Chapter 6

2022

The first day of the new month brought with it a suffocating sense of dread that clung to the boy like a second skin. He had always been troubled, but this was different—something heavier, darker. The familiar routine of school, the interactions with his classmates, and the jokes he used as armor all felt hollow, like he was merely going through the motions. Each day bled into the next, and the burden he carried grew more unbearable.

He found himself wandering the streets after school, his feet leading him to the small café where he often met Akari. It was a quiet place, tucked away from the noise of the city, a place where he could almost pretend the world outside didn't exist. Today, though, even the calm atmosphere of the café couldn't quell the storm brewing inside him.

Akari was already there, sitting at their usual table by the window. She noticed the tension in his posture the moment he walked in, the way his eyes were shadowed with something she couldn't quite place. She greeted him with a warm smile, but it quickly faded when she saw the look on his face.

"You seem... off today," she remarked as he slid into the seat across from her.

He shrugged, staring down at the coffee in front of him. "Am I not always off?"

Akari studied him for a moment, her eyes soft with concern. She had come to know him well enough to recognize when something was truly wrong, and today, it was more than just a bad day. "You've been troubled for a while now," she said gently. "It's not just today, is it?"

He didn't respond immediately, his mind racing with thoughts he didn't know how to express. Finally, he sighed, leaning back in his chair. "Everything feels messed up," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "Nothing makes sense anymore. Try living under the same roof as someone whose son has orchestrated an attack on your father, and all you can do is go along with the fucking mess"

Akari reached across the table, her hand resting lightly on his. "You're carrying too much on your own," she said softly. "Maybe it's time to find someone you can trust, someone who can help you sort through all this."

He looked up at her, his expression a mix of confusion and frustration. "And who would that be?" he asked, a hint of bitterness creeping into his tone. "Who can I trust? My real family is gone, and all I'm left with is this... this fabricated mess in Mumbai."

Akari's eyes softened further, her gaze steady and reassuring. "I know it feels that way," she said, choosing her words carefully. "But just because things are bad now doesn't mean you're alone. You don't have to rely on the people who've hurt you, but there are others out there—maybe not in the family you have now, but somewhere, there's a family you can trust. People who will stand by you, who won't abandon you."

He shook his head, the frustration bubbling to the surface. "And where am I supposed to find these people, Akari? It's not like they're just being sold in some convenience store."

She smiled gently, a sad sort of smile that understood his pain more than he realized. "Sometimes, you don't find them—they find you. But you have to be open to it, to trust that not everyone is going to hurt you. It's hard, I know, but it's possible."

The boy looked down at his hands, clenching and unclenching his fists as he absorbed her words. "I don't know if I can trust anyone anymore," he murmured, the vulnerability in his voice betraying how deeply he'd been wounded.

Akari squeezed his hand gently, drawing his gaze back to her. "You can start small," she suggested. "You've already let me in, even if just a little. That's a start, right? And maybe, in time, you can let others in too. Weren't you saying you've got family in the north that half your family hardly engages with?"

He was silent for a long moment, his mind turning over her words. There was a part of him that wanted to believe her, that wanted to trust in the possibility of finding a real family, real connections. But the scars ran deep, and the fear of being hurt again was overwhelming.

Finally, he nodded, though his expression was still troubled. "Maybe, but my uncle is always pissed off at me, the one in the north. I do have cousins there, but what can they do?" he said quietly, the word carrying the weight of his uncertainty.

Akari gave him a small, encouraging smile. "That's all I'm asking for," she said softly. "Just a maybe. You don't have to figure everything out right now, but know that you don't have to do it alone."

He looked at her, and for the first time in a long while, he felt a glimmer of hope—fragile and faint, but there nonetheless. "How is that possible Akari? I cant convince a family abandoned by me," he murmured, his voice barely audible.

As the tension hung in the air between them, Akari leaned forward, her gaze steady and intent. She could see the storm of emotions swirling in his eyes—the fear, the anger, the doubt. But she also saw something else, something he couldn't see in himself: potential.

"You know," she began, her voice soft but firm, "I think you're stronger than you realize. You've been through hell, and yet, here you are, still fighting, still surviving. That takes strength."

He looked at her skeptically, not entirely convinced. "I am not here for some Sandeep Maheshwari crap Akari, can we stick to reality? Strength for what? To keep getting knocked down?"

"No," she replied, shaking her head, as she lets out a little giggle. "Strength to take control of your life, to shape it into something better. You've been strong enough to have it all—your resilience, your ability to adapt, your wit. But," she paused, her eyes locking onto his, "you've been too weak to take it all."

The boy blinked, the words hitting him like a jolt. "What do you mean?"

"Strong enough to have it all, but to weak to take it. I mean you have the power to change things," Akari explained, her tone almost challenging. "You're capable of convincing your cousin and even those far away in your family to see things your way, to trust you, to help you. But you haven't done it because you're afraid. You've been so hurt, so betrayed, that you've closed yourself off from everyone who might actually be able to make a difference."

He stared at her, her words cutting through the fog of despair that had clouded his mind. "You really think I can do that?" he asked, a flicker of hope in his voice.

