Krishna sighed in quiet contentment, the kind of exhale that felt earned. The Maggi noodles were starting to soften in the bubbling water, steam rising in gentle swirls, filling the kitchen with that warm, familiar masala scent. A spoon clinked against the steel pot as he stirred with one hand, the other adjusting the gas knob just slightly.
"Perfect," he murmured to himself, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
It was his cheat day—Saturday. A day for two packs of Maggi, maybe a slice of leftover cake, and a break from boiled eggs and chicken breast. He hadn't told his gym bros, of course. Cheat day was sacred and secret. Besides, it wasn't about nutrition today. It was about comfort.
He was in a good mood. A genuinely good mood.
It had been a while.
Earlier that morning, he'd crushed an 80kg bench press. The day before, 120kg squat. Two days back? A clean 140kg deadlift—cleaner than some of the seniors who used to scoff at his form months ago.
And as if that wasn't enough, today during internal viva, his project—Jourezy, a travel and tourism app—got praised. Not just the design, but his clarity in explaining the architecture and features. Krishna, who barely ever studied seriously, had delivered a damn near TED Talk. The professor who usually nodded off during presentations actually asked a follow-up.
He had even fist-bumped his teammate afterward. "Bro, you were on fire." Krishna had smiled, genuinely surprised at how easy it felt.
Yeah. Today had been good.
He leaned against the counter now, watching the water bubble around the yellow noodles. His sister would be back from tuition soon. She loved Maggi on weekends—especially when she didn't have to make it. He liked spoiling her a little when things were calm. Days like this felt rare. Like a truce.
His thoughts wandered—uninvited but not unwelcome.
It hadn't always been like this. Not even close.
He could still remember the weight of that older life—months ago, before the gym, before he quit drinking and smoking, before the fragments of his broken home started gluing back together, however loosely.
Those days were blurred by routine misery. Wake up. Hear the front gate clank shut—father leaving, already hungover or about to be. Eat in silence. Listen for mother's voice behind the kitchen door—either humming to herself to keep the illusion alive, or crying softly when she thought no one could hear.
He remembered the mornings he pretended to study just to escape into notes. The nights when the house felt like a fragile glass dome waiting to crack. There were no fights, not always. Just… static. Like everyone was waiting for something to fall apart again.
And in school? Worse. Surrounded by people who only talked to him when they needed answers or someone to mock for not having "enough fun." He had friends, technically. But none he trusted. None who knew him. Their version of bonding was thinly veiled contempt.
He never said anything. Just smiled. Nodded. Laughed when expected.
It was in B.Tech that things started to shift. His new friends weren't saints, but they weren't malicious. They talked. Listened. Gave him space. Sometimes they crossed lines—pressuring him into drinks, smokes—but at least they weren't cruel about it. And for Krishna, that was an upgrade.
He'd fallen into those habits for a while, desperate to belong. Nights blurred into parties, hostel rooms, jokes he didn't find funny. But deep down, he hated how his body felt. How his mind grew foggy. How his sleep got shallow. And slowly, around the start of third year, he changed course.
The gym helped. Not just physically—it gave him rhythm, a reason to eat right, to sleep better. To care about himself. There was something sacred in lifting heavy things with perfect form. Something honest.
He'd quit smoking. Quit drinking. Focused on projects. Started studying again, even if it was just the day before the exam. And even then—75 to 80%. Like clockwork. His professors knew he wasn't lazy. Just… distracted. Busy keeping his house from burning.
His father had gotten a new job recently. It didn't pay as much as the old one, but it kept the fridge stocked. Bills were being paid again. The drinking had slowed. The shouting too. He and Krishna still barely spoke—but there was a cautious peace between them. That mattered.
He stirred the noodles again, gently this time. The water had thickened with the masala. Another minute.
It had been a long road. But it was turning.
Not perfectly. Not painlessly.
But for the first time in years, Krishna felt like he could breathe in his own skin. He had muscle now. Discipline. A project to be proud of. A few friends who checked in now and then. A sister who looked up to him. A mother who smiled a little more each day.
The past still clung to him—like humidity that never dried—but he was no longer drowning in it.
He shut the stove off.
"Cheat day," he whispered again, smiling to himself as he reached for two plates. "Best day of the week."
