Episode 1
Hello, my name is Amisha Reddy. Today, I’m sharing a story with you that blends the fantastical with the harsh realities of life. My tale is set in the small, verdant village of Marappan, nestled within the rolling hills of Tamil Nadu, just a 30-minute bus ride from the bustling city. Here, amidst the greenery and simplicity, I live with my husband, Vikram Reddy, and our children: our son Arsh, and our two daughters.
I have always been told that I resemble an actress, though we have many differences. I am a fair-skinned woman, and my children have inherited this fair complexion as well. I have a voluptuous figure with a bust size of 34B. My appearance often attracts attention when I go out; I notice men and boys glancing at me frequently.
My body is curvy, and my hips are especially striking. I am often considered attractive and sexy, and people in my village often remark on my beauty. Overall, I am regarded as a hot and sexy woman, known for my alluring appearance throughout the entire village.
When I was 18 years old, my life took a turn that I had not anticipated. My father, a humble shop owner in Kerala, received a marriage proposal for me. In our culture, such proposals often carry the weight of destiny, and my parents, trusting in the goodness of Vikram’s family, accepted without much investigation. They believed he was a good man, and for the first two years, it seemed they were right. Our marriage was filled with hope and the promise of a bright future.
During the first year of our marriage, our son Arsh was born. His arrival filled our lives with joy and renewed purpose. Arsh was a beautiful baby, with eyes that sparkled with curiosity and a smile that could melt the hardest of hearts. I felt an overwhelming sense of happiness and fulfillment as I cradled my newborn son, dreaming of the life we would build together.
However, as the years went by, cracks began to appear in the facade of our seemingly perfect life. Vikram’s demeanor started to change. The man who once showered me with love and affection began to spend more and more time away from home, returning late at night with the unmistakable scent of alcohol on his breath. Initially, I tried to ignore it, convincing myself that it was just a phase, that Vikram was merely unwinding after a long day.
But it wasn’t a phase. Vikram’s drinking grew worse, and with it, his temper. He began to abuse me, both verbally and physically, in his drunken stupors. The loving husband I had once known was replaced by a volatile stranger who spent our hard-earned money on alcohol and cigarettes, leaving little for the family’s necessities. Our financial situation deteriorated rapidly, and I found myself struggling to make ends meet.
Vikram’s addiction consumed him entirely. He would disappear for days, returning home only to demand more money for his vices. When I refused, he would lash out, his rage manifesting in cruel words and painful blows. The home that was once my sanctuary became a prison of fear and despair. I often found myself hiding my bruises and putting on a brave face for the sake of my children.
Despite the turmoil, I tried to maintain a semblance of normalcy for Arsh. I wanted him to have a stable environment, to grow up with dreams and aspirations unmarred by the chaos that surrounded us. I encouraged him to focus on his studies, to channel his energy into something positive and constructive.
Arsh proved to be a bright and diligent student. He excelled in his academics, securing 82% marks in his 10th-grade board exams, a remarkable achievement given the circumstances. His success brought a glimmer of hope into our lives, a reminder that not all was lost. However, the pressures of our home life began to take a toll on him as well. In his 11th grade, his marks dropped to 74%, but he remained determined, and I continued to support him in every way I could.
Now in his 12th grade, Arsh is working harder than ever. He dreams of a future where he can escape the confines of our small village and make something of himself, a future where he can provide for his family and ensure that we never have to endure such hardships again. His resilience and determination inspire me to keep going, to push through the pain and fight for a better life.
Amidst the chaos, I found solace in my education. Having completed an MA in English Literature, I was fortunate to secure a job at a nearby coaching center, teaching English speaking classes. It was a 30-minute bus ride away, but it provided a necessary escape from the oppressive atmosphere at home. The job allowed me to contribute financially, albeit barely enough to survive. Every rupee I earned went towards our daily needs and the endless stream of hospital bills for Vikram’s deteriorating health.
Teaching became my refuge. It was a place where I could forget my troubles for a few hours and focus on helping others improve their lives. The students appreciated my efforts, and their progress brought a sense of accomplishment that was otherwise absent from my life. It was through this job that I managed to keep our family afloat, even as Vikram’s behavior continued to spiral out of control.
Vikram’s health continued to decline as his addiction worsened. He became a shell of the man he once was, spending his days in a stupor, unable to work or contribute in any meaningful way. His presence became a constant reminder of the life we had lost, of the dreams that had been shattered by his choices. Despite everything, I could not bring myself to leave him. Perhaps it was out of a sense of duty or the hope that he might one day change, but I remained by his side, enduring the abuse and hardship for the sake of our children.
The financial strain was immense. Every penny I earned was spent on medical bills, leaving us with barely enough to cover basic necessities. There were days when I would go without food to ensure that my children had enough to eat. It was a constant struggle, but I refused to give up. My children were my priority, and I was determined to provide them with a better future, no matter the cost.
