Vaish wasn't a name that echoed through the
halls of fame, nor was it whispered in hushed tones of infamy. Vaish, by the bay, was as average as the seashells scattered on the shore, smoothed by the relentless tide. He blended into the background, a face in the crowd, a name lost in the roll call. He was the definition of 'just enough' - just enough at sports to avoid being picked last, groaning inwardly when forced to run laps in gym class. Just enough at studies to pass, daydreaming through history lectures and doodling in the margins of his math book. Just enough at gaming to have fun, losing himself in the digital worlds of swords and sorcery, but never quite reaching the top of the leaderboards. Just enough at socializing to not be a complete outcast, comfortable in the company of his small group of friends, but never the life of the party.
His life was a gentle rhythm of the ordinary, punctuated by the crashing waves of his parents' arguments. His dad, a hardworking fisherman with a penchant for the bottle, would come home smelling of salt and sorrow, his temper as unpredictable as the sea. The scent of whiskey on his breath would mingle with the tang of seaweed, a potent combination that usually signaled an impending storm. His mother, a woman worn down by years of disappointment and unfulfilled dreams, would meet his father's drunken tirades with a sharp tongue and a withering glare. Their arguments would erupt like sudden squalls, rocking the small house with their intensity.
Yet, even in his drunken rages, fueled by his mother's sharp tongue, his father never raised a hand to his sons nor his wife. He'd stumble through the door, his voice booming with slurred accusations, but his anger would always dissipate before it reached them. He'd work his calloused fingers to the bone, pulling in nets laden with fish to provide for his family, to buy Vaish the latest game that caught his fleeting interest, or Rohan, his wide-eyed little brother, the coveted action figure that would soon be forgotten amongst a pile of other discarded toys. He was a rough-around-the-edges hero in Vaish's eyes, a flawed masterpiece of a man who, despite his demons, loved his sons fiercely.
Life wasn't perfect, but it was balanced, a familiar dance between the calm and the storm. Vaish found solace in the quiet moments, the hours spent fishing with his dad on their rickety boat, the 'Sea Serpent'. The salty air would whip through their hair as they shared comfortable silences, the only sounds the creak of the old boat and the cries of gulls circling overhead. His father would patiently teach him how to bait a hook, cast a line, and reel in the catch, his gruff voice softening as he shared his knowledge of the sea. These were the times Vaish felt closest to his dad, a bond forged in the shared quietude of the vast ocean.
He found joy in the camaraderie of online gaming, the thrill of victory, the sting of defeat, all experienced from the safety of his bedroom. He'd lose himself in the pixelated worlds of fantasy MMORPGs, forging alliances with strangers, battling mythical creatures, and escaping the mundane reality of his life. He wasn't the most skilled player, but he enjoyed the sense of community, the shared purpose, the fleeting sense of belonging.
He found comfort in the familiar pages of his well-worn fantasy novels, escaping into worlds where heroes were clear-cut and villains met satisfying ends. He'd devour stories of valiant knights, powerful mages, and epic battles, his imagination soaring with each turn of the page. He'd often daydream about being the hero, saving the princess, defeating the evil sorcerer, but deep down, he knew he was more like the background characters, the ordinary folk who lived and died in the shadow of grand adventures.
But the tides of change swept in on Vaish's fourteenth birthday. The day began like any other, the smell of pancakes wafting from the kitchen, the sound of Rohan's excited chatter about a new video game echoing through the hallway. But the festive air was shattered by the ambulance sirens, the hurried whispers, the cold dread that settled in his gut like a stone. His father, his rock, was gone, taken by the insidious grip of liver cancer.
The world that had always felt safe and predictable crumbled around Vaish. He couldn't understand how someone so vital, so full of life, could simply vanish. The funeral was a blur, the somber faces, the whispered condolences, the suffocating grief pressing down on him like a physical weight. He couldn't bring himself to cry, to say goodbye. He just stood there, numb, a hollow shell of a boy watching as his father was lowered into the cold, unforgiving earth.
In the weeks that followed, the undercurrents of his life shifted. His mother, once a source of fiery arguments, now moved through the house like a ghost, her voice a monotone, her eyes devoid of warmth. The vibrant woman who had once filled their home with laughter and the aroma of spicy curries now seemed to have shrunk, her spirit extinguished along with her husband's. Rohan, his playful little brother, retreated into a world of pixels and code, his laughter silenced, his once bright eyes now dull and distant. Vaish tried to reach out to him, to offer a comforting word or a shared memory, but Rohan would just shrug him off, his gaze fixed on the flickering screen. Vaish was adrift, alone in his grief, the silence in the house a constant reminder of his loss.
One evening, while pretending to study, his mind wandering through a fog of despair, he overheard his mother on the phone, her voice laced with a chilling indifference. "Now that he's gone," she said, her voice barely a whisper, "I can finally use the money on myself. That useless boat, those fishing trips... all a waste of money."
The words pierced Vaish like a harpoon, shattering the last vestiges of his childhood innocence. His father, his sacrifices, his love, reduced to a mere financial burden. The world, once a place of simple joys and sorrows, now appeared as a cruel, uncaring void where love was a transaction and people were disposable.
A seed of bitterness took root in his heart, growing with each passing day, nourished by his grief and resentment. He started smoking, the acrid taste a perverse comfort, the nicotine a temporary escape from the gnawing emptiness. He'd sneak out at night, finding solace in the dimly lit corners of the local park, the smoke curling around him like a shroud, hiding him from the judging eyes of the world.
He immersed himself in fantasy novels, but now he identified with the villains, the outcasts, the ones destined to fail. He saw himself in their tragic ends, their futile struggles against an uncaring universe. He'd spend hours poring over the pages, analyzing their motivations, their flaws, their inevitable downfall. He'd ask himself, why did the hero always have to win? Why couldn't the villain, the underdog, the one who had suffered and lost, find redemption?
He grew increasingly withdrawn, his grades plummeting, his friendships fading like footprints in the sand. He lashed out at his mother, his anger a shield against the pain he couldn't bear. He'd snap at her for no reason, his words laced with venom, his tone dripping with resentment. He stole money from her purse to fuel his growing addiction, his guilt overshadowed by a sense of injustice. He felt she owed him, owed him for the love and support she had withheld, owed him for the father she had driven to an early grave with her constant nagging and criticism.
One cold winter night, after a particularly heated argument, his mother reached her breaking point. "Get out!" she screamed, her face contorted with rage, her voice raw with years of suppressed pain. "You're just like your father, a useless drunkard! I don't want you here anymore!"
Vaish didn't argue. He packed a small bag, his heart a leaden weight in his chest. He stuffed a few clothes, his worn-out fantasy novels, and a pack of cigarettes into the bag, his movements mechanical, his mind numb. As he stepped out into the night, the door slamming shut behind him with a finality that echoed through his soul, he felt a strange sense of liberation. He was free, free from the suffocating atmosphere of his home, free from the constant reminders of his loss, free from the expectations he could no longer bear. But he was also utterly alone, adrift in a world that seemed to have no place for him.