Outside, the evening sun painted the kitchen in warm gold.
And in that moment—just that one small, quiet moment—Krishna truly believed things were getting better.
He set the plates on the dining table, his movements practiced. One for him, one for his sister—steam curling upward in little spirals like incense in an old temple. Krishna leaned on the chair for a second, elbows on the backrest, soaking in the smell. Nostalgia, comfort, calories, and rebellion in one cheap meal.
But it wasn't just about the Maggi.
It was about now. About this version of himself—the one who could laugh at his mistakes, who could make Maggi without burning it, who could deadlift 140 kilos and still not let it get to his head.
That hadn't come easy.
He remembered when things felt... soft. That year between first and second year of B.Tech—when the drinking started. Not just his father's. His too.
At first, it was the novelty. The peer pressure didn't even need to be loud. Just a pat on the back. "Come on, bro. One sip. You think you're better than us?" And Krishna, who never had decent friends until engineering, who had spent most of school either ignored or used—he didn't want to go back to being alone.
So he drank.
Not often. But enough.
He smoked too. First time he coughed like hell. Second time less. Third time, he didn't even feel it.
He hated it. Every moment.
But the laughter after. The sense of belonging. The way one guy nudged him and said, "See? Now you're one of us."
It felt… dangerous. And addictive.
But somewhere between the late-night smokes and the fake laughter, he felt himself slipping. The very thing he feared—losing control, losing identity—it was happening. Slowly. Like rust spreading through iron.
And then something broke. Quietly.
It wasn't a big moment. No rock bottom. Just a realization—he was tired of feeling like this. Bloated. Foggy. Faintly ashamed. He caught his own reflection in a bus window one night and didn't recognize the eyes.
So he stopped. Cold.
His friends didn't cheer. They didn't mock either. A few even nodded, like they understood. The rest moved on.
He didn't need applause. Just distance.
And into that space, he found… iron.
The gym started small. Some seniors took him in—no grand mentorship, just space to train. One of them spotted his squat form, corrected it without mocking. That was new. Respect born from reps, not from jokes or humiliation.
He started waking early. Sleeping earlier. Tracking his calories. Whey protein instead of whiskey. Shoulder presses instead of social anxiety. The pain was real, but it was earned. And it didn't leave him hollow—it left him whole.
He remembered the first time he hit 60kg on bench. He texted his sister:
"60kg bench today. Might become Thor soon. Buy hammer?"
She replied with a gif of Mjolnir. He grinned at the memory.
He didn't talk about it much, but his genetics had definitely lent a helping hand.
He was 6'2" at sixteen, and by nineteen, he stood at a clean 6'4", making him the tallest guy in his entire college—not that he made a big deal out of it. If someone asked, he'd casually toss out:
"Superior vertical evolution, bro. Natural selection chose me."
But inside, he never took it to heart. To him, he looked… average.
No matter how many times his sister called him "movie-hero tall" or his mother tried to fix his hair and sigh with that familiar "you'd break hearts if you smiled more," Krishna never believed it.
Sure, his hair was decent—thick, wavy, never needed gel. A barber once said it had "volume like a shampoo ad."But every time he looked in the mirror, all he saw was the same tired engineering student with faint under-eye circles and the default expression of "have I submitted that assignment yet?"
Even with all that, he never really thought of himself as attractive. He called himself lucky at best. And if someone insisted he looked good, he'd say something like:
"I mean… genetics got bored and rolled a high number. What can I do?"
Still, his body responded to training like it had been waiting for it. In just three months, he'd gone from struggling to bench 25 kilos to comfortably pressing 80kg. His shoulders filled out, his posture straightened, and he finally started looking like someone who belonged in a gym.
And the weird part?
He healed fast.
Like, weirdly fast. DOMS (delayed onset muscle soreness) rarely lasted more than a day. He could hit the same muscle group twice—sometimes even three times a week—without compromising his lifts. His gym seniors called it "freak recovery." One of them joked he must be hiding some sort of mutant bloodline.
He didn't mind. It felt good to see progress. For once, his body and mind were on the same side.
But despite the gains and the height and the whispers from juniors who noticed, Krishna never got cocky. He had no time for vanity. The iron was his escape, his reset switch, his therapy.
