Smaran was twenty-four when our parents died, leaving him to raise a scrawny twelve-year-old me. He’d just landed his first engineering job, but he quit it without hesitation. "You’re my responsibility now, Charan," he’d said, his voice thick but steady, as he packed my school lunch the next morning. He took night shifts at a factory instead—grueling work that paid less but let him drop me at school and pick me up himself.

For eight years, he was both brother and father. He’d sit bleary-eyed at our kitchen table after his shift, helping me with algebra problems while I scribbled answers, stealing glances at the dark circles under his eyes. He’d ruffle my hair, chuckling when I’d protest. "Focus, little storm," he’d tease, using the nickname he gave me after my childhood tantrums. His sacrifices weren’t grand gestures; they were packed tiffins, patched school uniforms, and staying up till dawn when I had fever.