who is my father? son (EP-10 The Result Day )

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The rumor about the 12th standard results coming out was completely false. The education committee announced it was fake news and said they’d declare the date later. My days were filled with hospital routines—going there, sitting in the waiting area, eating lunch from a tiffin box. Sometimes, I saw Claria. Some days, I ate in the canteen. Sometimes, she pulled me to sit beside her, and we ate together.

Earlier, the doctor said they would discharge my father, but his health wasn’t stable, so they put it on hold. I hated sitting with my father because I hated him. When I thought of him, I had only one good memory from my childhood. After that, nothing. He was rude, arrogant, and sometimes beat me. I don’t know what happened—he became a drunk addict and changed completely. We all lived in the same house, but we weren’t happy.

These days, my mind was uncontrollable. Whether I liked it or not, thoughts kept coming. Claria gave me some foreign chocolates because her husband, who works in Dubai, had come home on leave. Sometimes, I looked at Claria—she was always busy and always smiling. I wondered how someone could always be so happy. Claria noticed me staring and asked, “What are you looking at?” I replied, “You always look so happy.” She smiled and said, “I want to be!” Then she walked away.

Mom came to the hospital frequently. She was busy with her job, doing overtime because she took a loan from her office for hospital expenses. Somehow, she managed. Two of my father’s coworkers visited him at the hospital. They spoke behind me, “He never listened to anyone. He was so rude. Now it’s the end for everything.” One of them laughed and said, “I don’t know who named him Vikramaraja—like a king!” They laughed again. Suddenly, Claria introduced me to them, “He’s the patient’s son, Vinoth.” They were shocked—I was sitting right behind them. Their tone changed to fake sympathy. “We’re really sorry. Please take care of him. If you need any help, contact us.” One gave me his card. I threw it into the dustbin.

I sat in my usual chair—the only one I used every day, every time—because it felt like mine. Sitting there, I stared outside, bored, with no other option. It was the 18th day since my father was admitted. Dr. Abdul Rahman called me and asked about my studies—which college, what I planned to do. I had no answer. Every day, I just came, sat, and left. “Don’t waste your time. Think about your future,” he said, handing me tea. His tea tasted better than the usual one. “Don’t get addicted to anything—that’s the only advice I give everyone.” Then he said, “You and your mother couldn’t control your father. We gave the best treatment. I’ve explained the medication. From here on, it’s all up to him.” He signed the discharge form and called Nurse Claria to hand it over. Smiling, he said, “Take care of him.”

I sat back down. Claria came and said, “Call your mother.” I asked why. She handed me the due account paper from the accounts department. I called my mother using Claria’s phone and informed her. The accounts department told me the pending bill was ₹47,000. When I told my mother the amount, she went silent. I kept saying, “Hello? Hello?” After a pause, she replied, “Okay,” and cut the call. I knew why she was silent—she didn’t have that money. I understood.

An hour later, she arrived at the hospital, sat next to me, and asked if I’d had lunch. I said yes. Then she began calling people, asking for help. Some cut her call, others said they didn’t have money. She fell quiet, thinking. At the account counter, she told the staff, “Give me 10 minutes. I’ll pay.” Then her boss called—she’d tried him earlier. My mother picked up the call, a little tense. “Hello, sir,” she said. “Yes, Seetha? Any urgent? I saw your missed calls,” he replied. She hesitated and said, “Sir, I need to discharge my husband from the hospital.” He said, “Okay.” She continued, “So I need ₹47,000. I’ll pay the interest properly.” The boss replied, “You already took a loan of ₹1,50,000. I don’t know how you’ll repay it.” My mother insisted, “It’s an emergency, sir.” He finally agreed to transfer the money but cut the call disrespectfully.

