He was the cursed child. From the moment he was born, he was the cursed child. It wasn't in his hands, nothing of it was. And still, he was accused for everything that unfolded in his life.
When the first cry of baby Rahul echoed through that confined hospital room in the small village, the woman lying on the bed portrayed an expression of joy. It wasn't only that though, mingled with that was a hint of satisfaction. After three girls, she had finally given birth to a boy. After four long years of marriage, she had finally satisfied her husband. But little did the woman know that that was the last service she would be doing for him.
When the lobby of that hospital was filled with the noises of cheering relatives, of a happy mother-in-law, a proud father-in-law, and a bragging husband; the room inside became silent. The shallow breathing sound that adorned the room a moment ago was no more there. That almost inaudible thud of that tired, thumping heart was no more there. The woman's soul had finally found a silent abode where there were no demands, no expectations, no pressures; nothing. It was just she and her peaceful soul.
There was nothing that little boy could have done. He was just opening his eyes, feeling those touch, hearing those first sounds. He was too busy watching the different faces, watching those lips go wide, being carried from one pair of hands to another, and many other things baby Rahul didn't understand. But the important thing was, he was too busy; too busy to hear that silence in the adjoining room. And yet, he was accused of that crime.
The very moment of his birth had smeared his hands with blood.
The very moment of his birth had sealed his fate.
The very moment of his birth had termed him the cursed child.