the boy is Rohit. he have a story of his birth. he born in Saturday night 11.50. but he wasn't concious. he got consciousness at 12.01. that's why doctors even failed to think when will his birthday be declared? Saturday or Sunday.
his childhood was full of struggle. or not? well he himself couldn't determine. he ate a lot becoming fatty. that's why probably he couldn't get a love. well people said that. although he thinks if anyone loves him, she will come even if he was a fatty.
write this in 2000 words
That's a great foundation for a dramatic, introspective opening scene. You're going for a bittersweet tone with hints of irony and fate, which gives the story a strong emotional hook. Below is your **Scene 1: Who is Rohit?** written in about 2000 words with character depth, subtle humor, and emotional realism.
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### Scene 1: Who Is He?
Midnight births are strange things. They belong neither to one day nor the other—as if fate itself has paused, confused about where to place that life in time. Rohit was born in one such pause. His mother labored through the final moments of Saturday night, and at 11:50, a tired cry escaped her. The doctors rushed, the nurses shouted, the father waited with his hands clenched in silent prayer. But when the child arrived, he did not cry. He did not even open his eyes.
The doctors leaned close, checking his pulse, his breathing. Everything seemed fine—and yet, nothing was moving. He was alive but silent. They rubbed his tiny chest, hoping to wake him, calling his name though none had been given yet. At last, at 12:01, past the edge of midnight, his small body twitch-flinched, and a cry finally broke the air.
That one minute changed everything. The clock declared it Sunday. The parents argued softly: was he a child of Saturday or Sunday? The grandmother was convinced it was an omen. "A boy who wakes after his time," she muttered, "will always run behind luck." They laughed at her words then, but years later, they would remember and nod quietly.
From the beginning, Rohit's life had that blur between good and bad, between right and wrong timing. When other children said they were born lucky, Rohit wondered if he had been born half a moment too late.
He grew up in the outskirts of a small town where the mornings smelled of milk and fresh dust. His father was a clerk at a local municipal office—an honest man with a face permanently set in mild irritation. His mother ran a tailoring business from home. They were not poor, but they lived carefully. Every expense was measured, every treat earned.
Rohit was their only child, and that had its curse. He learned early not to ask too much. He wanted a bicycle but got a second-hand one, its tires uneven and its bell always stuck. He wanted new school shoes but got his cousin's old ones, the leather cracked and laces mismatched. He never protested out loud, but that quiet acceptance slowly grew into a strange habit—he began to expect less from life.
At school, Rohit wasn't the popular kind. He was a quiet boy with a round face and soft arms—a shape that drew laughter from sharper kids. The word "fatty" hung around him like smoke. He tried to brush it away with humor, but sometimes he just smiled too early, trying not to show it hurt. He laughed when they teased him and laughed again later, alone, when it hurt too much not to.
He loved food. That much was true. His mother's parathas, dripping with ghee, were his weakness. He'd wake up early just to have an extra bite before school. When neighborhood mothers scolded their sons to eat more, they pointed at him and said, "Look at Rohit—such a healthy boy!" He enjoyed it at first, but later, "healthy" began to sound like an insult in disguise.
But food was not the whole story. His weight was his shell. It made him invisible and shielded. In the classroom, when the teacher asked questions, Rohit rarely raised his hand even if he knew the answer. The eyes of the class scared him more than failure. When the bell rang, he packed his bag slowly so no one would notice the tear in his notebook cover or the faded color of his uniform.
Still, his childhood wasn't sad all the time. There were afternoons with friends in the dusty playground where he'd laugh until his stomach hurt. There were evenings spent watching rain hit the window, lost in his small, private dreams. And there was always that strange optimism inside him—that someday, life would notice him, even if it was late again, like his birth.
In seventh grade, he saw his first crush. Her name was Nisha. She sat two benches ahead, always smelling faintly of some flower-scented oil. She never looked at him directly, but once she asked for his eraser, and that one gesture became the highlight of his month. When she smiled while returning it, he felt an entire lifetime spiral inside his chest.
He started writing her name in the corners of his notebooks, hiding it beneath doodles of stars and hearts. But he never spoke to her beyond that one eraser exchange. The courage he needed never arrived on time. When the school year ended, Nisha moved away, and Rohit kept her name folded in memory—his first experience of silent loss.
