The Kashyup Redemption

xi.Atlas

a/n: I will try to update this story once a week, mostly on Saturday.

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It had been a week since he had seen Vidushi or heard her voice.

Ankit or Sanyukta would bring him his medicine and his meals.

He did not have the courage to ask about Vidushi to Sanyukta.

It would mean acknowledging he was hurt by her behavior. That he cared.

He did not.

He could not afford to.

He'd always been a believer.

In Karma. In Destiny. In Determination.

Faith was all he had to turn to when he was trying to sleep with a half filled stomach.

Honor was all he had to hold on to. That had been the only thing his mother could afford to give him with the weight of having to provide for the two of them always heavy on her frail shoulders. His mother had always refused help. Even for his sake.

He hadn't suffered.

That was what he always told himself. That was the only thing that kept him from growing bitter about the way life had changed for him.

Mother.

He had held back all his feelings and all his questions because everything hurt too much and he was trying hard to cope with the physical pain. When he had come to the conclusion that she was dead and Sanyukta had not bothered to correct him, he'd known. His condition had not allowed him to go through any of his own belongings let alone his mothers. He had grieved privately, knowing she would want him to be strong and not show any weakness.

Sanyukta had packed everything up in suitcases, separating the clothes from the other sparse belongings. She had promised him that his mother's personal effects were not tampered with nor had she meddled with his own possessions. Sanyukta, bless her, knew how much he valued his privacy.

And he had a good reason than most to do so. His past shamed him and he was always striving to do some good in the world to compensate for what he was. What he had done.

He was not even Parth Kashyup. Not really.

The name he had told the doctor was one his mother had drilled into his head for more than a year at the tender age of five. He'd always given his dead uncle's name when someone had asked him his father's name. He'd done that ever since they had moved out of the big house. But he still saw his father on the weekends. Father never stayed for long, but he always got something or the other for Parth. Chocolate. Toys. Or the best of all things: books.

He'd been only 9 when his mother told him the truth in her no nonsense manner. He'd taken a while to comprehend the words adultery and divorce. It took him another year to fully understand the implications.

The next time his father came was the last time he ever saw the man in person.

Parth had stopped using the man's name with his own. He had rejected the man's offer to meet his other family.

He did not want to go to that man now either.

But staying here was not an option. Vidushi's words had made it aware that he did not belong here.

He would not belong in his father's house anymore than he did before.

But his mother had always grudgingly agreed that blood is thicker than water and made him promise that should anything happen to her, he would return.

Parth had tried applying for jobs. But without any experience or any recommendations he could not find one that would enable him to live independently.

He had dreaded this. But there was nothing more to be done but return home.

Home is where the heart is.

No wonder his home resembled his heart.

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Please remember that this is a Parth centric story. And he had a part of his life where there was no Sandhir or Vidushi. And that he used to be a different person then. In more than one way.

Because Parth's history is so fragmented and some of his ideals don't suit his position in life, I've chosen to interpret his past in my own way. Here on, the story will not be following Season 2. It is a divergent little tale now, an alternate path. Or rather, an alternate Parth.