Seven Years Ago
The hospital corridor had never felt this long.
Not even once.
He had walked through it countless times that night—past the same white walls, the same closed doors, the same flickering lights that made everything look colder than it already was.
But every time he reached the end of the corridor, there was still nowhere to go.
He was twenty-one.
Too young to understand how a life could change in a single night.
Old enough to know that it already had.
He stood outside the intensive care unit, his hands buried inside the pockets of his black trousers, staring through the glass at the two people lying motionless on the other side.
His elder brother.
His sister-in-law.
Machines breathed for them.
Monitors continued their steady rhythm.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
The doctors had said the same thing repeatedly.
They were alive.
But they were in a coma.
There was no way of knowing when they would wake.
Or if they would.
He had listened without saying a word.
What else could he do?
Behind him, two little boys sat together on the row of hospital chairs.
The elder one was barely old enough to understand what a coma meant.
The younger one understood even less.
They had been awake for hours.
Their eyes were swollen from crying.
The younger boy held tightly onto the sleeve of his brother's shirt.
"Papa kab aayenge?"
The question was barely a whisper.
He closed his eyes.
For one second.
Just one.
Because if he allowed himself to break now, he didn't know if he would be able to put himself back together.
He turned around.
The younger boy looked at him.
"Papa kab uthenge?"
He walked toward them and crouched in front of the two boys.
He wanted to say something comforting.
Something a father would say.
Something that would make them stop being afraid.
But he had never been good with words.
He had never needed to be.
His brother had always been the one who knew how to make everyone laugh.
His sister-in-law had always been the one who filled the house with warmth.
And he—
He had always simply been the younger brother.
The responsible one.
The quiet one.
The one who handled things.
But tonight, the family needed someone to handle something that couldn't be handled.
He looked at the boys.
Then at the ICU doors.
Then back at them.
The elder boy wiped his tears with the back of his hand.
"Chachu..."
His voice cracked.
"Hum ghar kab jayenge?"
He swallowed.
Home.
The word felt strange now.
Their parents were inside that room.
The house waiting for them would never feel the same again.
He reached out and placed a hand on the elder boy's head.
"We'll go home."
The younger boy immediately asked,
"Papa bhi?"
Silence.
He couldn't lie.
Not to them.
Not tonight.
So he pulled both boys closer.
"I'll take care of you."
The elder boy looked at him.
"You promise?"
He didn't hesitate.
"I promise."
It was only three words.
But he knew, the moment they left his mouth, that they would change the rest of his life.
He would attend their parent-teacher meetings.
He would learn which vegetables they hated.
He would remember their birthdays.
He would sit beside them when they were sick.
He would wait outside school.
He would teach them how to ride a bicycle.
He would stand between them and every cruel thing the world could throw at them.
He would become the person they searched for when they were frightened.
The person they called when they were hurt.
The person they trusted when everyone else was gone.
He didn't know how to be a father.
He barely knew how to be twenty-one.
But he knew one thing.
He would not let those boys grow up believing they had been abandoned.
The younger boy slowly wrapped his arms around his waist.
The elder followed a moment later.
And for the first time that night, he let his eyes close.
His hand tightened around the little boy's back.
Outside the hospital room, the world continued moving.
Cars passed.
Phones rang.
Doctors walked through the corridors.
People spoke in hushed voices.
But for him, everything had stopped.
His brother was still breathing.
His sister-in-law was still breathing.
There was still hope.
And until they came back—
he would be their father.
Even if they called him Chachu today.
Even if one day they forgot what it felt like to call him anything else.
Seven years later, they would call him Dad.
And by then, he would have forgotten how to be anything else.
A quiet thank you to everyone who supports my work ♡ Your kindness allows me to keep creating stories, moments, and worlds that mean so much to me. Every bit of support is deeply appreciated.
Write a comment ...