"I know you can," she said confidently. "But it's up to you to take that step. You have to decide if you're going to keep letting the past control you, or if you're going to take control and make something of your future."

The boy was silent, absorbing what she'd said. The idea of reaching out, of convincing those who had hurt him to help him, felt almost impossible. But the way Akari spoke, with such conviction, made him wonder if maybe, just maybe, she was right.

"Maybe you're right," he finally said, his voice quiet but resolute. "Maybe I've been holding myself back."

Akari smiled, a warm and encouraging smile that made him feel a little less alone. "You don't have to do it all at once," she reassured him. "Just start by believing in yourself. The rest will follow."

He nodded, still unsure but willing to try. For the first time in a long while, he felt a spark of determination, a desire to take control of his life rather than just survive it.

As they sat in the café, the boy realized that maybe, with Akari's help, he could find a way to break free from the chains of his past and build something better. It wouldn't be easy, and he knew there were no guarantees. But he was starting to believe that it might just be possible.

"Also, what's with that fucking stomach of yours? Every other week your weight's been on the inclination huh? Let's start with this first, mister beer belly." Akari said poking the boy's stomach

"What's with everyone complaining about my weight, assholes, fatshaming ain't cool unless I do it alright?" the boy replied angrily.

"Just tryna say, if you want to bring change let's start taking care of yourself, and shave if you can, you look like a hobo." Akari said getting up leaving the cafe, leaving a wrong taste in the boy's mouth.

The next day, the boy sat at the dining table, his mind racing as he rehearsed what he would say. His mother was in the kitchen, preparing breakfast with the same distracted look she had worn for weeks. He knew this was going to be a fight—one of the biggest yet—but he was prepared. He had to be.

"Maa," he began, trying to sound casual but failing to mask the tension in his voice. "I need to go up north for a few days. To see the Nani and the family."

His mother turned to him, her expression immediately suspicious. "Why on earth would you want to go there? You know how things are with them… It's not safe."

The boy leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. "It's not about safety. I need to talk to them. Sort some things out."

His mother frowned, drying her hands on a towel as she approached the table. "Sort what out? You've barely spoken to them in years. What could you possibly need from them?"

"I need to understand things, get some answers," he said, his tone growing sharper. "They're family, after all. Isn't that what you always say? 'Family comes first'?"

She narrowed her eyes at him, sensing the challenge in his words. "Yes, but not at the expense of your safety. You're staying here, and that's final."

He sighed, pushing his plate away as he stood up, his frustration bubbling over. "Maa, you don't get it. I can't just stay here and do nothing. I need to take control of my life for once!"

His mother's face hardened, her tone matching his intensity. "You're only a child—you don't even know what you're talking about. This isn't some game, you can't just run off and expect everything to be fine."

"And staying here, doing nothing, has worked out so well, hasn't it?" he shot back, sarcasm lacing his words. "Look at where we are! All this money, all these things, and we're all miserable. You, Papa, me—none of us are happy! So why shouldn't I go and try to fix things? Papa has been attacked, I haven't talked to Nani but I bet she adores me."

His mother's eyes flashed with anger. "Fix things? You think you can just go up there and fix everything? You're delusional if you think that'll solve anything."

He stepped closer to her, his voice lowering but no less intense. "Maybe I am. But at least I'm trying. At least I'm doing something other than sitting around waiting for things to get worse."

She shook her head, her frustration boiling over into exasperation. "And what am I supposed to tell your father, huh? That you've gone off on some wild goose chase to play hero?"

"Tell him whatever you want," he said, his tone dismissive. "He's already given up on me anyway, hasn't he?"

His mother flinched at the remark, her expression softening for a moment before hardening again. "That's not true," she said, though her voice lacked conviction.

"Yes, it is," the boy insisted, his voice cold. "He doesn't care where I go, what I do. He just wants me out of his way."

His mother's shoulders slumped, the fight leaving her as she realized she couldn't win this argument. She looked at him, her eyes filled with a mixture of sadness and defeat. "Fine," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "If this is what you really want… Go. But don't expect me to pick up the pieces when everything falls apart."

The boy didn't respond, turning away as he headed towards the door. He stopped for a moment, his back to her, and muttered, "I never expected you to. And if things do fall apart, mind this Maa, i'll burn the fucking pieces rather than have them beat me to a bloody pulp"

He left her standing there, his words hanging in the air like a heavy cloud. As he made his way to his father's study, he steeled himself for the next battle.

His father was sitting at his desk, buried in papers, when the boy knocked on the door and entered without waiting for a response.

"I'm going to meet Nani," he announced bluntly, not bothering with pleasantries.

His father didn't look up from his work, merely grunted in response. "Do whatever you want."

The boy was taken aback by the indifference, expecting at least some resistance. "You don't care?" he asked, a hint of disbelief in his voice.

His father finally looked up, his expression unreadable. "You're old enough to make your own mistakes. Just don't expect me to clean up after you."

The boy stared at him, the coldness of his words cutting deep. "So that's it? You're just letting me go, just like that?"

