A Summer of Quiet Sacrifice

The heat of the sun hadn't yet softened.

when Krish's eyes opened to the familiar din of his household. 

It was the first morning of his summer break—after the triumphant end of his 10th-grade exams—and, like every other day since he learned to lift a broom, he slipped quietly out of bed.

His mother's soft humming guided him to the kitchen. The earthen pots already steamed with rice and sambar; the salt in her hand kept time with each ladle she lifted. Krish set down his school bag, now retired for the holidays, and asked, "Mom, Can i help you in your work?" His words were routine; his tone, gentle.

She smiled, a small crack of relief in her tired eyes: "Krish, you need some break. So you can go out and play with your friends. Spend your holidays time in enjoying with your friends. But i need some help too. Do you help me in that?" she waved him toward the courtyard where clothes hung limp in the morning air.

As he gathered each damp shirt and folded it neatly, the memory of his exams drifted in and out of his mind—but he refused to dwell there. For Krish, this summer was not a time to boast; it was a time to be needed.

By 7 AM, his father emerged from the room upstairs, face half-hidden behind the collar of his shirt. Once a bright-eyed man who had painted every gate and wall in their little town, he now moved as if the day had already worn him down. Krish greeted him cheerfully, tugging at his father's sleeve, "Dad, Shall us begin the work now?"

They walked side by side to the paint shop — a single room with cans of color piled to the ceiling. As his father mixed buckets of whitewash for a neighbor's fence, Krish held the ladder steady. Each time his father climbed to spread the brush, Krish's muscles ached — but his resolve only grew firmer.

The morning passed with hymns of scraping brushes and the smell of fresh lime. At midday, when the sun raged fiercest, his mother called them home. Over a frugal lunch, his father patted Krish's head and said, "Krish, You are a Topper. You are currently not studying. So, you may help me by doing my work in my place." It was meant as praise, yet something in his voice trembled. Krish's heart clenched. Was his father proud? Or merely relieved someone was carrying the weight of daily life?

In those early weeks, everything seemed hushed and happy — the sort of gentle togetherness that memory would later gild in golden light. Krish and his father joked about dripping paint, and his mother teased him if he wore the wrong slippers. But beneath each laugh lay a quiet tension Krish could feel in his bones.

One afternoon, after helping his mother scrub the courtyard floor, Krish noticed his father slipping out the back gate, paint-splattered shirt tucked under his arm. Curious, Krish followed at a discrete distance. He found his father at the tea stall around the corner, not alone but leaning on the shoulder of a man he'd never seen. They were drinking from small glasses, talking and laughing in slurred voices.

Krish's first impulse was anger, but instead he froze. The man beside his father slapped him on the back and handed him another glass. His father lifted it to his lips without hesitation—clear liquid shimmering under the afternoon sun. Krish lowered his gaze.

That evening, his father returned with bloodshot eyes and a lighter step than usual. He whistled a tune as he walked in, oblivious to the way his mother's eyes darted to the kitchen knife and back to him, helpless. Krish knelt behind her, offering a half-grin that she didn't return.

From then on, the happy mornings gave way to uneasy afternoons. His father would stagger out in the heat of the day—sometimes to buy more paint, but more often to meet his drinking friends. The shop sat closed, cans of color gathering dust, while workloads piled up. Neighbors began to murmur: "Krish works too hard — does his father even care?" Each whisper felt like a blow to his chest, but Krish swallowed the pain. He continued waking before dawn, helping wherever he could.

Inside the house, krish's mother's laughter faded into a tight line of worry. Every evening she'd stare out the window, waiting for his father to come home. When he did, he would slump into a chair, lubricate his joints with another drink, and collapse. Once she tried to confront him:

"Your joints never stop moving,

you are working tirelessly for this family."

But her words dissolved in the stale air; his father only mumbled in response, head lowered.

Krish watched his mother's shoulders sag a little more each day. He offered to take on additional chores — cooking simple meals when his mother felt too tired to stir the pot, sweeping the floors when her hands trembled. He cooked dal and rice for the three of them and ate leftovers later, alone. His appetite shrank each time he saw his father raise that glass to his lips.

One sultry evening, as monsoon clouds rolled in, Krish returned from delivering paint buckets to a house two streets away. He opened the gate to find his mother weeping in the courtyard, arms wrapped around the gatepost, as though the stone could hold her steady. His father lay on the cot, snoring softly.

Krish knelt beside his mother, worried tears glimmering in her eyes. "Mom, What happened?" He wanted to wipe her tears, but worried they would stain his uniform.

She rested her head on his shoulder and whispered,

"Everything stands strong because of you, Krish.If you're not there, it all falls apart."

(You are my life. Without you, all this will collapse.)

In that moment, Krish felt the full weight of everything: his mother's love, his father's weakness, and the fragile line he alone stood upon. He swallowed his anger and fear, and promised himself silently:

"I will not let this family break. I will stand."

That night, Krish climbed onto the terrace under a storm-scented sky. Krish has a habit of writing of every moment in his diary. It has became his daily routine from 7th standard. He opened his Diary — its pages now creased from sweaty fingers — and read the lines he had written days before:

"If pain couldn't stop me… fear won't either."

He traced each word with his fingertip, committing them to memory. He remembered the drawing of a lone warrior on a mountaintop, fire in his eyes. He closed his eyes and breathed in the monsoon air, letting it fill him with a strange peace.

Summer's end approached like a gathering storm. With each passing day, his father's visits to the tea stall grew longer; the shop remained closed more often than not. Yet, Krish's resolve hardened. He rose earlier, ran errands for neighbors, and refused any pitying looks. He built tiny routines of strength around himself—each task completed became a brick in his invisible fortress.

Then came the day his father showed up in the afternoon, not drunk but sober-eyed and quiet. He held a small packet of biscuits and handed it to Krish with a tremor in his hand.

"You said… studies are going on. That's enough for me…"

He broke down, shoulders shaking.

Krish's heart twisted. He knelt before his father, carefully steadying his frame."Dad, I'll help you," he said. "You also need to heal."(Father, I will help you too.)

That night, mother watched as father poured his heart out in whispers, and Krish sat beside him, silent but present. The three of them — once drifting apart — found a fragile unity in that small room: a unity Krish vowed to protect.

On the morning his new school bag and shoes arrived — gifts saved from his father's pay—Krish stood at the threshold, ready for the next phase of his journey. He felt exhaustion tug at his limbs, but he also felt something stronger: an unbreakable promise.

He stepped into the first monsoon drops, water splattering on the dusty path. And in that moment, Krish understood that 

"Battles are not always fought with swords. Sometimes they are fought with silent courage, unwavering loyalty, and a heart big enough to forgive."

His summer had been more than chores and colors. It had been a crucible. He had watched his father falter, seen his mother's tears, and vowed to bear the weight of both. Now, as the world prepared to call him "Intermediate student", Krish looked within and saw a warrior ready for whatever came next.

Because a battle had taught him this: 

winning at school was only the beginning. The true victory lay in keeping faith alive, even when hope seemed lost.

But, He had some confusion in his mind. Where it is about to joining in Intermediate or walking in the different way into the Diploma...

Let us continue in the next upcoming chapter...