Ram looked terrible.
His face was entirely devoid of color, and the dark, heavy circles anchoring the skin beneath his eyes made it obvious to anyone looking that he hadn’t slept for more than a couple of consecutive hours.
He sat motionless on the edge of his mattress for several minutes, the heels of his palms pressed firmly against his temples as he tried to blunt the dull, throbbing ache vibrating directly behind his forehead.
“The same damn dream…
again,” he muttered under his breath.
He kicked the thin cotton blanket off his ankles and leaned his upper back against the cool, whitewashed brick wall.
“Why do I keep seeing this thing?”
He stared up at the ceiling plaster, tracking the slow, wobbling rotation of the old iron fan.
Every single time he closed his eyes, the exact same nonsense replayed in his head.
The sky would fracture, those grey, bird-like monsters would drop into the market lanes, the entire city block would be systematically torn apart, that hooded figure would gesture with his hand, and then reality would simply fold into nothing.
What was a fifteen-year-old student supposed to do with information like that?
He rubbed his face hard until his skin stung.
“I just want one normal night’s sleep.”
Ram glanced around the quiet, messy corners of his bedroom as if some part of the furniture might actually offer an explanation.
Nothing did.
The digital clock on his small plastic desk clicked over to 7:13 AM.
“Other people probably dream about normal things,” he grumbled, his voice rough from disuse.
“Flying, holidays, girls…” He paused, his gaze drifting to the window grill.
“I don’t know.
Something that doesn’t involve the entire neighborhood getting eaten by wolves.” He dropped his hands onto his knees with a heavy sigh.
“And I get a high-budget fantasy apocalypse for free.”
A dry voice came from the open doorway.
“Girls?”
Ram stopped moving entirely.
His muscles locked.
He slowly turned his head toward the entrance of the room.
His father was leaning casually against the wooden doorframe, holding a steel tumbler of tea wrapped in a kitchen cloth.
He was wearing a small, thoroughly amused expression.
Ram stared at him, his face warming up instantly.
His father simply stared back, waiting.
“D-Dad.”
“I was originally going to ask why you were shouting to yourself, but I think I heard enough,” his father said, taking a slow sip from the tumbler.
“You didn’t hear the whole thing,” Ram stammered, his fingers tightening around the edge of the mattress.
“I heard the important part.”
“There wasn’t an important part.
I was just talking.”
His father folded his arms, the amusement deepening in his eyes.
“You were explicitly talking about girls, Ram.”
“I was talking about dreams,” Ram corrected, his voice dropping an octave as he tried to sound defensive.
“Yes, I noticed that.
You somehow managed to place girls right into the middle of your monster nightmare.”
“That’s not what I meant at all.”
“Then what exactly did you mean?”
Ram opened his mouth to explain the sequence, to tell him about the sky and the silence, but the words felt incredibly stupid before they could even form.
He closed his jaw again.
His father stood there, patiently waiting for an answer that wasn’t coming.
“See?” his father said, tapping the side of the tumbler.
“Now you’re quiet.”
“Because there’s nothing to explain to you.”
“Ram, you’ve been awake for less than five minutes and you’ve already started complaining about your romantic life.
I’m just trying to understand what exactly goes on inside my son’s head these days.”
“Nothing is going on in my head.”
His father let out a short, sharp laugh.
“That’s probably the first thing you’ve said this morning that I actually believe.”
Ram stood up abruptly, his sneakers skidding across the tiled floor as he grabbed his heavy schoolbag from the wooden chair.
“I’m going to school.”
“You haven’t even had breakfast.”
“I’ll eat later.”
“You said that yesterday morning, Ram.”
“Well, I’ll actually eat today,” Ram said, slinging the strap over his left shoulder.
“That’s the exact phrase you used yesterday, too.”
Ram stopped near the door, his jaw tight.
“Okay, fine.
I’ll buy something from the canteen at school.
Happy?”
“Not particularly.”
“Great.”
He headed toward the main corridor.
His father stepped aside to let him pass, the smile still visible beneath his mustache.
“You’re getting very good at running away from conversations these days.”
“It’s a useful skill,” Ram muttered.
“Come back here for a second.”
Ram immediately picked up his pace toward the front latch.
“I’m already late.
Teacher Rashmi checks the gate line.”
“You’re not even wearing your shoes properly, you idiot.”
Ram looked down at his feet.
The laces of his right shoe were untied, trailing limply in the dust of the hallway.
He stopped, his shoulders slumping.
From the kitchen, his father’s laugh echoed off the concrete walls.
“Yeah.
Go on.
Run now.”
Ram bent down, his fingers clumsy as he tied a quick, tight knot.
“Can we please just not talk about this anymore?”
“We’re definitely going to talk about it when you get home this afternoon.”
“Dad, please.”
“I’m serious.”
“Just forget it happened,” Ram pleaded, straightening up.
“I’ll think about it,” his father said.
Ram gave him a sharp, suspicious look.
“You’re thoroughly enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“A little bit, yes.”
Before Ram could formulate an argument, a loud, heavy thunk vibrated from the kitchen counter.
His mother had brought the chopping knife down hard against the wooden board, cutting a vegetable clean through.
Both men instantly went quiet, looking over their shoulders.
“Enough,” she said, her voice flat and even as she adjusted the edge of her saree.
“It’s barely seven in the morning.
Why are you two always arguing before the milk delivery even arrives?”
“We’re not arguing,” Ram said quickly, taking a step toward the exit.
His father pointed a finger at him.
“He was just trying to escape the house because—”
“Don’t,” Ram hissed.
His mother looked between the two of them, her eyebrows drawing together.
“Because what?”
“Nothing,” Ram said, his hand finally reaching the cold brass doorknob.
His father smiled widely.
“Apparently, he’s having some very vivid dreams about—”
“I’m going to school!” Ram shouted, twisting the knob and pulling the heavy door open.
“Ram, your breakfast,” his mother called out, her tone dropping into a familiar sigh.
“I’ll eat at school, Mom.”
“You haven’t eaten a proper meal since yesterday afternoon.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Ram.”
The sharp note in her voice made him freeze with his hand on the outer frame.
His mother walked out of the kitchen, holding a small steel tiffin box wrapped in a clean plastic bag.
She thrust it into his hand.
“Take the food with you, then,” she said.
“At least eat it during the long break.
And don’t come home late from the coaching center.”
“I won’t.”
As he stepped out onto the concrete stairwell, his father called out through the open doorway, “And try to have a peaceful sleep tonight, Ram!
Without any distractions!”
“Dad!”
Ram slammed the iron door shut behind him, the metal rattle echoing down the empty stairwell.
He stood on the landing for a brief second, his eyes tightly closed as he let out a long, shaky breath.
“I am definitely moving out the day I turn eighteen,” he muttered to the dirty yellow walls, then started heading down the concrete steps.
The cool, crisp morning air helped almost immediately.
Within a few blocks, the lingering embarrassment from the kitchen conversation began to fade, replaced by a much more manageable thought.
Teacher Rashmi’s geography class was scheduled for the very first period today.
Ram’s lips curved into a slight smile as he turned into the main avenue.
At least I get to see her first thing, he thought, adjusting his bag strap.
He picked up his pace, his shoes clicking rhythmically against the asphalt.
Then he heard a sharp, familiar voice calling out from behind him.
“Ram!
Wait!”