Uththan

Trigger Warning / Disclaimer

This story contains themes of abuse, abandonment, societal judgment, and trauma, which may be distressing for some readers. It also explores themes of resilience, found family, and emotional healing. While the story does not include graphic descriptions of violence, it touches upon past abuse, emotional struggles, and the impact of a difficult past on the characters.

Reader discretion is advised. If you find such themes triggering, please proceed with caution.

---

The air was thick with the scent of rain-soaked earth, mingling with the rich, spicy aroma of pakoras sizzling in hot oil at the tea stall on the corner. It had rained heavily an hour ago, and the streets were still wet, glistening under the dim glow of flickering streetlights. Puddles reflected the neon signs of small shops, their distorted colors shimmering with every passing vehicle. The town, though quieter after dark, still murmured with life—shopkeepers pulling down their shutters, chai vendors serving their last customers, the occasional bark of a stray dog scavenging near a pile of discarded food wrappers.

And in the shadows of a closed shop, a boy sat, curled in on himself.

He was barely sixteen, his thin frame wrapped in clothes that had seen too many days without washing. His arms were drawn around his knees, damp strands of hair sticking to his forehead. His fingers, curled into fists, twitched now and then, as if resisting the cold. But it wasn’t just the weather that made him tense. His sharp, restless eyes darted toward passersby before quickly looking away, as if he feared being noticed yet couldn’t help but watch.

Sanya first saw him when she stepped out of the local grocery store, a plastic bag weighing down one hand, the other gripping her six-year-old daughter’s tiny fingers. She adjusted her dupatta and glanced toward the boy. He shifted his gaze immediately, his body going stiff, but for a moment—just a flicker of a second—she had caught the expression in his eyes. Not just exhaustion. Not just hunger.

Something else.

“Ma,” Meera whispered, tugging at her sleeve, “that bhaiya is always sitting there.”

Sanya didn’t respond at first. She turned toward home, leading Meera across the street, but her daughter wasn’t done.

“Does he not have a home?”

“Maybe not,” Sanya murmured, keeping her voice even.

Meera twisted to look over her shoulder. “Then can’t we help?”

Sanya exhaled slowly, tightening her grip on the grocery bag. She had been a fool once, trusting the wrong person, and she had learned the hard way that kindness could cost more than one could afford. But as they passed the corner, she chanced another glance.

The boy was staring at the ground now, absently drawing patterns in the dirt with a broken twig. His shoulders were hunched, his posture guarded. He wasn’t just loitering. He was waiting.

For what?

For whom?

That night, as Sanya tucked Meera into bed, her daughter turned sleepily toward her, eyes half-lidded. “Ma… Do you think someone is coming for him?”

Sanya paused, pulling the blanket higher over her daughter’s shoulders. “I don’t know, beta.”

Meera blinked up at her. “What if no one does?”

Sanya didn’t have an answer.

The next evening, the boy was still there.

This time, Meera didn’t wait for Sanya to say anything. As they walked past, she let go of her mother’s hand, digging into the side pocket of her tiny school bag. Before Sanya could stop her, she trotted over to the boy and held out something in her palm.

A small pack of biscuits.

The boy’s head snapped up, startled. His gaze flickered between Meera’s expectant face and the biscuits, as if unsure whether to accept them.

Sanya’s chest tightened.

“Meera, come here,” she called, her voice firm but not harsh.

Meera pouted but obeyed, retreating to her mother’s side. She cast one last glance at the boy, then turned away.

Sanya didn’t look back.

But as they reached their doorstep, she sighed. Maybe it was foolish, maybe it was dangerous, but that night, she left an extra plate of food just outside the door. Rice, dal, a folded roti. She didn’t check the clock, didn’t peer through the window. She simply turned off the light and went to bed.

By morning, the plate was empty.

And the boy was gone.

Or so she thought.

Two nights later, as she stepped outside to bring in the clothes she had left to dry, she caught a glimpse of a shadow near the alleyway. He wasn’t sitting in the usual spot anymore. But he was there. Watching.

Waiting.

For what?

For whom?

Or maybe, just maybe… for someone to notice.