His victories were silent—and so was his discipline.
This last week had been especially good. His lifts were clean, his form solid. Professors were starting to respect him. Even his viva went smoothly for once.
Jourezy—his group's travel and tourism app—was more than just code. It was the first project he'd poured heart into. Designed the UI himself. Wrote clean logic, debugged late into the night. When the professor nodded during the demo and muttered, "Interesting use of minimalism," Krishna wanted to leap in the air.
"I know it's not groundbreaking," he had told his teammate afterward.
"But it works," the guy said. "And it looks good."
Validation. Not loud. But earned.
Even his father—while still tense, still emotionally stiff—had started eating dinner at the table again. They weren't close. But it was better than last year's shouting.
And it was his father's birthday today.
A Saturday.
Cheat day.
The timing had felt poetic. Maybe even divine.
He and his sister had pooled together a bit of money to buy a gift—a new shirt and wallet. Simple, but carefully picked. His sister insisted on wrapping it herself, even added a clumsy paper bow on top.
"We'll keep it on the table," she had whispered earlier that morning.
"And we'll all eat together today," Krishna had said.
"For the first time in months," she had replied.
He believed it. He wanted to believe it.
The table was set. The Maggi was ready. The wallet and shirt were on the counter. The kitchen clock ticked forward. His sister would walk in any moment, maybe grinning. Maybe singing a line from some reel song she had on loop.
And for once, Krishna allowed himself to feel… happy.
Not euphoric. Not overwhelmed.
Just… content.
Things weren't perfect. Far from it.
But for the first time in a long time, they weren't falling apart either.
Krishna sat cross-legged on the floor, plate in one hand, spoon in the other, slurping noodles with the finesse of a man who knew exactly what comfort tasted like. His sister had returned a few minutes ago, slightly sweaty from tuition, flung her bag to the side like a declaration of war, and practically dived into her plate.
"God-tier Maggi," she said between bites, voice muffled by noodles. "You've finally earned your cheat day privileges."
"I've always had cheat day privileges," Krishna replied, mock offended.
"Yeah, but this is actually edible now. Growth!"
He pointed his spoon at her. "Careful, woman. That's 80 kilos of bench-pressing divine masculinity you're mocking."
She snorted, wiping her mouth. "Okay, okay. Mjolnir Krishna. Calm down."
He grinned.
They were like this now—playful. Warm. A little awkward at times, but real. His sister had become more than just someone he protected. She was his compass. When things got dark, she pulled him back. And he… he tried to make her laugh when she started looking too much like their mother—tired around the eyes, strong in all the wrong ways.
"You ready with the gift?" he asked.
"Yup. Wrapped it myself. The bow's a bit tragic though."
"No worries. He'll be too drunk on nostalgia to notice the corners."
She paused, the smile fading just a touch.
"Do you think he'll come home sober?"
Krishna looked at her for a second.
"I think… he wants to," he said.
And that was true. At least, he believed it. His father had been trying. Small things. Eating at the table. Paying bills on time. Asking, awkwardly, how Krishna's exams had gone. It wasn't healing—but it was a start. Like a half-repaired kite, still flying, but fragile in the wind.
His sister nodded. "I hope so."
The two finished their plates in silence for a while. The fan spun lazily above. A soft film of evening warmth settled in.
Krishna stood up, stretched his arms. "All right. Operation Birthday is a go. Let's set the table."
She grinned and gave a mock salute. "Sir, yes sir."
They laid out the plates—three this time. It felt weird. They hadn't done this in over a year. His mother peeked in from the kitchen, surprised at the arrangement, and Krishna gave her a quick smile.
"We're celebrating tonight," he said. "He's been doing better."
She nodded slowly, a wary kind of hope in her eyes.
The wrapped shirt and wallet sat neatly on the table, between the glasses of water and folded napkins.
Krishna headed into the hall, fiddling with the Bluetooth speaker. He scrolled through his playlist and finally picked something light—some old Kishore Kumar track his father used to hum under his breath back when things were simpler.
The music played softly in the background, mixing with the smell of noodles and the sound of vessels being arranged.
Everything felt… right. Not perfect. But right.