I saw everything—it was haunting. My mother pushed herself to the limit. I felt useless. I wanted to help her, but I couldn’t. She paid the bill, got the receipt, and Claria told me to arrange an auto. I hired one. Claria explained the medication procedures. The auto arrived. The nurses and ward boys helped my father into it. My mother had no choice but to sit beside him. The auto moved. Claria and the ward boy returned inside. I stood behind her and said, “Thank you.” She turned and smiled. “For what?” “For taking care of me.” Her smile widened. “Okay. Bye.”

At home, the doctor advised rest before slowly resuming work. On day one, my mother cooked for us and left for her office. My father woke up at 9 AM, looked for her, then ate his food and took his tablets. I washed his bike. But facing my father was hard—too hard. I wanted to go somewhere, but had nowhere to go. I showered, wore good clothes, took my cycle, and left.

I thought of going to Ramya’s house, but changed my mind. Then I thought of visiting Claria at the hospital, but dropped that too. I stood under a tree—it was 10:30 AM—I had nowhere to go. I decided to visit my school, but it was closed for summer vacation. I turned back.

A bike honked behind me. I gave way but it kept honking. I got tense. I turned with an angry face. It was Chowdeppa Master. He smiled at me and invited me to his home. I refused, but he insisted. At his house, he introduced me to his wife, offered me tea, and asked about my father. I stayed for only ten minutes. He forced me to have lunch, but I left. I didn’t feel comfortable.

I stopped near the lemon juice seller by the ground. I bought one juice and drank it while thinking about how my mother had no money. The juice was really good. I decided to ask for a job. I told the seller I stayed in Nehru Nagar, 10th Street. He looked at me and said okay. “I make good lemon juice,” I said. He looked surprised. After a pause, he said, “I’m going to Madurai for some important work. I’ll close the shop for two days. Come after that and join.” I was shocked and happy.

My mother had no money. Maybe I shouldn’t go to college. I should start working now. But I needed her permission. I didn’t have the guts to ask. Being at home with my father was unbearable. He followed the doctor’s advice for only two days, then started going outside. We couldn’t control him. The only good thing—he hadn’t started drinking again.

That night, I saw a news report—education committee announced the 12th exam results would be out tomorrow. My mother was excited. I felt nothing. I kept thinking—if I go to college, how will she repay the loans? I needed to help her.

Results day. Every student and parent was busy. I woke up at 8 AM—my father was still sleeping, my mother at work. I didn’t want to see my result. What would change if I passed? TV news showed students celebrating—I hated it. I switched it off.

My father woke up and looked at me. I was scared. He asked for my roll number in a harsh tone. I gave him my hall ticket. He took it and left. The results were out. I didn’t check mine. Some friends messaged my mother. I wasn’t in the mood to check. At 11:30, I decided to go to the browsing center.

Two friends came to my house. I hadn’t invited them—they came anyway. “Did you check your result?” they asked. “No, I was just going.” They were shocked. “Ramya came school first—scored 1158.” One of them got 859. The other scored 924. They laughed and showed me my mark sheet—1102. Good marks. I felt okay. They dragged me to Ramya’s house—she was throwing a party. I resisted and instead went to school.

Some classmates were there with their parents. Last bench boys surrounded someone. I couldn’t see properly. A girl walked out from the group—it was Ramya. She smiled and came close. “How are you? I told you to come that day—why didn’t you?” “My father was in the hospital,” I said. She apologized and told me her marks again—1158. She asked which college I’d apply to. I had no idea. “I’m applying to KEC, Coimbatore. You should too.” I nodded.

Suddenly, her father, a police inspector, came in uniform, hugged her, and they left. Everyone discussed colleges and departments. I stood alone. My friends came near, jealous of those who scored more. One said he’d join a college in Trichy. The other planned Chennai. They asked me. I said, “I don’t have any idea right now. Let’s see.” They insisted, “Let’s all go to college together.” I replied, “I don’t have any plans to go. I plan to work.” They were shocked. They dropped me home and said bye.

I ate lunch, thinking of Claria—her daughter also wrote the 12th exam. I went to the hospital to meet her. She wasn’t there. The receptionist said she’d taken two hours of permission. I sat in my usual chair.

