Across the wind-swept rice fields, where a moss-covered tiled house sat quietly beneath an old neem tree, one could hear the heart-wrenching sobs echoing from a small home at the end of the village lane.

Inside, sat two elderly parents—Mr. Sharma and Mrs. Meena Sharma, both over 70—collapsed in front of a newly built altar. Upon it were two framed portraits placed side by side, the faces nearly identical.
They were their twin sons: Arjun and Rishi.

Everyone in Lakshmipur village knew the story of the Sharmas’ struggle with infertility. For over 40 years, they had gone from temple to hospital, praying and seeking treatment, believing it was all in vain—until one day, a miracle happened: Meena conceived twins at nearly 50.

Arjun and Rishi were born into immense joy—not just within the family, but throughout the entire village.
They grew up kind, respectful, and academically gifted, never once causing trouble or pain to their parents.
And whenever someone teased the elderly couple—
“You had children so late, who will look after whom when the time comes?”
Mr. Sharma would smile through misty eyes and reply:
“They don’t need to look after us. Just watching them grow each day is already a blessing from the gods.”

But that joy… was not meant to last.

That fateful afternoon, under the blistering summer sun, the twins went for a swim in the nearby Yamuna River after finishing their tuition classes. Arjun was a strong swimmer. Rishi, more cautious, stayed close to the shore.
No one foresaw the sudden surge of an underground current rushing in from upstream.

By the time villagers noticed something was wrong… only their sandals and neatly folded school uniforms remained on the riverbank.
It wasn’t until nightfall that the two boys’ bodies were recovered, not far from one another…

When the devastating news reached home, Mr. Sharma froze in shock. Mrs. Meena collapsed by the river, whispering again and again:

“No… it can’t be… My boys… they were just having lunch with me this morning…”

The funeral of Arjun and Rishi became one of the most sorrowful moments Lakshmipur had ever witnessed.
Two identical coffins.
Two identical photographs.
And two aged parents who could barely stand without support.

Mr. Sharma stood silently by the altar, eyes hollow, gripping his walking stick with trembling hands.
That night, he stayed seated before the altar, whispering softly:

“Arjun… Rishi…
Your mother spent seven months bedridden just to carry you to birth.
I borrowed from everyone I knew to send you both to school and give you a future.
How could you leave us like this… like a dream that was never finished?”

They say, ever since that summer, Meena Sharma no longer woke at dawn to make sweet rice for the morning market.
Mr. Sharma stopped going to the village tea stall to play chess with the elders.
They retreated into themselves, their lives now revolving around the silent altar of their sons—as if time itself had stopped that fateful day.

And to this day, as the sun sets over Lakshmipur, anyone passing by the old house at the edge of the village might still hear that faint, broken cry carried on the wind:

“Arjun… Rishi… come back to us, my sons…”