Small imaginary stories

 Raghavan’s surgery happened two weeks later. The entire family waited outside the operation theater beneath cold white hospital lights and nervous silence. But this time, the silence felt different. Not distant. Connected. Meera held prayer beads tightly in her trembling hands while whispering quiet prayers under her breath. Nila paced endlessly through the corridor pretending not to panic. And Arjun— Arjun sat beside the operation room doors looking more exhausted than anyone else. Yet peaceful. For the first time in months, he was no longer carrying everything alone. After nearly four hours, the surgeon finally stepped outside. “The surgery was successful.” Meera burst into tears immediately. Nila covered her face in relief. And Arjun… Arjun simply closed his eyes. As though his body had finally received permission to rest. When Raghavan woke later that evening, the first thing he saw was his entire family sitting beside him together. Waiting. Not divided any...

 The hospital room felt different after that. Lighter somehow. Not because the problems had disappeared. Raghavan still needed surgery. Money was still tight. Arjun was still exhausted. But for the first time in years— The silence inside the family no longer felt cold. That evening, Meera went home briefly with Nila to bring fresh clothes and food. For the first time in a long while, father and son were left alone together. Rain drifted softly outside the hospital window while weak evening light filled the room. Arjun leaned quietly against the bed, staring outside. Raghavan sat beside him awkwardly. As though he no longer knew how to speak to his own son. Several long minutes passed before he finally whispered, “When you were little… you used to wait near the gate every evening.” Arjun looked toward him slowly. “You remember that?” “I remember everything.” Raghavan’s voice sounded older now. Softer. “You would hear my scooter from the end of the street and run...

 Arjun regained consciousness the next morning. Rain still tapped softly against the hospital windows, though the storm had weakened outside. Inside Room 306, silence lingered heavily between father and son. Meera sat near the bed holding Arjun’s hand carefully, as though afraid he might disappear again. Nila stood quietly beside the window. And Raghavan— Raghavan remained near the doorway unable to step closer. Because guilt had suddenly made distance feel deserved. Arjun looked exhausted even while resting. The dark circles beneath his eyes remained. His hands still carried faint bruises from work. For several moments, nobody spoke. Then quietly, Arjun broke the silence. “Did the doctor say when your surgery is?” The question stunned everyone instantly. Even now— Even lying injured in a hospital bed— He was thinking about his father first. Raghavan looked down slowly. “You knew?” Arjun gave a tired smile. “Eight months ago.” “Why didn’t you tell us?” Arjun’...

 Everything after that moment became noise. Rain. Footsteps. People shouting. Meera crying Arjun’s name again and again. Nila barely remembered how they reached the hospital. She only remembered the blood on her brother’s sleeve. And the frightening way his eyes kept closing inside the car. Now the three of them stood beneath harsh white hospital lights while doctors rushed Arjun through emergency doors. The corridor smelled of antiseptic and fear. Meera sat trembling in a plastic chair, her saree still soaked from rainwater. Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking. “He was bleeding…” she whispered repeatedly. “He was bleeding…” Nila held her mother tightly, trying not to cry herself. Across the corridor, Raghavan stood completely still. Motionless. Like someone who had forgotten how to breathe properly. For the first time in years— He looked terrified. Not angry. Not proud. Just terrified. A doctor finally stepped out nearly twenty minutes later. “He’s conscious,” t...

 Darkness swallowed the house instantly. The ceiling fan stopped. The television died mid-sound. Even the rain outside suddenly felt louder. For a few seconds, nobody moved. Then Meera whispered nervously, “Nila, bring the candles.” Lightning flashed briefly through the windows, illuminating the living room in pale white light before disappearing again. Raghavan stood near the sofa, staring toward the front door. Still no Arjun. Thunder shook the sky violently. Nila hurried toward the kitchen drawers searching for candles while rain battered the house from every direction. The power outage spread across the entire street. Outside, the neighborhood looked drowned in darkness. Only distant headlights cut through the storm occasionally before vanishing again. Meera clutched her phone tightly. Still no answer from Arjun. Call failed. Again. And again. “He never switches off his phone,” she whispered fearfully. Nobody responded. Because everyone was thinking the sa...

 Nila barely slept that night. The hospital papers remained burned into her mind long after she returned to her room. Eight months. Arjun had known for eight months. And somehow, he had carried the weight of it alone while the rest of the family slowly blamed him for falling apart. The thought hurt. But what hurt more was remembering every moment they misunderstood him. Every dinner he skipped. Every exhausted expression. Every late night. Every locked door. None of it had been selfishness. It had been fear. Sacrifice. Responsibility. Outside, rain struck softly against the windows as dawn slowly approached. For the first time in weeks, Nila understood why her brother looked tired all the time. He wasn’t escaping the family. He was trying desperately to hold it together before it collapsed. The next morning felt painfully normal. Raghavan sat reading the newspaper without reading it. Meera served breakfast while pretending not to notice the silence between fath...

