A Tale of Mud, Rain, and a Man Torn Apart - Footprints Washed Away

Santosh walks a familiar mud road in Mysore this early morning, January 2025, the soil soft from last night’s rain. Ten years ago, in 2015, this same earth held Santosh’s footprints—raw, frantic, a man torn apart. Back then, Santosh was in Sheffield, UK, chasing funds for the house Shilpa and the boys now call home. At 4:00 AM one grey morning, Shilpa’s call shattered the silence. “Hello, all good?” Santosh asked, voice thick with sleep. “What good?” she fired back from Mysore. “Shilpa’s a slave here. Tell your mom to shut up and do her work. She’s always pampering Vikas and Vivek—doesn’t Shilpa deserve respect?” Her screams echoed through the phone, and Santosh knew the day—work, family, all of it—was already a battlefield.

Shilpa and Santosh were worlds apart, then and now. She grew up in urban chaos—shouting, screaming, a rough-edged life that shaped her. Santosh’s parents, with 70 years of village wisdom, saw kids differently—Vikas, now 17, and Vivek, now 13, were little then, caught in her storm. Santosh had moved them all to the UK years before, dreaming of better days, but the cold, the culture—they couldn’t adjust. Shilpa took the boys back to India, leaving Santosh alone with a choice he still questions. By now, they could’ve been UK citizens, settled. Instead, Santosh stayed, wired to their lives through a phone line that burned daily.

That 2015 call was one of many. Shilpa’s rants were a ritual—her against Santosh’s parents, snake versus mongoose. Santosh’s father once shielded Vikas from her beatings, his quiet anger clashing with her fire. Santosh understood both sides but could fix neither, stranded 4,000 miles away. Santosh’s heart bled, his soul frayed. For a year and a half, it was clockwork: her fury, Santosh’s pleas to her parents, their scolding, her calls back—“Why’d you complain?” She’d say Santosh gave her a bad life; Santosh would say happiness is your own to hold. Their boys, too young then, started drifting from her—Vikas especially, his teenage eyes now sharp with memory.

That day, Santosh trudged to a Sheffield customer site, a bank job weighing on him. Santosh had to meet Adam Davis, a solution architect, to untangle DevOps and MuleSoft policies. But Shilpa’s calls were law—miss one, and war erupted. By 11:00 AM, mid-meeting on the 11th floor, she rang again, roaring, “Shilpa’ll hang herself! Your parents will answer for it!” Vikas and Vivek, little shadows then, were shattered. Neighbors marveled at Santosh’s parents’ patience—kind souls weathering her threats.

Life is full of surprises !

Santosh stumbled through explanations in Kannada, colleagues staring at a tongue they couldn’t grasp. Humiliation stung, exhaustion crushed Santosh. Outside, a tram slid by, and Santosh wished it could bridge him to Mysore, to settle the chaos. Inside, Santosh wept silently.

Shilpa couldn’t see Santosh’s side—didn’t try. She raged on, threatening herself, Santosh’s family, their peace. It was their shame, hers and Santosh’s. Standing there, broken, Santosh decided: his worth was in India, not the UK. Money, success, heights Santosh could’ve climbed—they paled against losing his boys, his messy, maddening family.

Today, Santosh walks this mud road, rain having erased yesterday’s marks—his, others’, birds’, tires’. It’s fresh, waiting for new steps, and Santosh envies it. Ten years on, Vikas is 17, Vivek 13—teens carving their own paths. Shilpa and Santosh, they’ve softened some edges, but those days linger, footprints the rain can’t fully wash away. Like this soil, Santosh and Shilpa have borne the weight—her storms, his silence, their clash. They’re still here, ready for whatever treads next, a family stitched by scars. Maybe that’s their strength—or their curse.