Universe 1 (Ours)

  In New Delhi, India, lived a boy named Arwind. He was tall, thin, and carried a smile so dark that it never reached his eyes.

  People who saw him felt uneasy, though they never knew why. Arwind had a brother—Doha.

  They lived in the same house, under the same roof, yet a boundary existed between them: two rooms, two lives, two silences.

  Their father had disappeared three years before Arwind was born. No one searched for him. Some losses are better left untouched .

  Their mother was alive—but only in name. She couldn’t walk. She couldn’t talk. She couldn’t move. She existed in a wheelchair, dependent on others for everything.

  Doha, the elder brother, sold bhelpuri on the streets to survive. Every day, he stood under the sun, calling customers, counting coins, dreaming quietly.

  Doha loved space.

  He dreamed of rockets, of leaving Earth, of touching the sky that never answered him back.

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  He wanted to talk to Arwind. He always did. But Arwind was different. Anger lived inside him like a second heart.

  One evening, while Doha was selling bhelpuri, a man rushed toward his stall. A thief. He pointed a gun at Doha’s face. “Give me the money.” Doha froze.

  His hands trembled. Sweat soaked his forehead. Words refused to come out. People noticed. Someone called the police. The police never came.

  At the same time, at their house— Arwind lay in his room, earphones plugged in, music loud enough to erase the world.

  In the living room, their mother slipped from her wheelchair. She hit the floor. She was thirsty.

  She had been thirsty for nine days. Arwind’s duty was to feed her. To give her water. He didn’t. She tried to crawl. Tried to move even a centimetre. Her body shook. Then it stopped.

  Her eyes remained open even after death. They stared at Arwind’s closed door. Back at the stall— Doha couldn’t move.

  The thief pulled the trigger. His head exploded. Blood poured into the bhelpuri packets.

  The crowd screamed too late. The thief was their father. What punishment could be worse than dying by your own father’s hand?

  Unable to carry the weight of what he had done, the man turned the gun toward himself. And pulled the trigger again. At that exact moment, Arwind’s phone buzzed. Unknown Number: “Done both.” Arwind laughed. Not loudly. Not crazily. Just enough to prove he had achieved something.

  At the birth of our universe, a black hole wandered endlessly. Its name was FO-709.

  A white hole existed too. Its name was BP-690. When they interacted, when mass folded upon itself, a wormhole was born. And the universe heard a sound—“HIM.”

  Two brothers were born long before this story. You already know who they are. And soon, no one will speak.