"Just like that," his father replied, turning back to his papers. "I have more important things to worry about."

The boy felt a surge of anger, his hands balling into fists at his sides. "More important than your own son?"

His father didn't look up. "You've made it clear you don't want my help. So go. Do what you think you need to do. But don't come crying to me when it all falls apart. Regardless, if my son cared enough for himself he wouldn't be 80 kilos heavy hardly able to walk with a more hair on his face than a pauper does on his entire body."

The boy stood there, trembling with rage and hurt, but there was nothing left to say. He turned on his heel and left the room, slamming the door behind him. As he walked down the hallway, his mind was a whirlwind of emotions—anger, betrayal, determination.

He was on his own now, but that didn't matter. He was used to it. As he packed his bag and prepared to leave, the boy felt a grim sense of resolve. He would go up north, confront his family, and deal with whatever came his way. He was done waiting for things to get better. If no one else was going to fight for him, he would fight for himself.

And with that, he walked out the door, leaving behind the place he had once called home, ready to face whatever lay ahead.

"Letting him leave just like that, isn't the best…" the mother said slumped over.

"My mental health isn't the best, it's going to deteriorate for the coming years. No one would be capable to turn back the business on it's feet, with him this impulsive he would rather kill the competition than make a strategy to win the war. I want him to be the best, let him do what he wants." The father answered finally leaving the study room.

The boy's journey to his Nani's place was long, spanning two days on the train. He sat by the window, watching the landscape change from the concrete chaos of the city to the serene countryside. The rhythmic clatter of the train wheels was oddly soothing, and for the first time in a long while, he felt a sense of calm. As the train snaked through green fields and over rivers, he realized how much he enjoyed being outside the confines of his life in Mumbai. The oppressive weight that had been sitting on his chest for months seemed to lift, if only slightly.

On the second day, the train slowed as it approached the small station near his Nani's village. He could already sense the difference—the air was fresher, the pace slower. When he finally disembarked, the sun was high in the sky, and the station was bustling with locals. He felt their eyes on him, a city boy in their midst, someone from "that" family.

He looked around, trying to spot anyone who might guide him to his Nani's house, but the faces were unfamiliar. Taking a deep breath, he approached a group of older men sitting on a bench, their white turbans gleaming in the sunlight.

"Excuse me," he started, his voice tentative but polite, "Could you tell me the way to Rukmini Devi's house?"

The men paused, exchanging glances before one of them, a wiry man with a long beard, spoke up, "Rukmini Devi? Ah, the city boy has finally come home."

There was a murmur of approval among the group, as if they had been expecting him. The boy smiled awkwardly, unsure how to respond.

"Her house is up the main road, past the big banyan tree," the bearded man continued, pointing with his hand. "You'll see a large gate—can't miss it."

"Thank you," the boy replied, nodding respectfully before setting off in the direction given. As he walked, he noticed the villagers watching him with curiosity. Some smiled, others just stared. He couldn't help but feel a bit out of place, yet there was a warmth in their eyes that made him feel welcome.

He followed the directions, passing small houses and open fields until he reached the banyan tree. It was enormous, its roots twisting and turning like the veins of the earth itself. Beyond it, he saw the large gate the man had mentioned. His heart quickened as he approached it, realizing that he was finally here, at the place where he hoped to find some semblance of peace.

He pushed open the gate and stepped into the courtyard, where the scent of flowers and the sound of birds greeted him. The house was as grand as he remembered from his childhood visits, with its white walls and red-tiled roof. It stood proudly amidst the greenery, a stark contrast to the gray of the city.

His Nani was already at the door, waiting for him with open arms. Her smile was as warm as the sun, and as he walked toward her, he felt the tension in his body start to melt away. The boy knew that this was only the beginning of a new chapter in his life, but for now, he was content to be here, in the embrace of the one person who had always loved him unconditionally.

As the boy stood in the courtyard, surrounded by the warmth of his Nani's embrace, the rest of the family began to emerge from the house. They all had a mix of emotions on their faces—relief, joy, but also a shadow of concern. The boy could sense it immediately, the unspoken worry that hung in the air like a thick fog. They were worried about how his Mama, the head of the family, would react to his arrival.

His Mama had always been a stern figure, a man of high expectations and little tolerance for failure. The boy knew this all too well. He had heard it in the sharpness of his words during every phone call, seen it in the disappointed looks whenever they met. His physique, his lack of accountability, his inability to meet the standards set for him—it all weighed heavily on his Mama's mind. And now, as the boy stood in the courtyard, he could feel the tension building.

His Nani squeezed his hand reassuringly, but even she couldn't completely hide her concern. "Your Mama… he means well," she said softly, as if trying to prepare him for what was to come.

The boy shrugged, putting on his usual mask of humor to shield himself from the unease he felt. "If I can survive Mumbai, I'm sure I can survive a lecture or two from Mama," he said with a lopsided grin. The attempt to lighten the mood worked, if only a little; a few of his cousins smiled at his words, though the worry in their eyes remained.

