Small imaginary stories

 The house did not feel the same anymore. It wasn’t just emptiness. It was absence. The kind that sits in every corner, touches every memory, and refuses to leave. Days passed. People came. Voices filled the house for a while—neighbors, villagers, familiar faces offering condolences, words that tried to comfort but couldn’t reach where it hurt the most. Then they left. One by one. And silence returned. Only this time— It stayed. Arjun sat near the doorway. The same place where his father once waited for him. Now, he waited too. But not for someone to return— For a moment to come back. A moment where he could undo everything. Meera moved slowly inside the house. Her hands touched things she had seen all her life— But never really noticed. Her father’s old shirt. His fishing net. The small wooden box. She paused. Opened it gently. Inside— Carefully folded notes. Savings. Years of sacrifice. Every missed meal. Every extra trip to the sea. Every sil...

 The paper trembled in Arjun’s hands. Not because of the wind. But because of everything it carried. Meera moved closer, her tears falling silently now. Not loud. Not desperate. Just… endless. “Read…” she whispered. Arjun swallowed hard. And began. “My dear Arjun and Meera, If you are reading this, it means I am no longer there with you. I don’t know how to start this… I was never good with words. But I have kept these inside me for many years.” Arjun’s voice cracked. He paused. But Meera held his arm. “Please…” she said. He continued. “First, forgive me. Forgive me if I was not a good father. I could not give you a big house, good clothes, or a comfortable life. I could not be both your mother and father perfectly.” Meera shook her head immediately, tears falling faster. “No… Appa…” she whispered. “But I tried. Every day, I tried. Not for myself… but for you both.” Arjun’s grip tightened on the paper. Each word felt heavier than the last. “Arjun… m...

 The road home had never felt this long. Arjun walked slowly, his steps heavy, his mind louder than ever before. Every sound around him faded into nothing. The only thing he could hear— Was his own guilt. The words he had spoken. The choices he had made. The way he had walked away from the one man who never walked away from him. “Your life is not my life.” The sentence echoed again and again. Now it felt different. Now it felt wrong. He looked at his hands. They had never worked like his father’s. Never held nets. Never fought waves. Yet they had managed to destroy something far more precious. On another path, Meera walked too. Her tears had dried—but the pain remained. Not just because of Karthik. But because of herself. How easily she had believed. How quickly she had judged her father. How blindly she had walked away from the only person who truly cared. “I didn’t ask you to do that.” Arjun’s words. “Our life.” Her own words. They both carried them...

 Life doesn’t warn before it changes. It simply waits— And then hits where it hurts the most. For Arjun, it began like any other day. Laughter. Friends. Careless hours wasted under the same tree near the roadside. Jokes that meant nothing. Time that led nowhere. “Let’s go,” one of them said suddenly. “Where?” Arjun asked. “Just come. Easy money.” Easy. The most dangerous word. Arjun didn’t think much. He followed. Because thinking requires responsibility— And he had avoided that for too long. It was supposed to be small. A simple task. Carry something. Deliver it. No questions. “Don’t worry,” his friend said. “Nothing will happen.” But something always does. Minutes turned into chaos. Voices raised. A man shouting. Another grabbing Arjun by the collar. “What is this?!” someone yelled. Arjun froze. His friends? Gone. Just like that. He stood there alone. Confused. Scared. The weight of his choices crashing down all at once. “Call the police,” so...

 Raman chose that evening carefully. For once, he returned early from the sea. The sun was still hanging low, casting a tired orange light over the village. The air felt heavy—like it knew something was about to break. Arjun was home. Meera too. A rare moment. A complete family under one roof. “Sit,” Raman said. Not loud. Not harsh. But firm enough that both of them paused. They exchanged glances, then sat—reluctantly, but silently. Raman stood in front of them. For a moment, he didn’t speak. He just looked at them. His children. The reason he had fought every storm. The reason he had survived everything. “I don’t know how to say this,” he began slowly. The words felt unfamiliar on his tongue. “I am not educated. I don’t know big words. But I know life.” Arjun shifted slightly, already impatient. Meera kept her eyes down. “I have seen what happens when we take wrong paths,” Raman continued. “I don’t want that for you.” “I’m not doing anything wrong,” Arj...

 The nights had become longer. Not because the hours had changed— But because sleep no longer came easily. Raman would lie down, eyes open, staring at the ceiling that had begun to crack in more places than one. The faint sound of the sea echoed in the distance, but it no longer comforted him. Something wasn’t right. He could feel it. Arjun hadn’t come home that night. It wasn’t the first time. But this time felt different. Raman sat outside, waiting. The same place where Meera once waited for him as a child. Now, the roles had changed. But the feeling— The worry— Was far heavier. Every passing hour tightened something inside his chest. “What if something happened?” “Where is he?” “Who is he with?” Questions came. Answers didn’t. When Arjun finally returned, the sky had already begun to lighten. “Where were you?” Raman asked, his voice low but trembling. “With friends,” Arjun replied casually. “All night?” “Yes.” “That’s not right.” Arjun looked irritate...

