onceleenalivedhere

Today I woke up hungry today, the kind of hunger that isn’t just about food but about being taken care of. I was actually excited for breakfast, which feels embarrassing to admit because it’s such a small thing—but I think that’s the point. I wanted something normal. Something warm. Something that said, you matter enough for someone to think of you. There was nothing for me. There never is. There was food for my brother, though. That part hurt more than I expected. I didn’t say anything. I just went back to my room, carrying that quiet, familiar anger—the kind that sits in your chest and pretends it’s fine until it isn’t. Then came the lecture. How I’m “used to eating out.” How ungrateful I am. How I should apparently be grateful for not being considered. She said it once, then came back and said it again, as if repetition might turn cruelty into truth. Later, she made something I don’t even like and announced it was “for me,” like a favour I should applaud. I was hungry. I was angry. ...

I came home after a week feeling unwell—my throat sore, my body aching in that unmistakable way that tells you a fever is coming. By the time I lay down, everything felt like it was burning. I slept for hours, drifting in and out, dizzy and heavy, the kind of tired that sinks into your bones. Five hours passed, maybe more. No one checked on me. Somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, I started missing Baba. Deeply. Achingly. My mind betrayed me and replayed that night—the ambulance, the prayers, the fear I couldn’t say out loud. I cried quietly, the way you do when you don’t want to be heard but desperately want to be noticed. Being sick has a cruel way of peeling you open like that. It brings grief back to the surface, raw and uninvited. What hurt almost as much as the fever was the silence. My mother never came to see why I’d been in bed for so long. Eventually, I had to call her myself and ask for medicine. She came in irritated, said, “ab kia ho gaya tumhe,” handed me something, a...