As he grew older, teenage awkwardness blended into quiet resignation. By high school, Rohit had accepted his role in life: the boy people liked to talk around, not to. In photo sessions, he was always asked to stand at the edge. During school events, his name rarely came up when they picked volunteers. He developed humor as survival. If people were going to laugh, he decided, they might as well laugh with him.
He became known for his sarcastic wit, and that unexpected talent earned him at least a handful of real friends. Among them was one especially close friend—Aman. Unlike most, Aman didn't treat Rohit as a background character. He listened. He argued. He called him "Rohit Baba" and said every group needed a philosopher. Aman was full of life, loud laughs, careless hair, and eyes that always glimmered with plans. He had an elder sister, but Rohit hardly thought about her then.
While Aman chased sports and girls, Rohit chased daydreams. He often wondered what love would feel like. People told him that love was blind, but the way they said it sounded doubtful. In school corridors, he'd watch couples walk together and think maybe love wasn't blind—it just had a very selective vision.
He'd whisper to himself sometimes, "If someone truly loves me, she'll come even if I'm fat. If she doesn't, then it was never love." It was a comforting lie, and he repeated it often enough to make it sound like truth.
One summer, his mother fell ill, and her tailoring shop closed for months. Money grew tight, and his father's patience grew thinner. Rohit began helping more at home—running errands, carrying water, learning to swallow small indignities quietly. That's when he started to understand what adults meant when they said life was heavy. His boyhood stopped being about toys and became about responsibility.
But even then, he kept a curious faith in destiny. He thought, maybe my luck comes late. Maybe all my delays are just build-up. He prayed—not to ask, but to remind God he still existed. It became a habit, whispering at night, "I'm still here. Don't forget me."
College was no grand transformation. He lost some weight, gained a little confidence, but the world still treated him with the same lukewarm sympathy. He joined a small-town college to finish a commerce degree while Aman went to the city for engineering. They kept contact through calls and occasional visits, though distance softened their rhythm.
Rohit felt the world growing larger and himself smaller. His classmates talked about career plans, romances, life goals. Meanwhile, he quietly counted the hours in the library, unsure if any of it meant anything. He had the marks, but no passion. The days passed in grayscale.
Then, in his final year, something strange happened. A teacher announced a poetry event, and out of boredom—or courage—Rohit joined. When his turn came, he stood in front of forty students, palms sweating, holding a trembling paper. His poem was not clever. It was about loneliness and invisible people. But when he finished, there was silence that wasn't mocking. For the first time, eyes looked at him differently.
That night, walking home, he smiled. Maybe fate had noticed him again, even if it was just for a minute past midnight.
Years went on. He finished college, failed one job interview after another. Companies promised callbacks that never came. Relatives said, "Maybe government jobs suit you," and neighbors said, "Try something practical." He tried everything: call centers, data entry, sales. Nothing clicked. It felt as though luck always reached him a moment too late—as though the same pause from his birth still haunted him.
By the time he turned twenty-seven, people had stopped asking about his ambitions and started asking about his marriage. His mother worried in that half-silent way mothers do. His father sighed more often, complaining about generations losing discipline. Rohit, in the middle of it all, simply nodded and smiled. The truth was, he hadn't even been in a relationship. He didn't know how to start one.
He still remembered that eraser from school and how even small kindness had once felt like love. Sometimes, he thought love wasn't for him. Maybe it belonged to people born right on time.
That thought lingered the night his life twisted again.
Aman returned to town after years, full of stories about city life. They sat by the roadside tea stall, laughing over steaming cups, talking about nothing and everything. That's when Aman mentioned his sister—how she wasn't married yet, how his parents were worried, how life had become complicated back home. Rohit listened politely, not knowing those words would soon decide his fate.
But that is a later scene. For now, Rohit sits by his window, looking out into the night sky. Stars shimmer faintly—some late, some fading. Somewhere a dog barks, a train echoes in the distance. He wonders if his birthday should be Saturday or Sunday, or if fate ever really cared about such tiny details. He smiles to himself and whispers softly, "It doesn't matter. I was always meant to come late."
And perhaps, in that small, weary acceptance, he finally arrived—right on time, in his own kind of way.