I found him in the field, his body slumped against the dry earth, his face turned toward the sky. I shook him, calling his name, but he didn’t respond. His skin was cold, his eyes empty, staring at something I couldn’t see. I sat beside him, my heart pounding. The realization hit me hard. He wouldn’t hold my hand ever again. I would not be able to play with him. Now I had no one to call Father. When I returned home, my mother was waiting—her face pale and drawn. She looked at me, her eyes full of questions, but I couldn’t bring myself to speak. I simply took her hand, and we sat in silence, mourning the man who had given everything for us.

In the weeks that followed, the world grew darker. My mother and I clung to each other, trying to survive in a world that had turned against us. We shared what little food we had, each of us pretending that we weren’t hungry, that we didn’t notice the hollow look in each other’s eyes. But the truth was undeniable—death was coming for us, one way or another.

I wanted to be strong, to endure it for her. But the hunger, the pain—it was too much. There were days when I wished for death, when I imagined what it would be like to simply let go, to escape the endless cycle of suffering.

And then, one night, my mother fell ill.

She lay on our cot, her face pale and slick with sweat, her breaths shallow. I tried to care for her, to comfort her, but I was just a boy, helpless in the face of something I couldn’t understand. I sat beside her, holding her hand, listening to the ragged sound of her breathing as she fought to hold on.

“Arjun,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “You must live. Promise me... you’ll live.”

I nodded, with unshed tears. “I promise, Ma.”

But in my heart, I knew it was a lie. I didn’t want to live—not in a world without her, without my father. I didn’t want to endure the pain, the hunger, the endless cycle of suffering. All I wanted was escape, to close my eyes and leave it all behind.

When she passed, I felt as if a part of me had died with her. I buried her beside my father, marking the spot with a small pile of stones. I sat there for hours, my mind numb, my heart hollow. There was no one left to fight for, no one to hold on to.

"They died. I survived. And so, I decided to live."

"The Book Thief" by Markus Zusak.

I wandered the village aimlessly, a ghost among the living, clutching my promise to my mother. But it felt hollow, like an oath made in another life. No one spoke to me anymore. The village was now a wasteland, its people too consumed by their own despair to notice a starving boy drifting among them.

Days bled into each other, and I found myself in Calcutta, having walked barefoot for miles. I was just one among the many who had come to the city seeking salvation, but Calcutta had nothing to offer. The streets were choked with people—thin, hollow-eyed figures who looked as though they’d stepped out of the underworld. Children with sunken cheeks and eyes too big for their faces clung to their mothers, who clutched whatever rags they had left.

In the corners of alleys, people huddled together, sharing scraps of food they’d begged or stolen. But food was scarce, and kindness scarcer. Every day I saw men, women, and children lying in the gutters, their bodies twisted in unnatural shapes, flies buzzing around their faces. It was said that even the morgues had stopped taking the dead; there were too many, and they could not keep up.

I spent my days wandering, begging for scraps of bread, learning to steal when begging wasn’t enough. My body shrank, my skin stretched tight over my bones, and my stomach was a constant ache. But the hunger was nothing compared to the loneliness—the crushing emptiness of knowing that I was alone in a world that no longer cared if I lived or died.

One evening, I found myself at a railway station, watching as trains rumbled in and out, carrying soldiers and goods for the British. I stood on the platform, my gaze fixed on the tracks, feeling a strange sense of calm. The noise and chaos of the station faded, and for a moment, I felt as though I were floating—weightless and free.

But then a voice broke through my reverie. A British officer, tall and stern, was shouting at a group of beggars, his face twisted in disgust. “Get out, you filthy wretches!” he bellowed, his words laced with contempt. “This station isn’t for the likes of you.”

I watched as he drove them away, his cane lashing out at anyone who dared to protest. I felt a surge of anger—a fierce, burning hatred for the men who had taken everything from us, who had left us to rot while they lived in comfort and wealth. But the anger faded as quickly as it had come, leaving only a hollow emptiness in its place. What was the point of hating them? They would go on living, go on feasting, while we withered and died.

