Pranbir Short Stories

Where the past waits (1)

The way he said it—detached, dismissive—only made Aryan worry more. But he could tell pushing further now would only make his brother retreat even deeper. So he held his tongue, though the questions lingered heavily in the air between them.

Silence settled between them once again, stretching out for several minutes—until, unexpectedly, Ranbir was the one to break it.

"Where are we going?" he asked, his voice calm but edged with suspicion as he looked around at the unfamiliar roads.

Aryan kept his eyes on the road. "Home. Directly home."

Ranbir narrowed his eyes slightly. "I know I've been in jail, Aryan, but that doesn't mean I've forgotten the way home."

There was a pause—a flicker of hesitation in Aryan's grip on the steering wheel. He swallowed hard before finally speaking.

"We're going to Goa," he said, carefully. "That's... where our new home is now."

Ranbir, his brows furrowing slightly, asked in quiet confusion, "New home? Why?"

Aryan kept his gaze fixed on the road, his voice steady but laced with the weight of memory. "We shifted there four years ago. We lost everything here. They destroyed it all—took every property that was in Mom and Dad's name. Everything. Thankfully, Dida had two places in Goa. They couldn't touch those."

Ranbir's expression faded back into cold indifference. He didn't need to ask who they were. He knew all too well.

———-

As they reached Goa and the car rolled to a stop, Ranbir stepped out slowly, his eyes immediately settling on the unfamiliar house in front of him. It was nothing like the home he remembered—new walls, new surroundings, yet carrying a distant trace of familiarity in the way the door creaked open.

Before he could take it all in, he saw them—his parents and Dida rushing out, their faces a mix of joy, relief, and heartbreak.

One by one, they wrapped their arms around him, holding him tight as if afraid he might disappear again. Their embraces came all at once—warm, overwhelming, and filled with everything words couldn't say.
Ranbir's slight detachment didn't go unnoticed, but none of them brought it up. After all, five years away had carved out a quiet distance between them—a space not easily filled with just hugs and hellos.

Pallavi, his mother, gently broke the silence, her voice soft but carrying the weight of unspoken pain. "Why did you refuse any visits?"

Ranbir looked at her for a moment, then away. "It was for the best," he said—short, firm, and final.

What he didn't say was that he couldn't bear the thought of them seeing him in there—seeing the bruises, the cuts, the broken pieces of him that prison gave out daily like routine. He didn't want them carrying that agony. It was his alone to bear.

Vikram, his father, spoke gently. "We should let him rest. Aryan, take him to his room."

Ranbir silently followed his brother as their parents quietly dispersed, giving him space.

Aryan led him down the hallway and opened the door to his new room. Ranbir stepped inside and took it in slowly.

The room felt enormous—almost too open—compared to the confines of his cell. Bright colors greeted him, warm and vibrant, a stark contrast to the cold, grey walls he had lived with for so long.

Aryan glanced at him, a hopeful look in his eyes. "I tried to keep all your things... and decorated the room exactly like your old one."

Ranbir turned to him with a small, gentle smile—one meant to comfort. He didn't have the heart to say it, but the truth lingered quietly in his silence: nothing was the same anymore.