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Title: Saint of the Unseen
Rajan was born invisible. Not in the supernatural sense—people saw him—but they never really looked. A 4’2” boy with misshapen limbs, bald from a skin condition, eyes hidden behind thick smudged glasses. He was born Dalit, into poverty so deep that eating once every three days felt normal. His parents were broken people—his father took out the world’s hatred on him with his fists, and his mother, too numb from hunger and heartbreak, just watched.
There was no toilet, no clean water, no comfort. School was worse. Teachers mocked him. Classmates spat on him. He had no friends, no advocates, no moments of escape—except the books he hoarded like treasure. But even those were stolen, burned, or torn apart by bullies for fun.
As he grew, Rajan became aware of the yawning abyss between him and the rest of the world. Especially in love. He wasn’t just alone—he was a truecel, involuntarily celibate, denied even the hope of intimacy. Online, he searched for meaning, for help, for brotherhood. What he found was a brutal corner of the internet where others like him gathered. At first, it felt like home.
Then came the surgeries. Desperate to fix what nature and caste and poverty had broken, he scraped together donations and loans for looksmaxxing—jaw surgery, hair transplants, dermabrasion. It left him more uncanny than attractive. Photos leaked. Memes exploded. He became a joke: “the Saint of Truecels,” mocked, worshipped, ridiculed. People wore his face like a mask at parties. Strangers laughed at him on the street.
It was the final cage. The one he couldn’t escape from.
At 18, the boy who had survived rats biting him at night, who had lived off boiled rice and rainwater, who had stitched his own shoes together with wire—stood on the edge of the train tracks.
He wasn’t angry. Just tired.
They found no note, just a pair of broken glasses, and a name that no one had ever really said with kindness: Rajan.
And still, in forgotten forums and grim corners of the web, they post his picture—half in pity, half in mockery—never knowing they helped build the silence that swallowed him.
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Rajan was born invisible. Not in the supernatural sense—people saw him—but they never really looked. A 4’2” boy with misshapen limbs, bald from a skin condition, eyes hidden behind thick smudged glasses. He was born Dalit, into poverty so deep that eating once every three days felt normal. His parents were broken people—his father took out the world’s hatred on him with his fists, and his mother, too numb from hunger and heartbreak, just watched.
There was no toilet, no clean water, no comfort. School was worse. Teachers mocked him. Classmates spat on him. He had no friends, no advocates, no moments of escape—except the books he hoarded like treasure. But even those were stolen, burned, or torn apart by bullies for fun.
As he grew, Rajan became aware of the yawning abyss between him and the rest of the world. Especially in love. He wasn’t just alone—he was a truecel, involuntarily celibate, denied even the hope of intimacy. Online, he searched for meaning, for help, for brotherhood. What he found was a brutal corner of the internet where others like him gathered. At first, it felt like home.
Then came the surgeries. Desperate to fix what nature and caste and poverty had broken, he scraped together donations and loans for looksmaxxing—jaw surgery, hair transplants, dermabrasion. It left him more uncanny than attractive. Photos leaked. Memes exploded. He became a joke: “the Saint of Truecels,” mocked, worshipped, ridiculed. People wore his face like a mask at parties. Strangers laughed at him on the street.
It was the final cage. The one he couldn’t escape from.
At 18, the boy who had survived rats biting him at night, who had lived off boiled rice and rainwater, who had stitched his own shoes together with wire—stood on the edge of the train tracks.
He wasn’t angry. Just tired.
They found no note, just a pair of broken glasses, and a name that no one had ever really said with kindness: Rajan.
And still, in forgotten forums and grim corners of the web, they post his picture—half in pity, half in mockery—never knowing they helped build the silence that swallowed him.
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