Krishna walked over to the mirror in the hallway and caught his own reflection. Gym progress was showing. His shoulders were broader. Face a bit leaner. Eyes less hollow. He flexed playfully.
"Thor's got competition," he murmured.
He walked to the balcony, leaned against the railing. The streetlights flickered on. Some kid downstairs was chasing a plastic ball. Somewhere far off, a temple bell rang. Familiar. Comforting.
This is what a good day feels like, he thought.
He didn't let himself have too many of those. Good days were fragile. But tonight, he felt allowed.
He even thought of maybe sitting with his father, one-on-one. Talking. Not about anything deep. Maybe just… cricket. Gym. Some new movie.
He pictured his father laughing again. Like the old times. When Krishna was five and rode on his shoulders at the fair, eating cotton candy and calling him "Super Appa."
That version of his father still lived somewhere inside the man. Maybe today would bring it out again. Just for a while.
The clock struck 7:42 PM.
Any moment now.
Krishna stepped back into the house, rubbed his palms together, and glanced at his sister.
"Game face," he whispered.
She nodded.
The front gate creaked open.
Footsteps. A metal latch turned.
Krishna took a breath, straightened up.
His father stepped inside.
And everything collapsed.
The first thing Krishna noticed wasn't the smell of alcohol—it was the look in his mother's eyes. The microsecond of pause. A silence that screamed.
His father stepped in with the same steps Krishna remembered from darker nights—slow, dragging, one heavier than the other. The man's shirt was untucked. Eyes glassy. There was a faint slur to his breathing before he even spoke.
"Why's the house lit up like Diwali?" his father muttered, dropping his keys too hard onto the shoe rack.
Krishna's throat clenched. No, no, no—not today.
"We—" his mother started, stepping forward, "we were waiting for you. It's your birthday. We made dinner. The kids got you something."
She gestured toward the table. The plates. The gift. The music still humming in the background like a cruel joke.
His father looked. Then blinked. And then, smirked.
"Ohh, look at this," he slurred, "we're a happy family now? After one good paycheck?"
"Appa, we just—" Krishna tried to interject, but the man kept going, his voice rising.
"All these years I broke my back for this house! For you, woman. For you, boy. And what did I get? Judging eyes and cold food. And now you think a shirt and noodles makes up for it?"
Krishna's hands curled into fists. His mother looked stunned. Hurt. But still gentle.
"No one's blaming you," she said, barely above a whisper. "We were trying—"
"Trying?" His father laughed. It was not a happy sound. "What do you know about trying? Did you lose your job because of someone else's mistake? Did you get spat on by your boss and come home to silence?"
"Appa, please," Krishna said, stepping forward now. "Let's just eat. Sit down. You're drunk. Not now."
His father's eyes turned to him, bloodshot and blazing.
"Don't tell me what to do," he snapped. "You think you're a man now, is it? Lifting some weights, acting like a hero in front of your sister?"
"Appa!" his sister yelled. "Stop it!"
She tried to walk between them, voice shaking.
And then—
It happened fast. Too fast.
A wild, drunken gesture. His father's hand raised—not to strike, just to push the air—but his palm caught her cheek. A slap. Unintended. Reflexive. But real.
She stumbled. Lost balance. Fell backward.
Her head hit the table's edge with a sickening thud.
The Maggi bowl clattered. Water spilled.
Then silence.
For a second, no one breathed.
Then his mother screamed.
Krishna stood frozen. The entire room had collapsed into a single heartbeat.
His sister was on the floor—still. Unmoving.
The world shattered.
And then something inside Krishna snapped.
His vision tunneled. His heartbeat pounded in his ears like a war drum. Rage, fear, guilt, and grief—all fused into a single unbearable scream trapped in his chest.
"You—" he hissed, trembling. "You promised her."
His father stuttered something, stepping back, suddenly confused and ashamed. "I—I didn't mean—she just—she moved—"
Krishna turned.
Walked into the kitchen.
Saw the knife on the counter. The same one he'd used to cut vegetables that evening. The handle still damp from washing.
He picked it up.
Walked back.
His mother was sobbing over his sister, checking her pulse. "She's breathing—she's okay—oh god, oh god—"
Krishna said nothing.
He stared at his father.