I turned away from the station and wandered into the night, my heart as heavy as my feet. I had nothing left—no family, no home, not even the will to keep fighting. All I wanted was release, an end to the endless cycle of pain and hunger.

And so, I made my way to the river.

The Hooghly stretched out before me, dark and silent, its waters reflecting the faint glimmer of starlight. I stood at the edge, feeling the cool breeze on my skin, listening to the gentle lap of the waves. I thought of my mother, of her last words to me, and a pang of guilt twisted in my chest. I had promised her that I would live, that I would survive. But I was tired, so very tired. I couldn’t keep fighting—not when every step felt like a burden, every breath an effort.

I took a step forward, feeling the cold water seep into my feet. It rose up my ankles, my knees, my chest, until I was submerged in its icy embrace. I closed my eyes, letting the water carry me, feeling the weight of the world lift from my shoulders as I sank deeper and deeper. The darkness surrounded me, taking me in its embrace, comforting and silent, and for the first time in my life, I felt at peace.

But death did not come as easily as I’d hoped.

I awoke on the riverbank, my body aching, my lungs burning as I coughed up water. A fisherman had found me, had dragged me back to shore, and now he stood over me, his face a mix of pity and confusion. “Why, boy?” he asked. “Why did you try to throw your life away?”

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

I had no answer.

I could only lie there, staring up at the night sky, wondering why I was still alive. The hunger still tormented me, but it was no longer the most pressing thing on my mind. I had wanted escape, release, an end to the endless suffering, but the world had refused me even that. I was trapped, condemned to live on in a world that had long since lost its meaning.

The fisherman took me in, gave me food and shelter, and I found myself once again clinging to life, if only out of habit. He was kind, a quiet man who spoke little but offered what little he had without question. I worked for him, helping him with his nets, hauling in the day’s catch, feeling the ache of hunger ease as my body regained its strength. But the emptiness remained, a hollow void that no amount of food or rest could fill.

Months passed, and I grew stronger, my body recovering from the ravages of hunger and despair. But my heart remained weary, my soul burdened by the past. I couldn’t forget my family, the faces of those I had lost, the promises I had broken. I was a coward, a betrayer, a boy who had chosen death over life, who had abandoned the ones who had loved him.

And yet, death would not have me.

I spent those months with the fisherman, watching the sun rise and fall over the river, listening to the quiet lapping of the water as it flowed past us, carrying with it the memories of my old life. The fisherman, Suraj, was a kind man. He gave me a cot to sleep on, a bowl of rice each night, and never asked me why I’d tried to take my life. Perhaps he understood, or perhaps he simply didn’t want to burden himself with a stranger’s sorrow. In his silence, he offered me a refuge, a place to hide from the world, even if only for a little while.

But hiding was not the same as healing. Each night, as I lay on that small cot, I felt my memories resurfacing, suffocating me. I could still see my father’s face, hollowed out by hunger, his eyes full of desperation as he fought to keep us alive. I could still hear my mother’s voice, soft and steady as she tried to soothe me, even as her own strength faded. And I could still feel the hunger that had driven me to the edge, that had made me believe that death was my only escape.

In those moments, I felt as though I were drowning all over again, sinking into a darkness that no amount of kindness could lift me from. I had betrayed them. I had chosen to leave, to abandon their memories, to seek an end for myself, even though they had fought so hard to keep me alive. And yet, here I was, still breathing, still eating, still existing in a world that no longer felt like it belonged to me.

One night, as the monsoon rains pounded against the roof, I asked Suraj a question that had been haunting me.

“Why did you save me?”