As they began walking through the bungalow, the boy joked and bantered with his cousins, making light of the situation as best as he could. The grand house, with its long hallways and antique furniture, had an air of old-world elegance that contrasted sharply with the tension bubbling beneath the surface.

"Hey, where's Mama? Is he hiding from me?" the boy quipped, trying to keep the mood light as they walked through the corridors.

"Or maybe he's too scared to face me!" He continued to joke, but his words carried a hint of truth that everyone recognized.

Just then, a voice called out from the far end of the hallway. "I'm right here, boy."

The boy turned to see his Mama standing at the entrance to one of the larger rooms. His presence was imposing, his expression stern, and the air seemed to thicken as he approached. The rest of the family fell silent, giving way to the man who commanded their respect.

"So you finally decided to show up," Mama said, his tone flat but laced with disappointment. "What took you so long? Or were you too busy messing up in Mumbai?"

The boy, not one to back down easily, replied with a half-smile, "Well, I had to make sure the city wouldn't fall apart without me first." He chuckled, though it didn't quite reach his eyes.

Mama's frown deepened, clearly not amused by the boy's attempts at humor. "You think this is a joke? Look at yourself. You've got nothing to show for the time you've spent there. You're fatter than ever, still dodging every responsibility thrown at you."

The boy sighed internally, but he kept his smile intact, knowing it was his best defense. "Come on, Mama, you know I'm a late bloomer. Give me a little more time, and I'll surprise you."

"You better," Mama retorted, his voice firm. "Because time is something you're running out of. If you think you can just coast through life with your jokes and charm, you're in for a rude awakening."

Before the tension could escalate further, the boy's favorite cousin, Harshit, bounded into the room. He was two years younger, full of energy, and always ready to defend his older brother. "Hey, give him a break, Papa! He just got here!"

Harshit's attempt to ease the situation was met with a stern look from his father. "Harshit, stay out of this," Mama said, though there was a softness in his tone when addressing his son. He reached out and gave Harshit a playful but firm hit on the head. "Don't think I won't knock some sense into you too."

The boy couldn't help but laugh at the sight. Harshit, always the brave one, rubbing his head with a grin despite the reprimand. "Looks like you got the same treatment, huh?" the boy said, nudging Harshit playfully.

"Yeah, but at least I didn't have to listen to a lecture about how I'm failing at life," Harshit replied with a smirk.

The boy chuckled, glad for the brief respite from the tension. But as they continued to walk through the bungalow, he couldn't shake the feeling that no matter how much he joked or how light-hearted he tried to be, his Mama's disappointment would always be there, lurking just beneath the surface, waiting to remind him of the expectations he had never quite managed to meet.

As the boy walked alongside his Mama, the grand bungalow's walls reverberated with their footsteps, the echoes mingling with the distant hum of village life outside. The air inside was cool, but the tension between them was palpable. Mama, a man of few words but strong opinions, glanced at the boy from the corner of his eye, his brow furrowed with concern and disappointment.

"Look at you," Mama finally said, his voice gruff yet tinged with a softness reserved for family. "You've overgrown that face of yours like some wild shrub. When was the last time you shaved, huh? Or have you decided to join a hermit order?"

The boy smirked, his lips curling into a mischievous grin. "Figured I'd try out the lumberjack look, Mama. Thought it might add to my rugged charm."

Mama's stern expression faltered for a moment, a flicker of amusement in his eyes, but he quickly regained his composure. "Rugged charm, eh? All I see is a boy who's let himself go. And what's with the weight, huh? You think you can just roll through life now?"

The boy chuckled, his laugh light but carrying a hint of something deeper, almost defiant. "Well, they say more of me to love, right? Besides, it's all part of the plan—keep expectations low, so when I finally get my act together, it'll be a pleasant surprise."

Mama shook his head, a mix of exasperation and reluctant admiration playing on his features. "Always with the jokes, aren't you? You think you can laugh your way through everything? You've got a lot of catching up to do, boy. It's not just about how you look—it's about taking responsibility, showing that you care."

"Who says I don't care, Mama?" the boy replied, his tone now more serious but still laced with that signature sarcasm. "I care enough to be here, don't I? Besides, life's too short to be all serious and brooding like you."

"Brooding?" Mama repeated, almost incredulous. "You think I brood? I'm just trying to make a man out of you, not some jester who thinks the world's a stage."

The boy shrugged, unfazed. "And I'm just trying to survive the play. Besides, who says a man can't be a jester too? A little humor never hurt anyone."

Mama sighed, his frustration giving way to a weary resignation. He looked at the boy, seeing more than just the overgrown facial hair and extra weight. There was a resilience there, a spark that despite everything, hadn't been extinguished. "You've got a smart mouth on you, kid. But life isn't always going to laugh with you."

The boy's smile faded slightly, a shadow crossing his eyes. "I know that, Mama. Believe me, I do. But if life's going to throw punches, I'd rather be the one making jokes about it than crying in the corner. Like I've done until now."

Mama stopped walking and turned to face the boy fully, placing a hand on his shoulder. "You're more than just your jokes, you know. And one day, you're going to have to face things head-on without that shield of yours."