—

The boy’s name was Rihan. He never told her at first, only answering in nods and monosyllables, as if words were too expensive to waste. He had the guarded stance of someone used to disappointment, his shoulders tense, his eyes always scanning the room like he was waiting for something to go wrong. He didn’t ask for anything, didn’t explain why he had nowhere to go. But Sanya noticed the little things—the way his hands trembled when he thought no one was watching, the way he flinched at the sound of raised voices outside, the way he barely touched the food she left for him, as if afraid it might be taken away.

She let him stay in the backroom, where she stored her sewing supplies. It wasn’t much, just a thin mattress on the floor and a fan that rattled when it spun, but it was better than the street. The first night, as she handed him a spare blanket, she kept her voice firm. “No trouble,” she warned. “I have a child. If I feel anything is off, you’re gone.”

Rihan only nodded.

Meera, of course, was fascinated.

On the third morning, when Sanya stepped into the kitchen, she found her daughter sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of Rihan, her hands on her hips. “Why don’t you talk?” she demanded.

Rihan blinked at her, startled.

“You know, Ma says talking makes people feel better,” Meera continued matter-of-factly. “Like when she’s mad at the shopkeeper, she talks a lot.”

“I do not,” Sanya called from the stove.

“You do,” Meera countered, then turned back to Rihan. “So? What’s your name?”

For a long moment, he just stared at her. Then, in a voice rough from disuse, he muttered, “Rihan.”

Meera beamed. “See? That wasn’t so hard.” She turned to her mother with the proud smile of someone who had just solved a great mystery. “Ma, now we know his name! Rihan.”

Sanya nodded, glancing at the boy. He looked uncomfortable with the attention, his fingers twitching as if he wanted to disappear. She decided not to push further. “Come on, Meera. It’s late.”

That night, as Sanya cleaned up the kitchen, she caught sight of Rihan in the dim glow of the hallway light. He sat cross-legged near the storeroom, silently flipping through one of Meera’s old picture books. She didn’t say anything, just watched for a moment before turning away.

—

The neighborhood had its opinions. Some whispered that he was a runaway thief, that Sanya was too naive. Others suggested she was using him, taking advantage of a desperate boy to help with housework. Even the tea stall owner, old Mr. Verma, pulled her aside one evening when she came to buy chai.

“Beti,” he said, voice gentle but firm, “kindness is a rare thing, but it can cost you.”

Sanya sighed. “I know what I’m doing, Verma Ji.”

The old man gave her a skeptical look but didn’t push further.

She knew the risk. She had paid the price before. But then she saw Rihan quietly fixing the broken latch on her window without being asked. She noticed how he distracted Meera with silly jokes so she would eat her vegetables, his voice gaining warmth around the little girl in ways it never did with adults. She saw the way he stood at the door when strangers came by, his posture tense like he was ready to shield them if needed.

It wasn’t easy.

There were nights when he disappeared for hours, returning with scraped knuckles and bloodshot eyes. One night, Sanya finally confronted him.

“Where do you go?” she asked, standing in the dimly lit doorway as he slipped in past midnight.

Rihan didn’t answer. He tugged his sleeves down, hiding his bruised hands, but she had already seen.

She folded her arms. “If you’re getting into trouble—”

“I’m not,” he interrupted, his voice low. “I just… I don’t sleep well.”

She wanted to push, to ask more, but something in his eyes made her pause. She recognized that look—the exhaustion of someone carrying too much weight alone.

So she just nodded. “Next time, take a jacket. You’ll catch a cold.”

Rihan blinked, as if the concern confused him, then gave a small nod before disappearing into the backroom.

One evening, she found him and Meera in the courtyard. Meera was sitting cross-legged, a schoolbook in her lap, flipping through pages with the exaggerated patience of a teacher.

“This is ‘B’ for Ball,” she declared, pointing at the picture. “And ‘C’ for—”

“Cat,” Rihan murmured.

Meera’s eyes widened. “You know?”

He hesitated, then nodded.

“Then you should teach me something!” she said excitedly. “A hard word.”

Rihan thought for a moment. Then, in a quiet voice, he said, “Refuge.”

Meera frowned. “Ref… fuuge?”

“Refuge,” he repeated, his lips twitching slightly. “It means a safe place.”

Sanya, listening from the doorway, felt something shift in her chest.