But he didn't move forward.
Didn't attack.
He held the knife down, trembling, teeth clenched, jaw shaking.
"I should hate you," he whispered. "But I don't. I just…"
He couldn't finish the sentence.
His father was crying now too. Sobbing. Collapsing into himself.
Krishna turned.
Walked to the balcony, breathing hard.
The night air hit his face like a slap. Cold. Real.
The knife still in his hand.
His mother's voice called from behind, breaking. "Krishna—please—put the knife down—don't do anything stupid—Krishna—please—"
He gripped the railing.
His hands were shaking.
His mind was spinning.
He had done everything right. He had gotten better. He had tried so hard. He had believed again. Just for today. Just for one day.
And still… this.
His sister's unconscious body. His mother's broken voice. His father—collapsed and defeated, drunk and pitiful.
All that progress.
All that hope.
Gone.
He stared into the void below.
The tears came slowly. Not violent. Just quiet.
Like the kind he'd held in for years.
And then he whispered:
"Sorry, Amma."
The knife felt heavier than it should. Not in weight—metal had mass, not meaning. But in his hand, it dragged.
Krishna leaned forward, elbows on the edge of the balcony, knuckles white, the blade clutched like it was part of him now.
Below, the streetlights cast flickering halos across the pavement. He could hear the faint buzz of a TV in someone else's apartment. Laughter. A commercial jingle. A scooter horn in the distance. The world was still moving.
But his world had stopped.
Behind him, he heard his mother cry again. A sound that scratched at the walls of his heart like nails on stone. His sister still hadn't stirred. She was breathing, but she hadn't opened her eyes. And his father… Krishna didn't want to look at him.
"I tried," he whispered. "I really tried."
He wasn't talking to anyone in particular. Maybe himself. Maybe God. The one he used to believe in when he was younger. Before prayers stopped being answered. Before belief turned into habit, and habit faded into emptiness.
"I quit smoking. I stopped drinking. I lifted myself out of a damn hole."
His voice cracked.
"I studied even when I was dead tired. I smiled when I wanted to scream. I kept this house together when he tore it apart."
The words were like fire in his throat. He was speaking too fast now, breathing harder.
"I didn't ask for anything. Just peace. One day. One day where we could be normal again."
He looked down again.
It was only a second-floor balcony. It wouldn't kill him on its own. That's why he had the knife.
He turned the blade in his hand. Pointed it up. Pressed the tip to the underside of his chin. The steel was cold. Real. Unforgiving.
He took a deep breath.
Then another.
And then—
"Krishna!"
His mother's voice shattered the silence behind him.
He turned slightly. She was at the balcony doorway now, eyes wild, hands shaking, palms stretched out like she was trying to catch something already falling.
"Please," she begged. "Please put it down. Please come back inside."
He didn't answer.
She took a step closer.
"You're not a bad son," she said, voice cracking. "You're not. I swear to God—you are the reason this house is still standing."
He shook his head. "I couldn't protect her."
"You did! You always do! She's alive because of you!"
"I didn't stop him."
"You didn't become him," she whispered.
That silenced him.
But the knife was still in his hand.
"I don't want to live in a world where this happens again," he said, staring past her. "Where it keeps happening. Where I keep fixing things just for it to all collapse again."
She stepped closer. "Then don't fix it alone."
Her hand reached out—slowly, trembling.
But Krishna stepped back.
"I'm tired," he said.
Then he looked at her—his mother. The woman who smiled through heartbreak. Who aged ten years in two. Who still made him tea on exam days without asking.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"No," she whispered.
He turned the blade. One motion. Straight up under his chin.
The pain was instant. Blinding. Like a thousand volts through his skull.
But even as his vision blurred, even as his knees began to buckle, he felt his hand push away from the railing—
And he fell.
There was no scream. No final monologue.
Just a whisper, barely carried by the wind.
"Take care of her."
Then silence.
And the long fall into the unknown.
Darkness embraced him—not cold, not cruel, just… quiet.
There was no ground. No pain. No sound but the fading echo of his breath.
For a moment, he thought this was it. The end.
But then—something stirred.
A warmth.
A pulse in the void.
And a voice. Gentle. Familiar. Timeless.
"Krishna."