The boy looked down for a moment, then back up at his Mama, the usual glint in his eyes dimmed but not gone. "Maybe. But today's not that day, is it?"

Mama couldn't help but smile, albeit a small one. "No, it isn't. But that day's coming, and when it does, I hope you're ready. And I'll be there to see it"

The boy nodded, his expression a mix of determination and lingering doubt. "Guess we'll find out, won't we? Not to mention you won't even be able to see it."

With that, they continued their walk, the tension between them easing but not entirely gone. They were family, after all—bound by blood, expectations, and a love that, while complicated, was still very much there.

The afternoon sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the courtyard as the boy noticed something amiss. Harshit, who usually greeted him with laughter and lighthearted jests, had come home with a sullen expression, his steps heavy as he climbed the stairs to the roof. The boy watched him for a moment before following, his curiosity and concern piqued.

Reaching the roof, the boy found Harshit standing at the edge, staring out into the distance. His shoulders were tense, his hands clenched into fists. The boy approached slowly, sensing the weight of whatever was troubling his cousin.

"Harshit," the boy called softly, his voice breaking the silence. "What's wrong?"

Harshit didn't turn around at first, but his voice, when he finally spoke, was thick with anger and frustration. "It's... it's those bastards at school. They've been bothering L and her friends. Catcalling, following them around, making their lives hell."

The boy's eyes narrowed, a cold fury rising within him. "What did you say? Where the hell do they live?"

Harshit turned then, his face a mix of helplessness and rage. "I'm not sure who they are, but L told me not to do anything about it. She said it's not worth the trouble, that it would just make things worse."

The boy shook his head, his anger boiling over. "That's bullshit! Harshit that's your bloody sister they are catcalling, I might not be 100% bound by blood to her, but even someone as dingustingly fat as me is boiling over with rage, where's your fucking fury."

Harshit's eyes met his cousin's, filled with a mixture of fear and determination. "But what can we do? L's right, you know. If we start something, it could blow up in our faces. What if they retaliate? What if they go after her even more?"

The boy's jaw tightened, his mind racing with possibilities. "We can't just sit here and do nothing, Harshit. My father was attacked if I had managed to fight back that day, I would not be torturing myself everyday in regret. They're already harassing her. If we let this slide, they'll keep pushing, keep crossing lines."

Harshit looked torn, the conflict evident in his eyes. "I don't want to make things worse, but I can't just ignore it either. She's my sister. I have to protect her."

"We both do," the boy said firmly. "But we need to talk to her first, make her understand that we have to do something about this. If we handle it carefully, we can make sure those bastards know they crossed the line without putting her in more danger."

Ignoring the family's usual chatter, the boy turned and headed for his cousin's sister's room, his steps quick and resolute. Harshit hesitated for a moment before following, his expression grim.

They reached her room, and the boy knocked on the door with a force that belied his urgency. A moment later, the door opened, and Harshit's sister stood before them, her eyes red-rimmed from crying, but her posture strong.

"What's going on?" she asked, her voice a mixture of weariness and wariness.

The boy wasted no time, his voice sharp. "Harshit told me what's been happening. You need to let us do something about it."

She sighed, rubbing her temples as if trying to ease a headache. "I told him not to tell you. This is exactly what I was trying to avoid. There's nothing you can do that won't make it worse."

"That's where you're wrong," the boy retorted, his tone firm. "We can't just let them think they can do whatever they want. They need to know there are consequences for their actions."

Harshit's sister crossed her arms, her expression hardening. "And what, you think you're going to scare them off? That'll just make them angrier, make them come after me even harder. You don't understand how these things work. This isn't Mumbai, their actions have consequences and yours don't?"

"I understand enough to know that if you let people like them think they have power over you, they'll take more and more until there's nothing left," the boy shot back, his voice rising with emotion. "We have to show them they can't mess with you. That you're not alone."

Harshit's sister shook her head, frustration evident in her eyes. "You think this is a game? You think you can just play the hero and everything will be fine? It doesn't work like that. These people—they don't care about right or wrong. They care about power, and if you threaten that, they'll come after you, too."

Harshit, who had been silent, finally spoke up, his voice tinged with fear. "But L, we can't just do nothing. I can't just stand by and watch while they treat you like this."

She looked at her brother, her expression softening slightly. "I know you want to protect me, Harshit. I know you both do. But I'm asking you to trust me on this. The best way to handle this is to ignore them, to show them they don't get to me. If we don't react, they'll lose interest eventually."

The boy wasn't convinced. "Or they'll escalate because they think you're weak, because they think you're afraid. We can't take that chance."

"And what do you propose we do?" she challenged, her eyes locking onto his. "Go after them? Start a fight? That's exactly what they want. To drag you down to their level, to make you just as bad as they are."

The boy hesitated, his mind racing. He knew she had a point, but the thought of doing nothing was unbearable. "I will stoop to their fucking level if I have to."

Harshit's sister sighed again, a deep, weary sound. "I get it, I really do. But sometimes, the best thing you can do is nothing. Sometimes, that's the hardest choice, but it's the right one."

