When Aarav was five years old, his mother said to him for the first time, "Son, just sit like this, close your eyes, and keep smiling." Aarav didn’t understand what was happening, but he did as she said. His mother spread out a small mat in front of him, placed some flowers and sweets there. Soon, three or four women arrived. One of them touched Aarav’s feet and said, “Look at this divine child. You can see God in his eyes.”
Aarav got scared. He couldn’t understand what was going on. His mother gently stroked his head and whispered in his ear, “Don’t be afraid, son. Just stay calm. People will be happy with you—and so will God.” Gradually, this “game” became a weekly event. First in the neighborhood, then in nearby towns, and later at religious gatherings. Everywhere, Aarav was dressed in white clothes, a sandalwood mark was put on his forehead, and people began calling him a “miracle child.”
His parents, Suman and Rajeev, had once been an ordinary couple. They had a small sewing and knitting shop, barely enough to get by. But when they saw people showering money on religious figures—especially child saints—greed took root in their hearts. They decided to push their son into that world.
One day, a woman touched Aarav’s feet and said her sick child had recovered, and she gave the credit to Aarav—even though the child was cured by medicine. But that moment changed everything.
Aarav was no longer a regular boy. He had become a “miracle child baba.” His parents created social media accounts for him, launched a YouTube channel with videos of his “sermons,” “blessings,” and “spiritual talks.” His events had grand stages, colorful curtains, microphones, and loudspeakers. Flowers were laid all around him, and people waited for hours just to get a glimpse.
But Aarav was still a child. He didn’t understand what people expected from him. Sometimes, while sitting on stage, he would start crying. He wanted to play, fly kites, play cricket—but his mother would scold him: “You are God now. Everyone is watching your every move.”
He had many toys, but no friends. He had long since stopped going to school. His mother said, “Your knowledge is a gift from God. You don’t need school.” His father said, “Even great saints are jealous of you. You will become very famous.”
Slowly, the sparkle in Aarav’s eyes faded. He forgot how to smile. Now, when he sat on stage, his face looked blank—as if life had stopped. He had to say something “spiritually wise” every day, things his parents made him memorize. “Say this, son—‘Let go of attachment, calm your mind, serve others.’” But deep down, Aarav longed for service—for play, for friendship, for fresh air.
Once, while speaking on stage, he went silent. People thought it was “deep meditation” and clapped. But it wasn’t meditation—he was exhausted.
Ten years passed like this. He stopped caring about anything. One night, he told his mother, “Mom, I don’t want to be a baba. I just want to be Aarav.” She slapped him hard and said, “Don’t talk nonsense. It’s because of you that we survive. If you stop being a baba, what will we eat?”
His father laughed it off, “Look, the baba is saying he doesn’t want to be a baba anymore. Maybe it’s a new miracle. Tomorrow, we’ll call him the ‘Silent Saint’—more people will come.”
Aarav broke inside. Even in his room, the loneliness felt unbearable. His nights were filled with silent tears. He stopped eating. Then he started writing—little things he wished he could say.
“I want to be a boy who goes to school...” “I want to fly kites...” “I am just Aarav, not God...” “I’m tired...”
But no one read them. And the ones who did thought it was part of some new miracle. His mother even posted the pages on YouTube — “See the mysterious writings of our baba.”
For the last time, Aarav asked his father, “If I’m not a baba, will you still love me?” His father laughed, “You are a baba, son. You can’t back out now.”
That night, Aarav took the same white scarf that was always draped on him during events and wrapped it around his neck. No one heard a sound. In the morning, when his mother came to wake him, the door was locked. After knocking for a long time, they broke the door open—and what they saw made their world collapse. Aarav’s lifeless body was hanging in the room.
In his hand was a final note — “I was Aarav. Why didn’t you let me live?”
The whole city was shaken. The media headline read: “Miracle Child Baba Dies by Suicide.” But it was too late. His parents lost more than just their child—they lost the respect of the world. The same people who once worshipped them now cursed them: “They killed an innocent child for money...”
Now Suman and Rajeev have neither wealth nor honor left. The YouTube channel is shut down, the organizers have disappeared, and their house is mortgaged. But what hurts the most is Aarav’s note, which haunts them every single day.
And when someone asks them, “Was your son really a baba?” Suman’s eyes fill with tears — “He was just Aarav... We were the ones who turned him into something else.”
Aarav is gone, but he left behind a silence — one that echoes in their ears every day. Every smile they took away from him now makes them cry for the rest of their lives.
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