Soon, she arrived with her daughter, Steffie, distributing sweets. Claria saw me, smiled, and came closer. “How are you?” “Good,” I said. She gave me chocolate. “My daughter passed—904 marks!” She asked about mine. I replied, “I passed.” “Then celebrate it! How much?” I didn’t answer. She asked again. I said I’d tell her later. She suddenly pulled the mark sheet from my hand. I tried to grab it back, but she saw it. “1102?” she said, shocked. “Then why are you so sad?” I smiled.

Steffie came over. Claria introduced me. She offered me a chocolate. I said, “Your mother already gave me one.” Claria told her, “He also got his 12th results today.” Steffie asked my marks. Claria was about to tell her, but I interrupted, “896.” Steffie smiled and went inside to share chocolates with others.

Claria asked, “Why did you lie?” I said, “I wanted to make her happy.” She smiled. “You’re a nice boy. What will you do now?” “I don’t know.” “Interested in medicine?” “No.” Her duty called. I said bye.

At home, I waited for someone to celebrate my success. I’d been waiting on the terrace since 6 PM. My mother came at 8:30 PM. She congratulated me, kissed my forehead. “I’m proud! I never thought you’d score 1100!” But I was upset. She noticed. “What’s wrong?” “Nothing.” She kept asking about college, future plans. I stayed silent. Finally, I said, “I don’t want to go to college. I got a job at a lemon juice shop. I’m joining tomorrow.”

Her face changed—like Kali. She hit me with a broomstick. “You’ll work in a juice shop?! I sacrificed everything for you!” She cried, “I have back pain, I work overtime for loans—3.5 lakhs! Your father gives nothing!”

I shouted, “I waited for you since 6 PM! Others celebrated—even those with fewer marks! But in this house, nothing happens. You people never understand me. I know you’re out of money. That’s why I decided to take the juice job.”

My father’s bike sound came—it was different. We both looked at each other. We knew he was drunk. He came inside. I was scared. He called me. I didn’t go. He couldn’t stand properly, holding the door. Again he called me angrily. I moved slowly. As I neared, he raised his hand like he’d slap me. My mother came to protect me.

I stood there frozen. My father touched my shoulder—then collapsed. Unconscious. We thought he was dead. We both cried, tried to wake him. No movement. My mother called the ambulance.

We rushed him to the hospital, admitted him to the emergency ward. The doctors gave him electric shocks. He came back. Alive. My mother and I sat in the same seat. It was waiting for us. We looked at the nurse with fear. Suddenly, the doctor came. “He’s still alive. A mild heart attack. We’re monitoring. The next day, Dr. Abdul Rahman called my mother and said, “I spoke to Dr. Raghu at the government hospital. It’s better you take him there. We’ll consult with the doctor. Here, the fees will come to around 4 to 5 lakhs. You can’t handle it. Better admit him in the government hospital. That will be the best choice. You can’t control your husband anymore.”
My mother said okay. The doctor wrote a referral letter and gave it to the nurse. That same evening, we admitted my father to the government hospital. It was very far from our home.

The next day, I planned to join that lemon juice job. But my mother pulled my bag and threw it away. She started crying like hell, “Please Vikram, don’t go for that job. I will pay your college fees. Please Vikram.”
I told her, “I don’t want to give you trouble anymore. Please allow me to go.”
She looked at me with strength in her eyes, then called someone and said, “Okay, you can go for that job. But please wait for 20 minutes.”

While I was waiting at home, suddenly Chowdeppa Master came to my house. I didn’t expect him. It was a shock for me. My mother complained to him that I was refusing to go for higher education and instead wanted to do a lemon juice job.
Chowdeppa Master looked at me angrily and asked me all the usual questions, “What are you going to do? Are you thinking about your future? Speak to me.”
I didn’t open my mouth. He waited, then pulled me up and told me to sit on his bike. We went to his home.

