Hello babiesss!!!

“Gaand ka ilaj ho sakat hai ganduon ka nahi…,” I said, slapping the man again.
(An asshole can be treated, but idiots like you can’t.)

“Luv bhaiya chodhoo…,” Mohit said.
(Brother Luv, please leave him…)

“Khud beedhi peene ke paise hain aur bachon se bheek mangwa raha hai…?,” I slapped him again.
(You have money to smoke but you’re making children beg…)

He joined his hands, shaking.

“Bhaiya chodhooo…,” Disha grabbed my arm again.
(Brother, please stop…)

I looked at her. She was crying.

I closed my eyes tightly.

“Tu saad... madarchod yahin saad…,” I said and picked up both the kids.
(You filthy bastard, stay right here…)

Both the kids were crying. I put them on my bike and took a deep breath.

It hasn’t even been eighteen days since Surekha di died, and these kids are already begging… the so-called man of the house busy collecting money for his addictions.

Pigfucking fucker.

They’ve already lost their mother. I won’t let them beg on the streets. At least I owe Surekha di this much.

“Luv bhaiya… hum kahan ja rahe?” Disha asked.
(Brother Luv… where are we going?)

“Pehle mere ghar jaenge, acha acha khana khayenge, fir tum dono ka ache se boarding school main admission karwaenge…,” I said.
(First we’ll go to my house, eat good food, then I’ll get both of you admitted into a good boarding school.)

“Khana khaenge??” Mohit asked excitedly.
(We’ll eat food??)

My stomach churned.

“Kyun tumne aaj nashta nahi kiya?” I asked.
(Why, didn’t you have breakfast today?)

Both kids laughed.

“Nahi… baba ne kaha tha paise nahi hain…,” Mohit said.
(No… father said there’s no money…)

“Humne toh 2 din se kuch nahi khaya…,” Disha said.
(We haven’t eaten anything for two days…)

I had to stop at the side of the road, reminding myself I can’t kill a man.

“Chalo ab ache se khayenge…,” I stopped at a nearby restaurant.
(Come on, now we’ll eat properly…)

Hell, I’m not waiting to reach home.

They ordered five dishes. I just kept laughing. The waiter was shocked when all the food vanished from the table in a few minutes.

Both kids had no proper clothes, so I bought a few clothes for them as well.

Whatever they liked. After that, they finally went back home.

I got to know Surekha di when I first came to Bangalore. She wasn’t some money-eating maid. She was my support system. She taught me to cook, clean, do laundry, and everything. Never charged a penny extra.

Sometimes when I was struggling financially, she would say,

“Mujhe paise ki zarurat nahi hai abhi... baad mein de dena.”
(I don’t need the money right now... Give me the salary next month.)

Sometimes she would buy milk and quietly replace vegetables for me.

And now... she’s no longer with me.

Nobody told me to do this for her... But I find it my personal duty to make sure her kids get a good life. The life she imagined for them. The life she used to tell me about. The future where she would relax, never work again, and come visit me sometimes.

I looked at Disha and Mohit sitting sadly on the recliners.

“Cartoon dekhoge?”
(Will you watch cartoons?)

They both shook their heads no.

“Idhar aao dono…”
(Come here, both of you…)

I sat on my knees on the floor and opened my arms.

They slowly walked toward me and hugged me from both sides.

They started crying again.

Quietly.

I let them.

They need this. They are kids, They need to feel safe, They need to learn that it’s okay to cry, That they don’t have to be strong all the time.

After a while, when both of them relaxed and pulled away—

“Mummy kahin nahi gayi hain, wo hamesha tum dono ke saath hain.”
(Your mother hasn’t gone anywhere. She’s always with both of you.)

Both kids looked at me with teary eyes.

“Wo hamesha yahan rahengi…”
(She will always stay here…)

I gently touched their hearts.

“Aur yahan bhi…”
(And here too…)

I pointed at their heads.

“Samjhe?”
(Understood?)

They both nodded.

“Chalo ab rona band karo aur TV dekho…”
(Now stop crying and watch TV…)

I switched on the TV and gave them the remote.

I walked away. My own heart felt heavy looking at them.