The next morning, as she left for work, she paused at the door. “Rihan.”

He looked up from where he was tying his shoelaces.

“If you want to stay,” she said carefully, “you don’t have to keep proving that you deserve it.”

He stared at her for a long time, something unreadable in his gaze. Then he nodded.

She never asked him to stay.

But she never locked the door either.

And he never left.

—

One evening, as Sanya folded laundry, she finally asked, “Who are you running from?”

Rihan stiffened. For a long time, he didn’t answer. The only sound was the creaking ceiling fan and Meera’s soft humming from the other room. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he said, “My father.”

Sanya didn’t press, didn’t ask more. She understood silence better than most. Some wounds were too deep to be prodded, and she knew better than to demand answers he wasn’t ready to give. But the weight of that single confession lingered in the air between them, heavy and unspoken.

Days turned into weeks. He never spoke of his past, and she never asked. But something shifted. The boy who barely met her eyes when he first arrived now lingered in the kitchen, fixing loose tiles without being asked. When Meera’s toy car broke, she found him late at night, piecing it back together with the same quiet focus he applied to everything. He even started making tea in the mornings before she woke, a small act of gratitude he never put into words.

Once, when a drunk neighbor tried to grab Sanya’s wrist outside their home, Rihan was there in an instant. His grip on the man’s arm was firm, his stance protective. The man cursed, staggering away, but Rihan’s eyes remained sharp, watching until he was gone. He never spoke about it after, never acknowledged what he had done. But Sanya noticed the way he lingered a little longer by the front door at night, listening for trouble.

The whispers in the neighborhood grew louder. “She’s playing with fire,” someone muttered at the market. “He’s trouble,” said another.

But the same people who doubted were the ones who saw him carrying Meera on his shoulders when she was too tired to walk. They saw how he never took a single rupee from Sanya despite her offering him money for errands, how he quietly fixed things around the house, how he waited by the gate when she worked late, just to make sure she got home safe.

And Sanya, despite the warnings, despite her own guarded heart, couldn’t ignore the truth. Rihan wasn’t just a boy passing through. He was becoming a part of their small, imperfect family.

—

One evening, as they walked home from the market, Meera reached for Rihan’s hand while crossing the road. He hesitated, his fingers twitching at his side. But then, as if testing the weight of trust, he squeezed her tiny hand lightly and let her hold on. Sanya noticed but said nothing. Some things didn’t need words.

Then came the night it all nearly fell apart.

It started with a knock—loud, insistent. Sanya wiped her hands on a cloth and glanced at Rihan, who had stiffened at the sound. His face was tight, shoulders locked.

When she opened the door, three men stood outside, their expressions hard and calculating. One of them, a burly man with a deep scar running across his cheek, gave her a tight smile. “We’re looking for someone,” he said, his voice too smooth to be kind. “A runaway boy. Dangerous sort.” His gaze flickered past her, into the dimly lit home. “You should be careful who you let into your house.”

Sanya felt Rihan go completely still behind her. His breath hitched, and though he made no sound, she could sense the way his fists clenched at his sides. A choice hung between them—deny knowing him and keep her life simple, or stand between him and the past he had run from.

She squared her shoulders. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

The man’s smirk faded slightly. “That so?”

Another man, lean with calculating eyes, took a step forward. “You sure about that, madam? A woman living alone with a child… it wouldn’t be good to get mixed up in someone else’s mess.”

Sanya met his stare evenly. “I think you should leave.”

For a few tense seconds, no one moved. Then, as if deciding it wasn’t worth the trouble, the scarred man gave a short laugh and gestured for the others to step back. “If you see him,” he warned, “you’d best turn him in.”

The door clicked shut behind them. Silence stretched in its wake.

That night, Sanya found Rihan sitting on the back steps, staring at the moonlit street, his expression unreadable. She knew that look—the weight of past ghosts pressing down, the fear of history catching up.

“You don’t have to keep me here,” he said, his voice rough. “It’ll just make things harder for you.”

She sat beside him, close enough that their shoulders almost touched. “I make my own choices.”

For the first time, his voice wavered. “Why?”

Sanya thought of all the nights she had been alone, afraid, without a single soul to stand beside her. The way the world had turned its back when she needed someone to say, stay, you are safe here.

