A new beginning

Following the death of my parents, an 11-day ritual was held, drawing relatives from near and far whom I had never met before.My parents' marriage had been one of love, a union that neither family approved of, leading to a strained and distant relationship over the years. Occasionally, a few uncles and aunts would visit, bridging the gap of our isolated family life.

My father's parents had passed away long ago, leaving only the stories of their lives. My mother often shared tales of her father, my grandfather, who was still alive but harbored a deep-seated anger towards her, which explained his absence from our lives.

Finally, the last day came when the tense talk about who would take care of me reached its highest point.I was listening in from the next room, trying hard to hear the loud voices coming through the thin walls. The arguing and yelling were very clear.

"I have kids too," one voice said, "I can't take care of another."

Another voice added, complaining, "They don't own anything, and both families have cut ties with them, not giving any inheritance."

The talk went on like this, with words overlapping in a noisy clash.

Amidst the chaotic chatter and clatter of the crowded room, a voice cut through the din like a knife.It was deep and commanding, instantly halting all conversations and movements. Heads turned toward the source—a tall man standing with his shoulders squared and eyes blazing like embers.

The room held its breath, the silence so thick it felt as though time had stopped.

"I will take him," he announced, his tone as solid as granite.

"I will raise him myself. Don't you dare interfere in his life again," he continued, his voice crackling with intensity.

Each word was enunciated with precision, carrying a fierce determination and a simmering anger that seemed to swell with each passing moment, leaving those around him in stunned silence.

The sound of footsteps grew louder, and the door swung open with a creak that seemed to reverberate in the sudden stillness.Standing there was my grandfather, a man whose image I recognized from the cherished photographs my mother used to show me.

He stepped into the room with a presence that felt both unfamiliar and profoundly reassuring.As he approached me, he introduced himself, his voice now gentle and warm, asking sincerely if I would be willing to accompany him to his hometown of Vizag.

I sat on the edge of the bed—the same one where my mom used to tuck me in and tell me bedtime stories, while my dad sat at his desk, crafting tales of his own.The room was filled with their presence, and I couldn't bear to leave it.

For the last ten days, my tears had been relentless, and exhaustion clung to me like a heavy cloak.I longed to stay here, where I could pretend they were just in the next room and find some peace in that thought.

As I buried my face in my grandfather's comforting hands, I was overwhelmed by memories and grief.I couldn't speak; I could only sob uncontrollably.

My grandfather, gentle and patient, finally spoke,

"We'll start early in the morning. Let me know if there's anything you want to take with you, and I'll make arrangements for transport."

I nodded, wiping my eyes, and began to list the items that held pieces of my heart.

"The photos," I choked out,"and Dad's chair. Our dining table, Dad's bike, my bicycle, and his books..."

My voice faltered, overcome by tears.

He stopped me with a reassuring squeeze of my shoulder.

"We'll take everything you want, don't worry," he promised, his voice steady and kind.

The following morning, my grandfather gently tapped on my bedroom door and asked me to gather my clothes and a few personal items.He assured me that someone else would come by to collect the rest.

Today was the day I had to say goodbye to Aadhya and Adithya.They arrived at my house to see me off, and tears welled up in my eyes as I embraced them.

Adithya's eyes glistened with tears, too, while Aadhya whispered a quick farewell before dashing away, her footsteps echoing down the hallway.Adithya handed me a small piece of paper with his landline number scribbled on it, urging me to call him.

I nodded, promising to stay in touch.I searched for Aadhya, wanting to speak with her one last time, but she was nowhere to be found.

My grandfather waited patiently in the car, engine idling.With a heavy heart, I climbed into the vehicle, tears streaming down my cheeks as I gazed out the window at Adithya.He stood there, waving, his figure growing smaller as we drove away.

After some time, the knot of tension in my chest loosened, and my grandfather, with his gentle eyes twinkling, noticed the change.

"Are you hungry?" he asked, his voice a warm, comforting rumble.

I shrugged slightly, admitting,

"A little."

He nodded, a thoughtful look crossing his face.

"If we spot a hotel along the way, we'll take a short break and have breakfast," he suggested with a reassuring smile.

Curiosity sparked within me, and I turned to him, asking,

"What should I call you?"

His laughter bubbled up, light and infectious.

"Do you know my name?" he asked, teasing.

I recalled my mother's words and replied,

"She told me it's the same as mine."

He chuckled,

"Yes, my full name is Siddharth Nanda," he confirmed."You can call me whatever you like—grandpa, gramps. Do you know Telugu?" he inquired.

I nodded.

"Then you can call me 'thatha,'" he declared proudly.

With a grin, I replied,

"Okay, I'll call you by all these names."

His expression shifted as he shared that grandma had passed away when my mom was just a child.He confessed that after my mom left, he found himself alone, grappling with regret for letting her go.His pride had kept him from reaching out, but if he had known this day would come, he would have swallowed his ego and called long ago.

As he spoke, tears welled up in his eyes, and his voice trembled with the weight of unspoken emotions.

I squeezed his hand gently and whispered,

"I'll be with you every step of the way. You won't have to face anything alone."

After a few brief pauses to catch our breath and take in the surroundings, we finally arrived at my new home.It was just as my mom had always described, with the vibrant images from her stories and photos coming to life before my eyes.The rooms, painted in warm shades of cream and gold, were filled with the scent of fresh paint and new beginnings.

As I wandered through the house, soaking in every detail, I picked up my phone and called Adhi (Adithya).I excitedly shared every little thing about the house, the bustling city, and the serene beach nearby.

"How's Aadhya?" I asked eagerly.

He chuckled softly and confessed,

"She cried a bit. I think her eyes are still red, but she's trying to hide it."

His laughter was contagious, and it lifted my spirits.We chatted for a while, savoring the connection.

We made it a routine to call each other every weekend, sharing updates and stories.But then, one day, everything changed.

Adithya and Aadhya were sent to boarding school.Adithya, a brilliant mind with a knack for mischief, kept Uncle and Aunt constantly on their toes, leading them to decide that the hostel might help channel his energy.As for Aadhya, her interests lay beyond academics, drawn more to creative pursuits and extracurricular activities, so she too was sent to a girls' hostel.

Our phone calls, once frequent, dwindled gradually to monthly, then yearly, and eventually ceased altogether.Silence stretched between us, marking the passage of time and the distance that life had placed in our paths.

I arrived in Hyderabad to pursue my +2 studies, leaving behind my familiar life in Vizag.My grandfather insisted on this change, believing that my friends back home were leading me astray.So, he decided to send me to a hostel for my MPC (Maths, Physics, Chemistry) course.

The place was far from a college; it felt more like a relentless grind.Our day began at the crack of dawn, with classes starting at 6 a.m., and dragged on until 10:30 p.m., leaving us with barely enough time to rest.Our existence revolved around a cycle of attending classes, eating hurried meals, snatching brief moments of sleep, and enduring constant exams.

Weekend outings were rare and felt like distant dreams.This was my new reality.