I dialed my mumma.

“Aaj meri yaad kahan se aa gayi?” she said.
(How did you suddenly remember me today?)

Her voice instantly calmed me.

“Bas aise hi… bohot ghabrahat ho rahi thi toh socha call karun…”
(Just like that… I was feeling anxious, so I thought I’d call…)

“Baap re… lagta hai kuch hua hai tabhi mummy yaad aa gayi…” she said.
(Oh my… something must have happened if you remembered your mother…)

I smiled.

“Surekha di ke bache le aya hoon, dono ka kisi ache boarding school—”
(I’ve brought Surekha di’s children, both of them to get into a good boarding school—)

“Luv ka call hai??” I heard Jiya di’s voice from the background.
(Is that Luv calling??)

I smiled wider.

“Luvv… kab aoge Delhi?” she exclaimed.
(Luvv… when are you coming to Delhi?)

“Abhi toh aya tha ek mahine pehle…” I reminded her.
(I just came a month ago…)

“Haan… ek mahina ho gaya itne din…” she said.
(Yes… it’s already been a month…)

I laughed.

“Saanjh miss kar rahi mamu ko…” she added.
(Saanjh is missing her uncle…)

Oh my baby Saanjh.

“Usko bolo mamu jaldi aayega…” I said.
(Tell her uncle will come soon…)

She walked away.

“Acha abhi main rakhti hoon, Ansh bula raha hai…” she said.
(Okay I’ll hang up now, Ansh is calling me…)

“Haan… bye…”

The call cut.

The new favorite — ANSH.

Becoming a father at the age of becoming a grandfather.

I went back inside.

“Chalo dono idhar aao aur batao konsa school acha lag raha…”
(Come here, both of you, and tell me which school you like…)

I opened my laptop.

“Ye kitne ka hua bhaiya?” I asked the shopkeeper.
(How much is this, brother?)

“Iktalis rupay,” he said.

Oh God.

My brain froze for a second before I quickly pulled out my phone. I’ve trained myself for situations like this.

“Okay Google, what is iktalis in English?” I asked softly.

Forty-one.

Right.

I checked my wallet again. I didn’t have change, so I handed him a hundred rupee note and started calculating the remaining money in my head at the same time. Math and I have never been friends. Actually, that’s an understatement. We’re enemies. Bad enough that I had to repeat fourth grade.

I took the bag and started walking back toward my PG.

“Sign kar dijiye,” the guard said.
(Please sign here.)

“Bhaiya abhi toh gayi thi… kitni baar sign karwaoge?” I asked tiredly.
(Brother, I just went out… how many times will you make me sign?)

“Ab jo order hai wahi bola hai,” he replied.
(I’m just following orders.)

I signed the register without arguing and went upstairs.

The college hostel wasn’t good enough for me. I get sick easily, and the food there was… questionable. So I stay fifteen minutes away in a private PG. I told Appa not to waste money on it, but he said it’s better to spend on a good place than on medicines later.

Fair enough.

“Mansi…” I called out when I entered.

No response.

Maybe she was sleeping.

I quietly took off my jacket. Finally. No more hiding.

I went to the sink and washed my face slowly. The thin layer of makeup came off, revealing the white patches around my jaw and cheek.

I looked at myself in the mirror.

My face looked like a border.

Half brown. Half white.

Vitiligo doesn’t hurt.

People do.

I applied moisturizer and stepped back into the room. Thank God Mansi wasn’t one of those girls who thought touching me would transfer the condition to her. Maybe because she’s older than me.

Maybe because Appa pays a little extra.

Maybe both.

I sat cross-legged on my bed with a bowl of noodles and a Pepsi bottle, placed my tablet in front of me, wore my headphones, and opened Vampire Diaries.

It’s a decent show.

Good enough to pass time.

Good enough to not think about backlogs.

Good enough to not think about myself.

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Uff uff... hey guys! You must have missed me a lot, I know, but now I'm back, and this time I'm writing the English translation side by side, so no tension afterward.

So this is your author, Talessmith, signing in with you to take you on a chaotic, fun, dark, and passionate adventure.

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