 Meera had always been different. Where Arjun was loud and restless, she was quiet and thoughtful. She carried her world inside her—between the pages of her books, in the neat lines of her handwriting, in the soft smiles she rarely showed. But even the quietest hearts— Learn to dream. It began without anyone noticing. A glance that stayed a second longer. A voice that felt familiar too quickly. A name she didn’t say out loud, but carried with her everywhere. His name was Karthik. He wasn’t from far. Same town. Same roads. Same small world. But to Meera, he felt like something new—something beyond the life she had always known. He spoke gently. Listened patiently. And most importantly— He made her feel seen. “Why do you always look so serious?” he asked her once, smiling. Meera hesitated. “No reason.” “There is always a reason,” he said. “You just don’t say it.” For the first time in a long while— She laughed. Raman didn’t notice at first. Why would he? She ...

 Arjun no longer woke up with the sun. The mornings that once began with schoolbooks and hurried meals now passed in lazy silence. By the time Raman returned from the sea, tired and sunburnt, Arjun would just be stepping out—hair uncombed, shirt half-buttoned, a careless confidence in his walk. “Where are you going?” Raman asked one afternoon. “Out,” Arjun replied, not stopping. “School?” “I’ll go later.” But later never came. It started small. A missed class here. A careless lie there. New friends—boys who had nothing to do and all day to waste. They gathered near tea stalls, roadside benches, laughing loudly at nothing, mocking everything. Time passed easily with them. Responsibility did not. “Your son wasn’t in school today,” a teacher told Raman one evening. Raman’s heart sank. He nodded quietly, thanked the teacher, and walked home slower than usual. Each step felt heavier. Not because he was tired— But because he knew something was slipping away. “Arjun,...

 The sea was restless that week. Waves rose higher than usual, crashing against boats with a force that made even the most experienced fishermen hesitate. The sky stayed grey, as if it carried a warning no one could fully understand. “Don’t go today,” one of the older fishermen told Raman. “It’s not worth the risk.” Raman looked at the sea. Then at his empty hands. And finally, at the thought of his children. “I have to,” he said quietly. Because hunger doesn’t wait for calm waters. That day, the sea showed no mercy. His small boat was thrown like a leaf. The nets came back half empty. The wind screamed louder than his own thoughts. For a moment—a brief, terrifying moment—Raman felt it. Fear. Not for himself. But for what would happen to his children if he didn’t return. He held onto the edge of his boat, his knuckles turning white, his breath uneven. “Not today,” he whispered. “I can’t lose today.” And somehow, after hours that felt like a lifetime, he made it back...

 Time has a quiet way of changing everything. Raman didn’t notice when Arjun’s tiny fingers stopped holding his hand while walking to school. He didn’t notice when Meera stopped waiting at the door every evening. Or maybe he did— He just chose to believe it was part of growing up. “Appa, I need new shoes,” Arjun said one morning, his voice no longer hesitant, but firm. “These are torn.” Raman looked at the worn-out pair. The sole had almost given up, much like his own slippers. “Tomorrow,” he replied softly. Tomorrow. A word he used often. Because today was never enough. Meera had her own world now. Books, notebooks, neatly kept. She sat in a corner, writing carefully, her handwriting shaped with patience and dreams. “Appa, teacher said I should study well… I can become a teacher too,” she said, her eyes glowing with hope. Raman paused. A teacher. He didn’t fully understand what that life meant—but he knew one thing. It was far away from the sea. And that made h...

 The house had learned to live without her. But Raman never did. There were days when he would forget she was gone—just for a second. He would turn, expecting to see her near the stove, humming softly while cooking. Or hear her voice calling out to the children. And then silence would answer. A silence that cut deeper than any storm. Life didn’t give him time to grieve. Two children stood between him and his sorrow—hungry, growing, and unaware of how much had changed. The first morning after her passing, Raman sat outside, staring at the sea longer than usual. The waves were the same. The sky was the same. But nothing felt the same. “Appa… I’m hungry.” Arjun’s small voice broke him back into the world. Raman nodded, stood up slowly, and walked inside. He didn’t know how to cook. He didn’t know how to braid Meera’s hair. He didn’t know how to be both father and mother. But he learned. Because he had no choice. The kitchen became his new battlefield. Burnt rotis. ...

 Before the sun even thought of rising, he was already awake. The sea did not wait for anyone—and neither did life. Raman stood at the edge of the shore, his rough feet sinking slightly into the damp sand. The waves came and went, like they always did—indifferent, endless, and unforgiving. He had spent half his life listening to that sound. To others, it was calming. To him, it was a reminder. A reminder that if he didn’t go today, his children wouldn’t eat tonight. He pushed his small wooden boat into the water, its tired body creaking like an old man refusing to give up. Just like him. “Today will be better,” he whispered—not to the sea, but to himself. It was a lie he told every morning. And every morning, he believed it. Because he had to. There was a time when Raman didn’t go to the sea alone. There was laughter once. A second pair of hands. A voice that would call out from the shore, asking him to return early. But life, like the sea, takes what it wants. And one day...