He looked at me, his expression unreadable. “I didn’t save you, boy,” he said quietly. “I only pulled you from the water. The rest was up to you.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. I wanted to argue, to tell him that I hadn’t wanted to be saved, that I had been ready to let go. But his words silenced me, forced me to confront a truth that I had been avoiding. I was still here, still alive, not because someone had saved me, but because, deep down, some part of me hadn’t been ready to let go.

The monsoon dragged on, and with it came a strange quiet, a sense of stillness that settled over the river and the village. The fields flooded, the crops washed away, and once again, hunger became a constant companion. Suraj and I would go days without eating, our meals reduced to a handful of rice or a thin broth made from fish bones. But even in the face of this new hardship, he remained calm, his spirit unbroken. He taught me how to cast nets, how to read the river’s currents, how to survive in a world that seemed determined to swallow us whole.

In those days, I learned a new kind of strength—not the strength that comes from fighting or resisting, but the quiet resilience that comes from enduring, from accepting the world as it is and finding a way to keep going, even when there seems to be no reason to.

One morning, as the rains began to ease, I felt a strange sense of clarity. The river stretched out before me, calm and endless, and for the first time, I felt a glimmer of something that I hadn’t felt in a long time—a sense of peace. I wasn’t happy, and I wasn’t whole, but I was alive, and that was enough.

But peace, like all things, was fleeting.

The British soldiers came to our village that day, their boots heavy on the muddy ground, their voices sharp and cold as they demanded food, supplies, whatever we had to offer. Suraj and I stood by the river, watching as they moved from house to house, taking what little the villagers had managed to save. I felt the familiar surge of anger, the same burning hatred that had flared up in me at the railway station, but Suraj placed a steady hand on my shoulder, holding me back.

“Let them be,” he murmured. “They are only men, doing as they are told. Hating them will do you no good.” I wanted to argue, to tell him that they were monsters, that they deserved to be punished for the suffering they had caused. But his words silenced me, forced me to confront a truth that I had been avoiding.

The world was not as simple as I had once believed. There was no clear line between good and evil, no easy answer to the pain and suffering that had consumed my life. There was only survival, the quiet, unrelenting struggle to keep going, no matter the cost.

As the soldiers left, their bags heavy with stolen grain, I felt a strange sense of emptiness. I had once believed that death would be my escape, that it would free me from the endless cycle of pain and hunger. But now I understood that death was not an answer—it was only another part of the cycle, another step in a journey that had no end.

And so, I chose to live. Not out of hope, or faith, or love, but simply because I had no other choice. I would endure, I would survive, not because I wanted to, but because I was still here, still breathing, still bound to this world by the weight of my memories and the promise I had made to my mother.

In time, the famine ended, the rains returned, and the land began to heal. The fields grew green once more, the rivers swelled with life, and the village slowly began to rebuild. But I was changed, marked by the scars of my past, by the memories of a life that I could never truly leave behind. And as I looked out over the river, watching the sun rise over the water, I felt a quiet resolve settle over me. I would live, I would endure, not because I wanted to, but because it was all I had left. And perhaps, in the quiet moments between breaths, I would find a way to make peace with the world that had taken so much from me.

And so, I walked on, carrying the weight of my memories, the burden of my choices, and the quiet, unyielding strength of a boy who had once chosen death, but had been forced to live. For in the end, life was not a choice—it was a curse, a gift, a burden that I would carry for as long as the river flowed, as long as the sun rose over the land, as long as there was breath in my body.

And so, I endured.

Years passed and I was already 18 years old.

That morning, the air was unusually still, the kind of eerie silence that precedes a storm. I didn’t think much of it as I set off with Suraj, the two of us making our way to the river to cast our nets for the day. He hummed a tune, something soft and simple, and for the first time in a long time, I found myself listening. In that moment, a fragile sense of peace washed over me, a quiet acceptance of my life as it was. I hadn’t wanted this life, hadn’t chosen it, but I was here, and for the first time, I felt a small hope.

But fate has a way of twisting happiness, turning even the smallest flicker of peace into something tragic.

To be continued...