KEEP MOVING FORWARD

A Short Story by Vasu Gangapalli

The Present

Varun sat outside the operation theater, his hands pressed against his face, his heart pounding with both fear and hope. The fluorescent light above flickered like in a horror movie.

His mind drifted back to the conversation he had with his wife, Suchitra, a few days earlier.

“Do you have any names in mind?” she had asked.

“If it’s a girl, let’s call her Meghna.”

“And if it’s a boy?”

“Aryan,” he had said with a smile.

“That’s a lovely name. Let’s freeze them both.”

“I just hope everything goes fine this time…” Varun had whispered.

“Don’t worry,” Suchitra had reassured him, gently pressing his hand. “Everything will be fine.”

Now, staring at the closed doors of the theater, Varun closed his eyes and prayed. Minutes later, the doctor walked out. His face carried no smile.

“Doctor… is everything alright?” Varun asked, his voice trembling.

“I’m sorry, Varun,” the doctor said softly. “Your wife has once again delivered a stillborn baby. I’d strongly advise adoption. Another pregnancy could put her life at risk. You can meet her in some time…”

The words shattered him. He sank back into the chair, numb. Slowly, he pulled out his wallet, unfolded a small piece of paper, and read the bold words written on it:

KEEP MOVING FORWARD.

A tear rolled down his cheek. He wiped it, took a deep breath, and held onto that paper like it was his only anchor.

The Past

Four children, all about eight years old, sat on the lawn outside their orphanage.

“Did you hear?” one boy asked.

“Hear what?” another replied.

“Some couples are coming tomorrow to adopt. One of us might get chosen.”

“Yes, it’s true!” the only girl among them chimed in.

“But that means we’ll be separated,” a boy said sadly.

The girl looked at them and smiled. “Think positively! Each of us may get a family. Isn’t that what we’ve been longing for?”

“Friends are important too,” the quietest boy muttered.

“We can’t have everything in life,” she said gently. “Let’s just hope we all get loving families.”

She pulled out four folded slips of paper and handed them to her friends. Each opened theirs. Bold words stared back at them:

KEEP MOVING FORWARD.

“What’s this supposed to mean?” one asked.

“It’s our promise,” she explained. “No matter what happens, we must keep moving forward. Even if we’re separated, even if we can’t stay in touch—we’ll meet again.”

“Meet again? When?” another asked eagerly.

“Tell me today’s date.”

“September 26th.”

“Then let’s meet here, seventeen years from today, at 5 PM,” she declared.

They all agreed, their young voices rising in unison, sealing the pact.

The Present

Years later…

“Anusha, do you like my son Rajesh?” her father-in-law asked kindly.

“Yes,” she whispered, blushing.

Rajesh’s father smiled. “Since they like each other, let’s…”

“Wait,” Anusha’s father interrupted. “Before we proceed, tell me the truth. Is Rajesh your own son?”

“Yes, of course,” Rajesh’s father replied.

“Your biological son?”

He hesitated. “No… he is adopted. But we’ve raised him as our own.”

“That makes no difference to me. I will not give my daughter to an orphan,” Anusha’s father said coldly.

Rajesh’s heart burned. “What? Did you call us here just to insult me?” He stood up, furious.

“Come, son,” his father said, equally hurt. “Let’s go.”

At home, Rajesh lay on his bed, broken. His phone buzzed.

I can’t go against my parents. Please forget me. Goodbye.

The message tore his world apart. He hurled his phone against the wall, its pieces scattering like his heart.

He pulled out a familiar slip of paper. KEEP MOVING FORWARD. He clutched it as tears filled his eyes.

The Past

The hum of a ceiling fan woke the boy. His leg throbbed in pain—bandaged, crippled. The car crash replayed in his mind: the accident that killed his adoptive parents instantly.

Dreams of a happy home had crumbled overnight.

Voices echoed in his memory.
“He’ll need a crutch for life… is there no surgery?”
“Sorry. No.”

His eyes blurred as he unfolded his slip of paper. KEEP MOVING FORWARD.

It was all he had left.

The Present

“Where are Mom and Dad?” Rashmi asked her brother Rahul during a visit.

“They’re fine,” Rahul replied flatly. “Staying in an old-age home.”

“What? You left them there?”

“They raised me. That was their responsibility. Any parents would do the same,” Rahul shrugged.

“Whatever you are today, it’s because of them. Don’t you think they deserve your care now?”

“Rashmi, you don’t understand. Dad has Alzheimer’s. He even got lost once. We couldn’t manage anymore. They’re safer there.”

Her eyes welled up. “You could have told me. I would have taken care of them.”

“You were too busy chasing your film career. And anyway—you’re just their adopted daughter.”

She froze. Then, with quiet resolve, she said, “Adopted or not, they are my parents. I’ll take them with me.”

As she walked out, she turned back. “I hope your son never treats you the way you’ve treated them.”

The door slammed shut.

Months later, digging through her handbag, Rashmi found the old folded slip. KEEP MOVING FORWARD.

Memories rushed back. Today was September 26th. The pact.

She hurried to the orphanage. The building was old now, but the garden and the bench remained. She sat there, clutching the slip, waiting.

“Keep moving forward!” a voice called.

She turned. Varun stood there, smiling.

“Varun!” she cried, hugging him.

“I’m so proud of you,” he said. “Your film The Adopted Daughter… it was brilliant. You’ve inspired so many.”

Soon Prakash arrived, walking with his crutch, his smile unwavering. “Your movie made people believe in adoption again. One couple told me they adopted because of you.”

Her eyes filled with joy.

“Guys! Did you miss me?” Rajesh shouted as he ran toward them.

They laughed, hugged, and compared their old slips of paper. Each one had clung to those words in their darkest times.

KEEP MOVING FORWARD.