CHAPTER 3: THE LIFE
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The next six months were a blur of happiness.
A marriage broker came with a new photo. Suresh had taken the photo in a studio. He wore a clean blue shirt. His hair was combed. His face was relaxed. His eyes were clear and dark and normal. For the first time, he did not hate looking at his own picture.
The girl's name was Kavita. She was twenty-eight. She was a schoolteacher. Her family was respectable but not rich. They liked Suresh's income. They liked his business. And when Kavita saw his photo, she said yes.
They met once before the wedding. It was at a small restaurant. Kavita wore a yellow salwar. She smiled with her eyes. Suresh did not know what to say. He was not used to women looking at him without pity or disgust. Kavita looked at him like he was a normal man. Because he was.
They married in a small ceremony. Suresh wore a cream sherwani. Kavita wore red. The wedding photo showed a happy couple. Suresh looked at the photo every night for a month. His eyes were clear. His face was normal. The glasses were gone. The cartoon was dead.
Then the children came. Aarav first. Then Pari.
Suresh held them in his arms and saw their faces clearly. He saw their small fingers. Their tiny nails. Their first smiles. He saw their school uniforms. Their prize certificates. Their growing bodies. He saw everything. Without glasses. Without distortion. Without shame.
He was a father. A husband. A businessman. A normal man.
For seven years, Suresh forgot about the lenses inside his eyes.
He went for the checkups. Every six months. The hospital sent reminders. He went. The doctor checked his eye pressure.
"Perfect," the doctor said. "See you in six months."
Twenty minutes. That was all.
Suresh never thought about the tiny holes in the center of the lenses. He never thought about the eye fluid. He never thought about the silent pressure building inside his eyes.
He thought about his wife. His children. His business. His life.
He was happy.
Then the money ran out.
His name was Ramesh.
Ramesh was Suresh's business partner. They had started the garment supply company together. Suresh handled the money and the client relationships. Ramesh handled the logistics and the local contacts. They shared a small office in Bhiwandi. They shared tea in the morning and complaints in the evening.
They were not just partners. They were friends.
Suresh trusted Ramesh because trust was necessary. Without trust, no business can run. Every invoice, every payment, every delivery—all of it depended on trust.
Suresh signed where Ramesh asked him to sign. He believed what Ramesh told him. He never questioned.
Then, over three years, Ramesh emptied the company.
It happened slowly. A fake supplier here. A padded invoice there. A missing payment from a client that Ramesh "forgot" to mention. Small amounts at first. Then larger ones. Then the bank account started shrinking. The clients started disappearing. The suppliers started calling with demands.
Suresh was busy with his family. His children. His new life. He did not see the numbers slipping.
He saw them only when the bank called.
The company account was empty. The clients were gone. The suppliers were demanding payment. The loans were overdue.
Suresh called Ramesh. The phone was switched off.
He went to the office. The door was locked.
He went to Ramesh's house. The house was empty. Ramesh had moved to another city. With his wife. With his children. With Suresh's money.
The total loss was forty-eight lakh rupees.
Suresh sat in his locked office and stared at the wall. He was thirty-seven years old. He had no money. He had debt. He had a wife and two children and a flat he could no longer pay for and a car he could no longer afford.
He also had two lenses with tiny holes inside his eyes.
And the next checkup was due.
The hospital reminder came on a Tuesday.
"Dear Patient, your six-month ICL follow-up is due. Please visit the eye department for routine pressure check. Early detection prevents permanent blindness."
Suresh read the message.
He stared at the screen for a long time.
Then he deleted it.