There was a long silence, the weight of the situation pressing down on all of them. Finally, the boy spoke, his voice quieter but still filled with determination. "If you're asking us to stay out of it, we will. But don't think for a second that we're going to just forget about it. If anything happens—anything—you come to us, and we'll handle it. Together."

As they stepped out of the room, the tension lingered in the air, heavy and suffocating. Harshit closed the door behind them, his hand still gripping the doorknob as if holding onto something tangible could anchor him in the moment. He turned to the boy, his eyes filled with a mix of gratitude and turmoil.

"Thanks, bhai," Harshit murmured, his voice unsteady. "For being there. For standing up for her."

The boy, however, wasn't ready to accept the gratitude at face value. There was something in Harshit's demeanor—something that didn't sit right. The boy had known his cousin long enough to sense when something was off.

"What's wrong, Harshit?" the boy asked, his voice steady, but laced with a sharp edge of concern. "Get the bloody gun."

Harshit hesitated, his gaze darting around the hallway as if searching for an escape. But there was none. Finally, he took a deep breath and looked at the boy, his expression a cocktail of fear and resolve.

"What..." Harshit started, his voice barely above a whisper. "We can't just let this go. L's too scared to do anything, but we can't let those bastards get away with this. We have to do something." The boy said looking around for his shoes.

Harhit's eyes narrowed, already sensing where this was headed. "Bhai, what are you planning?"

The boy's eyes darkened with a determination Harshit had never seen in him before. "I need you to do one simple thing for me. Go get Mama's fucking gun and the car keys."

Harshit's breath caught in his throat. For a moment, he thought he hadn't heard right. "What the hell are you talking about? Are you out of your mind? You don't even know how to drive, you are in your shorts for fuck sake."

The boy's expression didn't waver. "I'm serious. You know how to drive, that's all that matters. Those bastards need to know they can't mess with us, with our family."

Harshit stared at his cousin, disbelief washing over him in waves. "You're not thinking straight, Harshit. This isn't the way to handle things."

Harshit took a step back, shaking his head in disbelief. "And you think guns and a car chase are the answer? Do you even hear yourself? This is insane!"

But the boy's eyes were wild, his fear and anger blinding him to reason. "I don't care! I can't sit here and do nothing while those scumbags think they've won. I'm going to make sure they never even think about coming near her again."

Harshit could see there was no swaying him, so he simply sighed and said, "Fine. But let's not do anything stupid."

They moved swiftly through the house, the tension building with each step. When they reached the living room, the rest of the family was already there, sensing something was wrong. Harshit's mother looked at them with wide eyes, her concern evident. "What's going on? Where are you two going?"

"Nowhere," the boy replied curtly, scanning the room. "Where are Mama's guns? And the car keys?"

A shocked silence fell over the room. While his aunts exchanged worried glances. The atmosphere was thick with disbelief, no one quite knowing how to react.

But then, from the corner of the room, Nani's voice cut through the tension. "In the closet, top shelf. And the keys are hanging by the door." Her tone was calm, almost approving, as if she had seen this kind of resolve before and recognized it as a rite of passage.

The boy nodded, barely registering the rest of his family's reactions as he moved toward the closet. But as he reached for his shoes by the door, he realized they were missing. He cursed under his breath, frantically searching the room.

"What's wrong?" Harshit asked, his voice tinged with concern.

"My shoes! Where the fuck are my shoes?" the boy snapped, his frustration boiling over.

In the midst of this chaos, his aunt tried to reason with him, "Why are you in such a rush? Think about what you're doing!"

Ignoring her, the boy finally spotted a pair of slippers near the doorway. He grabbed them without thinking, only to realize they were Nani's—bright pink and adorned with tiny bows.

"Great. Just great," he muttered, sliding them on with a grimace. The absurdity of the situation was not lost on him, but there was no time to dwell on it. He looked down at his legs—shorts and these ridiculous slippers. Harshit, despite the tension, let out a small chuckle.

"Seriously? Those?" Harshit said, shaking his head with a mixture of amusement and disbelief.

"Shut up and let's go," the boy retorted, the frustration evident in his voice but tinged with a hint of self-awareness.

As they made their way to the car, the rest of the family watched in a mixture of shock and disbelief. Nani, however, seemed almost proud, nodding to herself as if acknowledging a necessary step in the boy's journey.

Harshit handed him the gun with a resigned sigh. "You sure about this?"

The boy didn't even hesitate. "Positive. Let's do this."

"No, I mean this gun is the one used for killing those birds in the farm." Harshit said looking at it with a short smile.

"Has a fucking handle doesn't it? We'll blugeon those fucking morons to the ground until their brain matter starts rotting on the bitumen of the road." The boy said looking at his ridiculous slippers.

With that, they climbed into the car, the boy still wearing the absurd pink slippers, and drove off into the dusk, leaving behind a family too stunned to react but with a Nani who seemed to know, in her heart, that this was something the boy needed to do.

