chapter 03

Suyash had always been a quiet boy. At 14, life at the St. Agnes Orphanage in the misty hills of Darjeeling was all he knew. His parents, lost to a landslide years ago, were fading memories. The orphanage's cracked walls and creaky wooden floors were his universe—a place where rules were strict, laughter was rare, and secrets thrived in shadowy corners.

It began innocently enough. One rainy afternoon, while rummaging through a dusty storage closet for old board games, he stumbled upon a tattered book wedged beneath a broken chair. Its cover, once glossy, was now peeling, but the title gleamed in faded gold: The Art of Renaissance Sculpture. Curiosity piqued, he flipped through its pages, only to freeze at a chapter titled The Human Form. There, between diagrams of marble statues, were photographs—unflinching, explicit—of nude women, their bodies bathed in chiaroscuro lighting. Suyash's breath hitched. His palms grew clammy. He slammed the book shut, guilt surging through him like a fever. Yet, that night, under the dim glow of a smuggled flashlight, he returned to it. 

The images haunted him. They flickered behind his eyelids during prayer time, taunted him during chores. At first, he rationalized: It's just art. It's natural. But soon, the rationalizations crumbled. His body betrayed him with unfamiliar urges. One night, alone in the shared dormitory, he tentatively touched himself beneath the scratchy blanket, mimicking what he'd seen. The release was electric, overwhelming—and afterward, shame pooled in his stomach like lead. He vowed never to do it again.

But the book became a siren call. Days blurred into weeks. He'd steal moments in the closet, knees trembling, heart racing, as he traced the curves on the pages with trembling fingers. The guilt never faded, but the pleasure dulled its edges. 

The real world began to warp. Girls he'd known for years—playmates turned strangers—now seemed to move differently. Their laughter, their gestures, even the sway of their skirts as they swept the floors felt charged with meaning. He avoided the younger girls, their innocence a mirror to his corruption. Instead, he gravitated toward the older ones: Leela, 17, with her cascade of ink-black hair and a laugh that echoed down hallways; Priya, 16, whose cotton saree clung to her hips as she bent to scrub the tiles.

Leela, especially, fascinated him. Her blouses stretched taut across her chest, and when she leaned over to scold the younger children, Suyash's gaze would linger, his throat dry. She treated him with casual kindness, ruffling his hair or teasing him about his shyness, unaware of the storm she stirred. 

It happened during the annual cleaning week. The orphanage buzzed with activity—buckets clanging, brooms sweeping, sunlight streaming through freshly polished windows. Suyash, assigned to help Leela, trailed behind her like a shadow. As she bent to scrub a stubborn stain on the floor, her saree slipped slightly, revealing the swell of her breast. Suyash's broom clattered to the ground.

"Yash?" Leela straightened, wiping sweat from her brow. "You okay?"

He nodded mutely, cheeks flaming. But his eyes betrayed him, darting again to her chest.

Her smile faded. "Yash." Her voice sharpened. "What are you staring at?"

"N-Nothing!" He grabbed his broom, knuckles white.

She stepped closer, her presence towering. "Don't lie. Come here."

Panic clawed at his ribs. The storage closet flashed in his mind—the book, the shame, the nights spent chasing a high that left him emptier each time. 

She dragged him to a dimly lit corridor, away from prying eyes. The air smelled of lemon disinfectant and mildew. "Tell me the truth," she demanded, arms crossed.

Suyash's words tangled in his throat. His gaze dropped—there they were again, her breasts rising with each breath, the fabric of her blouse straining. A forbidden magnetism pulled him closer.

"Answer me!" Leela snapped.

Acting on impulse, he reached out, cupping her breasts. They were warm, softer than he'd imagined. "I… I was looking at this," he whispered, half in awe, half in terror.

Leela recoiled as if burned. "Bhagwan!" she shrieked, shoving him away. "Have you lost your mind?!"

Suyash fled, his heartbeat a deafening drum in his ears. That night, he lay rigid in bed, replaying the moment. What if she tells Sister Margaret? The warden's wrath was legendary—a wooden ruler across the palms, days locked in the prayer room, rations halved. Worse, the other girls would never look at him again. 

Leela never told. But the orphanage's dynamics shifted. Girls clustered in whispers when he passed. Leela avoided him, her once-warm eyes now icy. Suyash withdrew further, haunted by twin specters: desire and self-loathing.

He tried quitting. He threw the book into the orphanage's incinerator, watching its pages curl into ash. But withdrawal was brutal. Nights stretched endlessly, his body aching for release. One moonless evening, he found himself sketching Leela's form on the margins of his notebook—the slope of her neck, the curve of her waist. The pencil snapped in his grip. 

Weeks later, during chapel service, Suyash knelt beside Priya. Sunlight streamed through stained glass, painting her profile in hues of sapphire and gold. She glanced at him, and for a heartbeat, he feared she'd seen the hunger in his eyes. But she merely smiled, handing him a hymnbook.

In that moment, Suyash made a silent vow: I'll be better. I have to.

Yet, as the choir's voices swelled, he couldn't ignore the tremor in his hands—or the gnawing certainty that the storm inside him was far from over.