Chowdeppa Master treated me well. He gave me coffee and snacks, made me calm down. Then he asked, “Do you have any idea what you want to study?”
I replied, “I don’t have any idea. My mother doesn’t have money to pay fees, so I decided to go for a job. She already spent a lot on hospital expenses and works so hard for loans.” I started crying.
He came and sat next to me, held my hand and said, “I understand your situation. But this is the time for you to study. I will pay the fees. You can return the money once you get a job.”
I liked the deal. Suddenly he gave me an application form and asked me to fill it. I just wrote my name, address, marks, and signed it. I gave it back to him. He looked at the application and then at me, and asked, “Mention the department.”
I replied, “Whichever department has low fees, I’ll join that.”
He smiled at me.

The next day, we went to the government hospital with my mother. My father was still unconscious. The hospital didn’t allow us to stay, and we didn’t want to stay there either. So we went to my grandmother’s home.
I felt so happy to see my grandmother and grandfather. We stayed that night, ate food together, and made some good memories. I was so happy to be with them. Some ladies came to meet my mother and congratulated me. The next day, we went to the temple.
My grandparents were never angry with my mother. They still believed my father was not a good person. Just one year after marriage, my mother asked for a divorce. But my grandfather didn’t allow that.
After coming out of the temple, we took the bus to return home.

Two days later, I received a post. I was selected for Biotechnology in BMS College of Engineering, Bangalore, with a 50% scholarship.
I couldn’t believe it! I told my mother. She was so happy. We celebrated it together.

After two days, I had to go to Bangalore. I didn’t know where it was. My mother also didn’t know. Chowdeppa Master helped us. I packed everything. My bus was at 9:00 p.m. That evening, Chowdeppa Master came to my house to pick me up.

It was 8:45 p.m. My bags were placed near the front door. My mother gave me a new phone with a number. She gave me ₹2,000 in hand and ₹4,000 in my bank account.
“Spend it carefully,” she said. I started crying. My mother was strong.
“Don’t cry. Everything will be fine. Your Master will arrange everything,” she said.
I looked at my father’s photo, then at my mother. She said, “All will be fine. Concentrate on your studies.”
She tied a small thread on my hand in the name of God. I felt so emotional. I had never been outside my town. I didn’t know what was going to happen. I was scared.
I knew I wasn’t a social guy. It was hard for me to connect with people.
My mother wiped my eyes. “Don’t cry,” she said.
I wanted to see my room one last time. I took my mother’s passport-size photo and placed it inside my wallet carefully. She went to the kitchen — I knew she was crying but didn’t want me to see it.

I heard the auto sound outside. I knew it was Chowdeppa Master.
My mother called me, “Vikram… Vikram… Master has come.”
I knew that, but my heart was bursting. I feared for my mother — how she would live alone.
I got so emotional. I hugged my mother tightly and started crying. She also cried.
“I don’t know how I’m going to live without you,” I said.
“Vikram, my baby, you were born into struggle from a young age. I’m sorry for that. One day your father will change. He will come to you.”
“I beg you, Mom. I don’t want to go. Please, let me live with you. Don’t send me away.” I cried like a baby.
Chowdeppa Master came inside. “Vikram, we are getting late. Come, it will be okay.”
He pulled me from my mother. She placed my bag in the auto.
She cried and said, “Vikram, be safe. Concentrate on your studies. I live only for you.”
She kissed me on my cheek. That was the last kiss I got from my mother.
The auto moved. My world started to go dark. I screamed like a baby.

My mother watched the auto until it disappeared, then went inside the house. The emptiness… it was hell for her.
she started crying.
(“If your father had been a good man, I would’ve joined you in Trichy. But now, I had to send you far away for something better.”) — she had spoken to herself and cried.

Meanwhile, in the auto, Chowdeppa Master tried to calm me down.

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Next Episode: Life in Bangalore — BMS College

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