As the boy and Harshit drove through the dimly lit streets, the tension was only slightly alleviated by the occasional chuckle or ironic comment. The boy, still in his bright pink slippers, stared out of the window with an intensity that bordered on manic. Harshit, despite the gravity of the situation, maintained a calm demeanor, his optimism like a beacon in the murky night.

"Hey, Harshit," the boy said suddenly, breaking the silence, "you got any friends who might want to join us? You know, for this 2 versus multiple fucking village molesters."

Harshit glanced over, a playful grin stretching across his face. "Well, I might know a few. But they're not exactly your typical sidekicks."

The boy raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. "Oh? Who are they?"

Harshit navigated a turn and then pulled over to the side of the road, signaling with a nod. "Let's find out."

They waited for a few minutes, and soon, a figure emerged from the shadows—an immigrant Jamaican boy who looked about their age. His demeanor was relaxed, but his accent was as thick as molasses, and his clothes were an eclectic mix of bright patterns.

"Yo, man! Wha's gwan?" the Jamaican boy greeted them, his accent thick and melodic.

The boy, somewhat incredulous, squinted at him. "Uh, hey. You're Harshit's friend?"

"Yeah, man," the Jamaican said with a wide grin. "I'm Rico. Harshit say you mait needa some 'elp. Me thought aida come drough."

Harshit looked at the boy, his optimism unabated. "I told you Rico would be the guy. He's got a way with, uh, handling things."

The boy, still in disbelief, asked, "Okay, Rico. You got any skills that might come in handy tonight?"

Rico's eyes sparkled with an almost contagious enthusiasm. "Skills? Man, I god skills. I can talk my way outta any kinda trouble, and if dat don't work, I goddem mo'es that'll cover as. Bat farst, whe' I headed?"

The boy, struggling to mask his frustration, muttered, "Man what the fuck is this guy trynna say? Is he a fucking minion or what?"

Rico laughed, a deep, rumbling sound. "Man, you goda believe in dey hustle. I beena through a lod, seen plenty. Dem punks ain't god nothin' on me. Just lead di way, an' I'll handle di rest."

Harshit, always the optimist, chimed in. "See? I told ya. Rico's got dis. We gonna be alright."

The boy shook his head, the absurdity of the situation sinking in. "Alright, alright. But don't expect me to be all chummy if things go sideways. I'm just here to make sure those guys regret ever crossing our path."

Rico grinned wider, his accent even thicker as he replied, "Man, you don't gotta worry 'bout dat. We gon' show 'em wha's wha. Just follow mi lead, an' we'll make it happen."

As they drove off with Rico in tow, the boy couldn't help but find the humor in the situation. Despite the seriousness of their mission, the odd trio—Rico with his boundless optimism, Harshit with his unwavering support, and the boy with his reluctant acceptance—embarked on their journey with a mix of humor and resolve.

The car ride continued, filled with intermittent bursts of laughter, snarky remarks, and the rhythmic chatter of Rico's accent. The boy's irritation was momentarily eased by the absurdity of their new companion, even as he steeled himself for the confrontation ahead. As the car rolled to a stop in front of a rundown building, the boy, Harshit, and Rico stepped out, their faces set in grim determination. The night air was thick with anticipation, and the boy's bright pink slippers seemed almost comically out of place in the grim setting. They approached the alley where the hooligans were known to hang out, their footsteps echoing off the damp walls.

The hooligans, a ragtag group of miscreants lounging around, immediately took notice of the trio. Their laughter and crude remarks filled the air as they spotted the unusual group approaching.

"Yo, look at this," one of the hooligans sneered, pointing at the boy. "We got a circus here. What's with the pink slippers, man? You planning to dance us to death?"

Another hooligan chuckled. "And what's with the fatty and his two sidekicks? You guys look like you walked straight outta a bad joke."

The boy's face hardened. "Oh, really? And what's with you guys? Planning to scare us away with your fashion sense from the '90s? Your outfits look like they were designed by a colorblind blindfolded monkey."

Harshit stepped forward, trying to defuse the tension with a grin. "You guys might wanna reconsider your insults. We didn't come here to exchange fashion tips."

Rico, ever the optimist, added with a wide grin, "Yeah, mate, you maiht wan' to focus on de fact that we're aboud to introduce you lots to a little thing called consequences."

The hooligans guffawed, clearly enjoying the banter. One of them, a particularly burly fellow with a swagger, sneered at Rico. "And what are you gonna do, Jamaica? Sing us a lullaby or dance us into submission?"

Rico's eyes narrowed. "Mate, if I had a dollar for every time someone underestimated me, I'd have enough to buy this whole place and turn it into a beach resort. But nah, I'm here to take care of business."

The leader of the hooligans, a wiry man with a malicious grin, turned his attention to Harshit. "So, what's your story, kid? Think you're gonna teach us a lesson with that cheesy grin?"

Harshit shrugged. "Nah, I'm just here to make sure my brother doesn't get hurt. But if you want to keep talking, we can always do this the hard way."

The hooligans exchanged glances, their laughter fading as they started to realize the gravity of the situation. One of them, trying to regain some composure, asked, "Alright, so what's this all about? You guys really think you can take us all on?"

