My mother was arrested.
After several court hearings, the judge ruled—based on psychiatric reports and hospital
tests—that she was mentally ill and had to be committed to a psychiatric institution.
Since that day, I've heard nothing of my mother. Custody of me was handed over to
my grandmother.
I spent about a month in the hospital before returning to that same house—the place
that smelled like hell to me.
The place where everything had happened.
Since I came back, my grandmother hasn't smiled once.
She used to smile rarely, even before. But now... even her breathing felt heavy with grief.
She had no friends visiting, no one she talked to.
There used to be a woman—her only friend, I think—whom she visited sometimes. But
after what happened to me, even that ended.
Once, that friend came to our house.
The moment she saw the scars on my face and my half-blind eye that couldn't blink, I saw fear swallow her whole. She never returned. Three years passed.
And with each day, the cruelty of this world became clearer, while the light of hope
inside me grew dimmer.
In those three years, the only person I spoke to was my grandmother—perhaps out of guilt, perhaps remorse.
Maybe because she left me alone with my mother, and this was her way of making it up
to me.
By the age of one and a half, I could walk and talk. I learned everything quickly.
Grandmother would ask in disbelief, "Where did you learn that?" I had no
friends to play with.
No one to teach me.
Just me, silence, and the cold house. And the television.
When I turned three, my grandmother asked me one day,
"Do you want to go to kindergarten?"
I said, "What's kindergarten?"
She smiled and said,
"It's a place where you can play with other kids… eat with them…"
It was like someone lit a candle in a pitch-black room.
For the first time in a long time, something felt… hopeful.
But I was unaware that it was just a mirage. Fate had something else planned.
She said, "Tomorrow we'll go register you."
I said, "Okay."
I couldn't sleep that night.
I kept thinking about how I'd talk to the other kids, play with them, show them the things
I knew…
At dawn, I heard my grandmother's voice,
"Ranji, wake up! You'll be late. Come have breakfast."
Before opening my eyes, I replied, "Okay…"
I stretched my little body and slowly opened my eyes.
Sunlight was rising — soft and golden, like a warm spring morning.
I went to wash my face and hands.
Even though I saw my reflection every day, I could never get used to the sight of my face.
Most days, when I went to the bathroom and bent down to wash my hands, I kept my head low — so I wouldn't see myself in the mirror.
I went to the kitchen.
My grandmother had prepared breakfast. We ate together.
Then she dressed me in a red blouse and blue shorts. And
we left — heading to kindergarten.
We took the bus.
And just like always, everyone who got on the bus looked at me… A
moment of silence, fear, pity.
I hated those looks.
I just wanted to get off.
When we arrived, a few children were playing.
As soon as they saw me, they started whispering.
One girl said,
"He's scary… I'm afraid of him."
I had wanted to greet them, to say hi, to smile. But those words froze me in place.
My grandmother said,
"Ranji, don't just stand there. Come on."
I said, "Okay…"
We entered the office.
The director looked at me and paused.
Then, after hearing my grandmother out, she said,
"Please wait outside for a moment."
Several teachers entered the room.
They spoke in hushed voices. Fifteen
minutes passed.
Then they called my grandmother back in.
She came out with a smile that had sorrow hiding behind it.
She said,
"Unfortunately… they don't have room. You can't study here."
And that... was the same answer we heard from every other kindergarten
we visited.
After my grandmother and I went to the last kindergarten in our area and once again heard the familiar answer — "Sorry, we have no vacancies" — something inside her broke. She cried out, her voice full of anger and helplessness:
"Is there really no room? Or just no room for my grandchild because his face is burned?"
Tears slid silently down her cheeks.
The director replied in a dry, formal tone:
"Please calm down. This is a kindergarten. You're frightening the children."
And before we could say anything else, the teachers came and escorted us out of the building — not with respect, but as though they were relieved to be rid of a burden.
On the way back, sitting on the bus, a heavy silence fell between us. After a few
minutes, my grandmother said:
"For dinner, I'll make roasted chicken with chips — your favorite meal."
I turned to her in surprise and said:
"Really? It's been a long time since we had that... Thank you, Grandma."
She gave a faint smile.
"Yes, but only if, when we get home, you change your clothes and water the garden flowers."
I said, "Okay."
Once home, I changed clothes, watered the flowers, then sat down in front of the TV to watch some cartoons. After a few minutes, her warm voice called out: "Ranji! Dinner is
ready, come my dear."
The food looked like something out of a storybook; the chicken had taken on a rich golden-brown color that made it a joy just to look at.
I was about to start eating when she said:
"Wait. First, we must pray. We always pray before eating."
I asked, "What does it mean to pray?" She replied:
"It means we give thanks for the food we have."
I said, "Okay, Grandma," and whispered, "Thank you for this delicious meal."
I began eating eagerly. The food was amazing. Grandma even gave me some of her portion and watched me eat with delight.
After we were done, I gathered the dishes so she could wash them and said:
"It was really tasty. Thank you, Grandma."
She turned and looked at me.
There was something in her eyes — something like unconditional love, a silent look that
said, "I would give everything to see you happy."
She said:
"Don't worry about the kindergarten, my dear. I'll teach you everything myself. Just like your teachers would. Even better."
I said: "But I already know everything!" She
laughed and said:
"No, my little one, there's still so much you don't know. We'll learn together. We'll write,read, play..."
And I, simple and full of trust, said: "Okay."
From that day on, my grandmother patiently worked with me every day. She read mestories, played games with me, we built puzzles, played chess — and over time, I surpassed her in all of it, even before I turned five.
In return, I started helping her around the house. I watered the flowers, swept the yard, cleaned up after playing. That was all I could do for her; because I could see how she blamed herself — for the past, for the pain I carried in silence.
And the fact that in all these five years, I had never once laughed or shed a single tear, only deepened her wound.
The days passed, and my grandmother grew older and more tired. She could no longer manage everything on her own. Her age was catching up to her — she had turned
seventy-three.
She would say to me:
"I'm so glad you learn so quickly. Soon, you'll be able to stand on your own two feet."
But every time she said it; I sank deeper inside.
Because that sentence held a meaning no child should ever have to understand:
She wouldn't always be by my side..