After the argument, the house became quieter than ever before. Not peaceful quiet. Heavy quiet. The kind that made every sound feel out of place. The ticking wall clock. The closing of doors. Even spoons touching plates during dinner. Raghavan stopped asking where Arjun went. Stopped waiting in the living room at night. Stopped looking toward the front door whenever footsteps echoed outside. It was as though he had decided silence hurt less than disappointment. But Meera noticed something strange. Despite all the anger— Every night before sleeping, Raghavan still checked whether the front gate was locked. And every morning, he still glanced instinctively toward Arjun’s empty chair. Love did not disappear inside families. Sometimes it simply hid behind pride. Three days passed before Arjun returned home properly. He entered late at night looking exhausted, carrying a large file folder pressed tightly against his chest. Nila noticed immediately from upstairs. Before anyone else could spe...

 Sunday mornings used to belong to Raghavan. Years ago, he would wake everyone early, make strong filter coffee, and play old songs loudly enough to irritate the neighbors. Now even Sundays felt exhausted. Rain clouds covered the sky again as Raghavan sat alone in the living room fixing an old wall clock that had stopped working months ago. He kept adjusting the hands carefully. Again. And again. As though refusing to accept that some broken things could not simply be repaired. From upstairs came the sound of footsteps. Arjun. Raghavan looked up instinctively. For one brief second, something hopeful crossed his face. Maybe today they would talk properly. Maybe today things would feel normal again. But Arjun walked straight toward the front door carrying his backpack without saying a word. Raghavan’s expression hardened immediately. “You’re leaving again?” Arjun stopped near the doorway. “I have work.” “On a Sunday?” “Yes.” Raghavan placed the clock down slowly....

 Meera had mastered the art of pretending. Pretending the food tasted fine when she had forgotten to eat. Pretending she wasn’t tired when sleep rarely came before dawn. Pretending the silence inside the house didn’t hurt her. Most importantly— Pretending the family was still whole. Every morning, she opened all the windows of the house as though sunlight alone could fix people. She watered plants nobody noticed anymore. Folded clothes before anyone asked. Made everyone’s favorite dishes even when they ate separately. It was her way of holding the family together. Small routines. Tiny acts of love. Invisible stitches keeping something broken from falling apart completely. That Saturday afternoon, rain fell softly outside while Meera cleaned Arjun’s old school cupboard. Dust covered forgotten trophies, notebooks, and framed photographs from years ago. Back when smiling came naturally inside the house. Nila wandered into the room holding two cups of tea. “You’re cle...

  The rain didn’t stop for three days. Water gathered along the streets outside the Narayanan house while gray skies made mornings feel like unfinished evenings. Inside the house, things remained just as quiet. Arjun continued leaving before sunrise. Returning after midnight. Sometimes later. Nobody knew where he went. Nobody asked anymore. At least not directly. But the questions still existed. They floated silently through hallways, rested on untouched dinner plates, and lingered behind every unfinished conversation. That Friday night, Nila sat cross-legged on her bed pretending to study while secretly waiting for the sound of the front door downstairs. 11:47 PM. Still nothing. She checked her phone again. No messages from Arjun. With a sigh, she walked toward the upstairs balcony overlooking the living room below. The house looked strangely lonely at night. Their father had fallen asleep on the sofa with the television still running softly. Their mother sat ne...

 The next morning, Arjun still hadn’t returned home. Meera noticed first. Not because she checked his room. But because his untouched shoes were still missing near the front door. She stood in the kitchen stirring tea absentmindedly while worry slowly settled inside her chest. Raghavan noticed too. He simply pretended not to. At breakfast, only three plates rested on the table again. Nila glanced repeatedly toward the staircase before finally asking quietly, “Should we call him?” Raghavan folded his newspaper sharply. “He’s not a child.” Meera placed tea beside him carefully. “He didn’t even take his charger.” “That’s his problem.” But his voice carried irritation instead of indifference. Nila lowered her eyes and ate silently. Arguments had become normal inside the house. Nobody raised their voice anymore. That was the frightening part. Everything now happened quietly. Coldly. Like people learning how to stop needing one another. By afternoon, rain clouds ga...

 There was a time when the Narayanan house used to feel alive. Not rich. Not perfect. But alive. The television would play too loudly every evening while their mother complained nobody listened to her. Their father would pretend to read the newspaper while secretly falling asleep in the chair. Plates clattered in the kitchen. Someone was always laughing. Or arguing. Or calling for tea. But that was years ago. Now the house sounded different. Quieter. As though everyone inside had slowly forgotten how to belong to each other. Every morning began the same way. Their father, Raghavan, sat at the dining table reading the newspaper without turning a single page for nearly twenty minutes. Their mother, Meera, moved silently between the kitchen and dining room carrying breakfast no one ate together anymore. Nila, the youngest, scrolled endlessly through her phone while pretending not to notice the silence around her. And Arjun— Arjun rarely came downstairs at all. At twen...