The boy stepped forward, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Oh, I'm not here to talk. I'm here to make sure you all remember tonight. You see, we didn't just come here for a chat. We came here to deliver a little reminder that you can't look in the same general direction as my cousin sister."

The hooligans seemed momentarily taken aback by the boy's confidence. One of them, a lanky man with a patched-up jacket, snickered. "And what, you gonna do? Make us laugh until we cry?"

The boy smirked. "Nah, I'm not here to entertain you. I'm here to show you what happens when you mess with the wrong people. And trust me, you're gonna wish you'd never laid eyes on her."

The leader, trying to regain his bravado, sneered. "Alright, tough guy. What's the plan?"

The boy's smile widened as he took a step closer. "The plan is simple. You're gonna apologize to our sister. And if you don't, we'll make sure you regret it."

Harshit, his patience wearing thin, added, "Or you could just save us the trouble and walk away now. Because if you stick around, things are gonna get real ugly."

Rico, sensing the tension, decided to lighten the mood with a grin. "Come on, guys. Don't make us do dis. It's not gonna end well for anyone. How 'bout you just walk away, and we'll pretend dis never happened?"

As the boy's rage reached its peak, he pulled out the bird-killing gun—a long, outdated firearm designed for hunting birds. His grip was unsteady, and his eyes were blazing with a fierce, unrestrained anger. The hooligans, now more confused than ever, gawked at the gun with a mixture of disbelief and amusement.

One of the hooligans, trying to suppress a snicker, shouted, "Is that a bird-killing gun? What, you planning to shoot us out of the sky?"

The boy's face flushed with anger. "It's not about the gun, it's about making you pay for what you've done!" as he turned the gun other way round to use the handle as a melee weapon.

Harshit, his face a picture of panic, stepped forward, trying to defuse the situation. "Bhai, put the gun down. This isn't helping. We need to sort this out, not make things worse."

Rico, ever the optimist, added, "Yeah, mate. You don' needa to use dat. We can handle dis widout turning ita into a mess."

The boy, however, was beyond reason. He waved the gun around, his frustration mounting. "I'm done with talking! They need to understand the gravity of what they've done!"

The hooligans, now seeing the boy's seriousness and the oddity of the weapon, began to inch away, trying to assess their next move. The leader, trying to mask his fear with bravado, blurted out, "Oh, come on! You think you can scare us with that? It's just a bird gun!"

As the chaos unfolded, Harshit's determination to keep the situation under control wavered. Realizing that there was no stopping his brother's fury, he resigned himself to joining the fray. With a sigh, he squared his shoulders and braced himself for the brawl.

"Alright, if you're gonna keep going, I'm in," Harshit declared, his voice resolute. He began throwing punches alongside the boy, his own anger now fueling the fight.

Rico, undeterred by the madness, was right there with them. His strong Jamaican accent thickened with every word as he shouted encouragements and playful taunts.

"Yow, mi bredda! Yuh a mash up di place!" Rico yelled, delivering a swift kick to one of the hooligans. "Yuh tink yuh can run tings? Yuh nah even see di gun mi cousin drop!"

One of the hooligans, trying to catch his breath, spat out, "Who the hell are you guys? This is insane!"

Rico grinned, grabbing another hooligan by the collar and tossing him aside. "Mi name Rico, mi and mi fren deh pon a mission. Yuh tink dis a joke? Yuh betta know dis a serious tings!"

Harshit, tackling a hooligan who had tried to sneak up behind the boy, shouted, "Come on, help me out here! We need to get these guys off us!"

The boy, still in the thick of the brawl, exchanged a wild grin with his brother. "Glad you're finally on board! Let's show them what's up!"

Rico, swinging his fists with a rhythmic precision, chimed in, "Yeah, man! Dis a di real show now! Yuh see mi? Mi never back down!"

As they fought, the hooligans, now overwhelmed and disoriented, struggled to fend off the trio. One of them, trying to retreat, shouted, "We're outnumbered! We're done for!"

The boy, panting heavily but with a fierce gleam in his eyes, roared, "That's right! You mess with my sister, you get this!"

Harshit, pushing back a group of hooligans, turned to the boy. "Look, this is getting out of hand. We've made our point. Let's get out of here before it gets worse!"

Rico, still holding his own, laughed heartily. "Mi agree. Dis place too wild fi mi likin'. Time fi go!"

The brawl continued with a final burst of energy as the boy, Harshit, and Rico managed to push the remaining hooligans back. As the fight subsided, the hooligans, now bruised and battered, retreated, leaving the trio victorious but exhausted.

Harshit, wiping sweat from his forehead, looked at the boy with a mix of relief and exasperation. "Alright, you proved your point. Let's get out of here before something even crazier happens."

Rico, slapping the boy on the back with a grin, added, "Yeah, man. Dis a wild night. But mi glad wi stand up fi wi people!"

As they walked back to the car, the boy couldn't help but chuckle at the absurdity of it all. Despite the intense emotions and the sheer craziness of the brawl, the camaraderie between him, Harshit, and Rico had created a strange sense of unity and resolve.