Four years after Arsh was born, I became pregnant again. This time, I was blessed with a daughter, a beautiful baby girl who brought a new sense of purpose into our lives. Despite the challenges, I found joy in caring for her and watching her grow. Four years later, I had another daughter, further expanding our little family. My daughters became the light in the darkness, their laughter and innocence providing a brief respite from the harsh realities of our situation. I made it my mission to nurture my children, to provide them with as much love and support as I could muster. I wanted them to grow up knowing that they were valued and cherished, despite the chaos that surrounded them. I encouraged them to pursue their dreams, to strive for excellence in their studies, and to believe in themselves.
In 2015, I was 37 years old. My son Arsh had just completed his 11th grade and took admission in a different school for his 12th. However, this year was different. Our situation changed drastically because I fell ill due to the weather conditions. My health deteriorated to the point where I had to stop going to work. Without any savings, we struggled to manage our household expenses.
Arsh, at just 16 years old, stepped up to take responsibility. He found a job at a nearby restaurant in the city, working hard to earn enough to support us. Despite his young age, he managed the restaurant efficiently and brought home enough money to cover our basic needs. But life was far from easy. My husband, Vikram, continued his destructive habits, demanding money from me without any care for my health or our children. He was indifferent to the fact that we had two daughters, aged 8 and 5.5 years old, who needed attention and care. All he did was drink and smoke, making my life a living hell.
I was confined to the house, unable to walk outside due to my illness. Most of Arsh's income went towards my medical bills. I often thought about how hard he worked to provide for us. When he came home, he would prepare food for us, and sometimes he even brought food from the restaurant. He served me meals, made sure I took my medicine, and looked after his younger sisters.
Arsh always found time to talk to me about his day at the restaurant and how he was managing his school fees. He was a science student, having chosen biology in the 11th grade. Despite the overwhelming responsibilities, he was determined to continue his education. Our daughters attended a government school, but Arsh paid his own school fees, refusing to compromise on his education.
Every night, after dinner, Arsh and I spent time together. I would teach him as much as I could, sharing my knowledge and helping him with his studies. Due to my illness, I was unable to do any housework. Whenever I tried, the pain in my body became unbearable. Arsh saw my struggles and did everything he could to ease my suffering.
One of the most touching parts of our routine was the massages he gave me each night. Arsh would gently massage my legs, shoulders, and head, relieving the pain that plagued me daily.
Arsh's massages were a source of great comfort to me. He would start by sitting beside me, his hands warm and soothing. He began with my legs, applying gentle pressure with his fingers and palms. Slowly, he worked his way up from my ankles to my calves, kneading the muscles with care. His touch was firm yet tender, easing the tension that had built up throughout the day.
He would then move to my shoulders, where he used his thumbs to press into the knots and tight spots. The pain would melt away under his skilled hands. Arsh was patient, taking his time to ensure that every part of my body was attended to. He would massage my shoulders in small, circular motions, gradually increasing the pressure to release the stiffness.
Finally, he would massage my head, his fingers gently running through my hair. He knew exactly where to apply pressure to relieve my headaches. His hands moved rhythmically, and I could feel the stress and pain dissipate with each stroke. The sensation was almost magical, bringing a sense of peace and relaxation that I desperately needed.
As Arsh massaged me, we talked about his day, his dreams, and his plans for the future. Despite the hardships, these moments were filled with love and hope. I cherished the time we spent together, feeling grateful for his care and devotion.
Arsh's dedication went beyond providing financially. He was the emotional anchor of our family, holding us together with his love and strength. His nightly massages were more than just physical relief; they were a testament to his unwavering support and compassion.
I loved hearing about his experiences at the restaurant, how he balanced work and school, and his interactions with customers. His stories brought a sense of normalcy to our chaotic life. Despite the long hours he spent working and studying, he never complained. Instead, he remained focused on his goals, determined to create a better future for us all.
The bond between Arsh and me grew stronger each day. His presence was a constant source of comfort and hope. Even though I couldn't contribute much physically, I made sure to be there for him emotionally. Our conversations at night were filled with laughter, dreams, and plans for a brighter future. Arsh's hard work and dedication inspired me to keep fighting, to hold on to the hope that things would get better. He was not just my son; he was my hero, my strength, and my reason to keep going.
As time went by, Arsh and I became more than just mother and son; we became friends. Spending so much time together, we talked about everything under the sun and shared countless funny moments. Despite the hardships we faced, these were some of the best times of my life. Arsh treated me with such respect and care, like a true gentleman. Slowly, I began to see him not just as my son, but as someone who could be a lover, though not in a romantic way—more as a deep, affectionate bond that brought us closer together.
Every evening, after Arsh finished his work at the restaurant, he would come home and we would play games together. Even though my illness made it hard for me to walk or do much physical activity, Arsh found ways to include me. We would play simple games like board games or cards. Sometimes, he would read stories to me, adding funny voices to the characters, making me laugh until my sides hurt. He would also tell me about his day at the restaurant, often mimicking his boss or the customers, which always cracked me up.
One of our favorite games was a simple version of "catch" where he would gently toss a soft ball to me while I lay in bed, and I would try to catch it. It was a small, silly game, but it brought us so much joy. Arsh would sometimes exaggerate his throws or make funny faces, and I would pretend to be a professional ball player, which always ended with us laughing uncontrollably.
