Once upon a time, a boy was rich. Not just rich in the way kids think about extra pocket money. He was rich in the way that meant his house had a name, not just a number. "The Verma Mansion" it was called, with a big iron gate that groaned when it opened and a garden that was bigger than his school's playground.
His world was made of soft things. Soft carpets that swallowed the sound of his running feet. Soft bedsheets with thread counts his mother would talk about at parties. Soft voices of servants who called him "chote sahib" and brought him warm milk without him even asking.
He didn't know it was a special life. For him, it was just life. A normal Tuesday meant his driver, Ramesh uncle, would pick him up from school in a car that smelled of leather and his father's cologne. A normal Sunday meant his mother would take him to the mall and let him pick any three toys he wanted, no questions asked. His father was a busy man, a man with a phone always stuck to his ear, but at 9 PM sharp, he would come to his room. He would sit on the edge of his bed and ask one question: "What did you learn today, champ?"
That was his entire universe. Predictable, safe, and warm.
And then, later, his parents died in a car accident.
It did not happen in slow motion like in the movies. There was no dramatic phone call that he remembers. There was just a night when his father did not come to his room at 9 PM. Then a morning when his mother did not come to wake him up for school.
There were suddenly a lot of people in the house. People in white clothes. People with sad faces who smelled of incense and whispered in corners. He was given a white kurta to wear. It was itchy. Someone told him to sit still. Someone else told him to not cry because "you are a big boy now."
He didn't understand the words "car accident." He was seven. He understood "going away." His aunt told him, "Mumma and Papa have gone to God's house." He spent weeks looking at the sky, wondering which cloud was God's house and why they didn't take him with them.
The house did not feel like a mansion anymore. It felt like a museum. The soft carpets were still there, but now they were cold under his feet. The big dining table was still there, but now only one plate was set on it. His plate. The servants still called him "chote sahib," but their eyes were different now. They were not soft. They were calculating.
And he was now living alone.
"Alone" is a simple word. But it is a heavy thing to carry when you are eight years old. Alone meant the big bedroom was too big. The shadows in the corner looked like monsters at night, and there was no one to check under the bed anymore. Alone meant he had to learn to pour his own milk, and he always spilled it. Alone meant birthdays passed with no cake, because the date on the calendar meant nothing to anyone else.
His uncle and aunt became his "guardians." That was the word the lawyers used. They moved into The Verma Mansion. They said it was "to take care of him." But they took care of the house more than they took care of the boy.
The leather-smell car was sold. "Too expensive to maintain," his uncle said. The garden was left to grow wild. "No money for a gardener," his aunt said. But she had money for new gold bangles. He noticed. He was a kid, not blind.
He started going to a different school. "Public school is better for discipline," his uncle said. It was not better. It was just cheaper. His old friends from his old school, with their tiffins full of sandwiches and fruit, slowly disappeared from his life. His new classmates looked at his expensive shoes, the only pair left from his old life, and called him "show-off."
Later everyone started hating him.
It did not happen in one day. Hate is a slow poison. It started with the relatives. At family functions, aunties would whisper when he walked past. "Bechara, but so much money got wasted." "His parents spoiled him. Look how he doesn't even know how to serve water to guests." They said "bechara" to his face, but their eyes were sharp. They were not sad for him. They were angry that a child had a house and they didn't.
Then it was the school. The teachers were cold. "Orphans are always trouble," his math teacher muttered once, not knowing he was standing behind the door. The kids were worse. They didn't invite him to birthday parties. They didn't pick him for cricket teams. "He thinks he's better than us," they'd say. He didn't think he was better. He just didn't know how to be worse. He didn't know how to be normal.
The servants left one by one. The last one, the old cook who had been with them since he was born, held his face on her last day. "They are eating your parents' money, beta. Run away when you are big." Then she was gone too.
His uncle started telling people he was "difficult." "He doesn't listen. He's ungrateful." The story spread. Friends of friends of friends heard it. The boy from The Verma Mansion was a bad kid. An ungrateful orphan. A burden.
He stopped talking. Because what was the point? If he said he was sad, they said he was doing drama. If he said he was hungry, they said he was always demanding. If he stayed silent, they said he was arrogant.
And he was now completely alone.
Completely alone is different from just alone. Just alone means there is no one in the room. Completely alone means there is no one in the world.
He would sit in the garden that was now a jungle. He would look at the big iron gate that no longer groaned because no car ever came through it. He would touch the nameplate that still said "The Verma Mansion" and wonder why they didn't take that down too. The house was his, but it was not a home. It was a cage made of memories.
He was rich once. He had parents once. He had a name that people said with respect. Now he had a house that was falling apart, a trust fund he couldn't touch until he was 18, and a reputation that was decided for him.
He was a 10-year-old boy with the bank balance of a millionaire and the heart of a beggar. He would go to sleep at night and pray for the one thing money could never buy.
He prayed for someone to knock on his door and ask, "What did you learn today, champ?"
But no one ever did. The house was silent. And he was, finally, completely alone....
CONTINUE 👉
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