She looked at him, at the boy who had come into her life like a storm, and said simply, “Because no one should have to survive alone.”

Rihan didn’t reply, but his hands, resting on his knees, slowly unfurled.

—

It started with small things.

When Sanya came home exhausted from work, she found the dishes washed and set neatly on the rack. When the monsoon rains came early, clothes she had left outside were already brought in, folded in a careful, almost hesitant manner. When Meera fell and scraped her knee, Rihan was the one who crouched beside her, murmuring, “You’re okay, kid. It’s just a scratch.”

The first time she left him alone with Meera, it was out of necessity. She had no choice—her boss had called her in on short notice, and the neighbour who sometimes watched Meera wasn’t home.

“I won’t be long,” she said, hesitating at the door. “Just keep an eye on her.”

Rihan shrugged. “Not like I have anywhere to be.”

Still, she worried. All day, she imagined coming home to chaos. But when she returned, the house was intact, and laughter rang from the tiny living room. She peeked inside to find Rihan sitting cross-legged on the floor, pretending to let Meera braid his hair. He looked miserable, but he sat still, letting her twist and tangle his already messy locks.

“You’re back early,” he muttered when he saw Sanya watching.

Meera clapped her hands. “Mama, look! Rihan is my doll now.”

Sanya pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle her laugh.

That was the moment something shifted.

—

Trust, of course, wasn’t built overnight. It was tested, stretched, and sometimes nearly broken.

One evening, Sanya found a few hundred rupees missing from the kitchen counter. Her stomach knotted. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to plant a seed of doubt.

She found Rihan outside, sitting on the steps, staring at nothing. “Did you take the money?” she asked.

His head snapped up, eyes flashing with something she couldn’t name. “No.”

She had dealt with lies before. She knew how they sounded, how they curled around a person’s throat. But there was no hesitation in his answer.

“Okay,” she said finally. “I believe you.”

Something flickered in his expression, like he hadn’t expected that. The next morning, she found the money tucked inside her sewing kit. Meera had taken it to play ‘shopkeeper’ and forgotten all about it.

Sanya never mentioned it again.

—

A few weeks later, when she came home after a long day, she found a note on the dining table.

Her heart lurched.

But it wasn’t a goodbye.

“I fixed the back door. You should sleep easier now. – R”

She smiled, shaking her head. Somewhere in the quiet of their unspoken understanding, a fragile kind of trust had taken root. Neither of them said it aloud, but they both knew—it wasn’t just refuge he had found here. It was something close to home.

That night, as the town settled into silence, Sanya stepped onto the balcony. The air was cool, carrying the scent of damp earth and distant incense. She could hear the soft rustling of leaves, the faint hum of crickets. Inside, Meera slept soundly, her small body curled beneath a thin blanket. In the backroom, Rihan’s breathing was steady.

For the first time in years, she felt safe. And maybe, just maybe, so did he.

—

The final seal came on a night none of them saw coming.

It was past midnight when Sanya woke to the sound of Meera’s cries. Rushing to her room, she found her daughter hot with fever, her tiny body trembling. Panic clawed at her. The medicine cabinet was nearly empty.

“I’ll go,” Rihan said before she could even ask.

“It’s late—”

“I know where the pharmacy is,” he cut in. “Stay with her.”

She wanted to argue, to remind him that people were looking for him, that the world wasn’t kind to boys like him roaming the streets at night. But when she looked at Meera, burning up and whimpering, she could only nod.

Rihan returned half an hour later, breathless, drenched from a sudden downpour, medicine clutched tightly in his hands.

She didn’t ask how he got it. She didn’t need to.

That night, as Meera’s fever broke and she drifted into peaceful sleep, Sanya found Rihan sitting at the kitchen table, rubbing a towel over his wet hair.

“You could’ve just let me go,” she said softly.

He shrugged. “Not like I had anywhere better to be.”

Sanya sat across from him. Their home was small, their family unconventional, their lives messy and uncertain. But when she looked at the boy who had once been a stranger and the little girl who trusted him without question, she realized something.

Some bonds weren’t made of blood. Some were built in the quiet moments—in laughter over badly braided hair, in trust that wasn’t asked for but given anyway, in the simple act of showing up.

And this?

This was family.

—

The End