I raised Arjun because I felt I had to, not because I wanted to. And when Meera died, I lost the only thread tying the two of us together.

Arjun never complained, never caused trouble.
Maybe he sensed the truth all along—that I never saw him as my own.
A month after the funeral, I finally told him:
“Go. Whether you live or die, it doesn’t matter to me.”
I expected him to cry. To beg.
But he didn’t.
He left.
And I felt nothing.
I sold the house and moved.
Life went on. The business prospered. I met another woman—no burdens, no children.
For a few years, I sometimes thought about Arjun.
Not out of concern—just curiosity.
Where was he? Was he still alive?
But time erases even curiosity.
A 12-year-old boy, alone in the world—where could he go?
I didn’t know.
I didn’t care.
I even said to myself:
“If he died, maybe it was for the best. At least he wouldn’t suffer anymore.”
Ten years later.
I received a call from an unknown number. “Hello, Mr. Rajesh? Could you attend the opening of the TPA Gallery on MG Road this Saturday?
Someone is really hoping to see you there.”
I was about to hang up—but the next sentence chilled me:
“Don’t you want to know what happened to Arjun?”
My chest tightened.
I hadn’t heard that name—Arjun—in ten years.
I paused. Then I replied curtly:
“I’ll go.”