The night air in Dharampur was thick with dust and despair. Ravi sat outside the tea stall, staring at the coins in his palm—barely enough for a day's rice. In the distance, the sound of a train whistle echoed, long and haunting, as though the world beyond was calling him.
Inside, Meera coughed in her sleep. His mother stirred the last of the lentils, her face drawn with worry lines carved deeper each passing day.
"Ravi," she said softly, without looking at him, "we cannot survive like this. Every day, men come asking for money. I see fear in Meera's eyes when they stand at our door. This is not life."
Ravi clenched his fists. He had built something once, and it had crumbled like sand. No one in Dharampur would trust him again. Arjun had made sure of that. Chhotelal would bleed him until there was nothing left.
That train whistle still lingered in his ears.
He rose suddenly. "Ma, I can't stay here."
His mother turned, startled.
"If I stay," Ravi continued, "we'll drown. Arjun will laugh, Chhotelal will crush us, and Meera will grow up believing her brother was a failure. I won't let that happen. I'll go to the city. I'll find work—real work. And I'll send money home."
His mother's eyes welled. "The city eats boys like you, Ravi. It chews them and spits them out. Do you even know what waits there?"
"No," Ravi admitted, voice firm. "But I know what waits here if I do nothing."
Silence fell. The only sound was Meera's soft breathing inside. Finally, his mother walked to him, placed her worn hand on his cheek, and whispered, "Then go, my son. Fight the world if you must. But don't lose yourself in the fight."
---
At dawn, Ravi packed his life into a single cloth bag: Kaka's old toolkit, two shirts, a notebook, and a few coins. Meera woke and clung to him, tears streaming down her cheeks.
"Don't go, bhaiya," she pleaded.
Ravi knelt, hugging her tightly. "I have to, Meera. One day, you'll study in the best school. You'll wear shoes that shine brighter than the sun. But for that, I must go now."
She sniffled and nodded, trusting him the way only a younger sister could.
As Ravi walked through the quiet streets toward the railway station, he paused once to glance back. Dharampur looked smaller than ever—the cracked tea stall, the narrow lanes, Arjun's shop looming like a shadow.
At the edge of the platform, he turned his gaze forward. The train roared into the station, smoke billowing, wheels screeching. Ravi tightened his grip on the bag.
"This is not the end," he whispered to himself. "This is the beginning."
And with that, he stepped onto the train, leaving behind the dust of Dharampur for the fire of the city.