Ravi's mat in the bazaar no longer looked like a beggar's patch of cloth. Every morning, customers lined up before he arrived. Radios hummed again, watches ticked, lamps glowed. Ravi worked with patience, and people trusted him.
But trust bred ambition.
Each night, Ravi counted his coins under the dim kerosene lamp. His mother watched silently, worry in her eyes. "You are earning enough for us, Ravi. Why not be content?"
"Because enough is never enough, Ma," he said, eyes gleaming. "If I had better tools, if I bought spare parts in bulk, I could fix twice as much. Maybe open a small stall of my own instead of sitting on the ground."
Meera clapped at the idea, already imagining her brother as a shopkeeper. But his mother only sighed. She had lived long enough to know that dreams demanded payment.
The next morning, a man in a white kurta and gold ring appeared at Ravi's mat. His voice was oily, his smile wide.
"I've heard of you, boy," the man said. "Name's Chhotelal. I lend money when ambition needs wings. You need capital, don't you? Everyone does."
Ravi stiffened. He had heard whispers of Chhotelal—the moneylender whose debtors rarely slept peacefully. But the thought of new tools, of a proper shop, was too tempting.
"How much?" Ravi asked cautiously.
"Five hundred rupees," Chhotelal said smoothly. "Enough to buy tools and parts. You'll repay in three months—with interest, of course. Fail, and…" He tapped his gold ring against the wooden counter of a nearby stall. The sound was sharp. Final.
Ravi hesitated. Kaka's warning echoed in his mind: Guard your name, not your greed. But hunger drowned the warning. Hunger for more. Hunger for faster.
"I'll take it," Ravi said.
Chhotelal's grin widened.
---
For the first few weeks, Ravi felt unstoppable. With new tools and boxes of spare parts, he worked faster, earning more coins than ever. People whispered his name with respect. Even Arjun sulked in silence as Ravi's little business outshone the grand Sharma shop.
But success bred enemies.
One morning, Ravi discovered a box of spare batteries he had bought in bulk was worthless—cheap counterfeits. Customers returned angry, shouting that their radios had died again. Rumors spread quickly: Ravi's work isn't honest. He cheats people with bad parts.
Arjun, of course, fanned the fire. Standing in the market, he shouted, "I told you! The coolie boy is a fraud! My father's shop is the only place for honest goods."
Within days, Ravi's customers vanished. The coins stopped clinking. But Chhotelal's men did not vanish. They came each evening, demanding repayment.
One night, two of them followed Ravi home. They stood in the doorway of the tea stall, arms crossed.
"Three weeks left, boy," one said coldly. "Pay, or the debt doubles."
After they left, his mother sat by the stove, trembling. "Ravi… what have you done?"
Ravi stared at the floor, shame burning in his chest. For the first time since his spark, the future looked darker than the night outside.
But as he lay awake listening to Meera's coughing in the next room, something hardened inside him. He whispered to himself, "I won't let this end here. I'll find a way out. I have to."
The boy who wanted to rise had fallen—but in that fall, the fire in him only grew hotter.