough.
His father had left them without a second thought, choosing another woman over his family, over the people who needed him most. That man had walked away and never looked back. Elijha knew he was still alive, living comfortably somewhere, building a new life without remorse.
But Elijha didn't hate him.
No, he felt nothing for the man who had abandoned them. No love, no hate—just emptiness. He had promised himself long ago: I will never be like him.
A sudden gust of wind rattled the tin roof, making the candle flicker wildly. Ria shivered and hugged her thin shawl around herself.
Elijha stood up and walked to the small wooden cupboard by the door. He opened it, pulling out an old, tattered blanket—the only extra one they had—and draped it over Ria's shoulders. "Go to sleep," he said. "You have school tomorrow."
Ria looked up at him, her large eyes filled with unspoken words. "Will you ever go back to school, bhaiya?"
Elijha froze.
He had once been a bright student, excelling in studies despite their struggles. But after their father left, there was no choice—he had to drop out and earn money. Dreams of education, of a future beyond survival, had become a luxury they couldn't afford.
"I don't need school," he said finally, ruffling Ria's hair. "I have you to become the doctor in the family, don't I?"
Ria gave a small smile but didn't look convinced.
Elijha turned away, walking toward the door. He needed fresh air, needed space to breathe. Stepping outside, he leaned against the wall, staring at the narrow, moonlit alley. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and distant cooking fires. In the distance, he could hear laughter from another home—a sound that didn't belong in his world.
He pulled a cigarette from his pocket, one he had picked up from a fallen pack at the market. He didn't smoke often, but tonight, he needed something to dull the ache in his chest. He lit it, watching the small ember glow in the darkness.
This life… it wasn't enough.
He couldn't let Ria grow up like this, couldn't let his mother spend the rest of her life stitching clothes in a dark, crumbling room.
Something had to change.
And if the world wasn't going to give them a chance, he would take it himself.
No matter what it cost.
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