The storm had passed by dawn, leaving Bahadurgarh's streets slick with puddles that mirrored the gray sky. Poki trudged toward the industrial outskirts, stomach twisting from hunger he'd ignored since yesterday. His plan—if you could call it that—was simple: find a factory, any factory, and beg for a day's labor. Move bricks. Sweep floors. Something. No more drifting. But as the chai stalls flickered to life, the old numbness tugged at his heels. Turn back. Sleep it off. Easier.
He shook it off, jaw tight. The first gate loomed: a textile mill belching smoke, workers streaming in like ants. Poki approached the burly guard, hands shoved deep in pockets to hide the tremble. "Bhaiya, kaam chahiye. Ek din ka. Kuch bhi karunga." Work, brother. One day. Anything.
The guard squinted, then barked a laugh. "Kaam? Tu? Dekh, nithalla, jaa yahaan se. Kal ke mazdoor aa gaye." Poki's face burned. Useless. Again. He mumbled thanks and shuffled off, the word echoing like a slap. One door. Not all. But inside, the voice sneered: Told you. Lazy bones. Go rot.
Two hours later, sweat soaked his shirt under a merciless sun. He'd hit three more gates—same sneers, same shooing hands. At a scrap yard, the foreman let him load a single truck for twenty rupees. Triumph flickered. See? Starting. But midway, his arms gave out, rusted metal slipping from blistered hands. A pile crashed; the foreman roared, "Kameena! Paise mat le, bhaag jaa!" Poki fled, rupees unfilled, shame hot in his throat. He collapsed under a neem tree, breath ragged. Failed. Already. What now?
Kids half his age zipped by on cycles, hawking chai and smokes, their eyes sharp with hustle. He envied them—their energy, their not-knowing-better. I was like that once. Before the world broke me. Memories clawed up: orphanage beatings for laziness, streets swallowing him whole at sixteen. No one taught him. No one cared. But that was the point, wasn't it? Nothing left to lose. He punched the dirt, knuckles splitting. Get up. Again. Obsession stirred, a quiet knife-edge. Not rage—something colder. Learn. Endure. They laugh now. Won't forever.
By noon, he spotted a roadside dhaba, owner scrubbing tables. Poki straightened, wiped his face. "Kaam, uncle? Bartan saaf karunga. Din bhar." The man eyed him, shrugged. "Pachas rupees. Kaam na aaya, nikaal doonga." Fifty rupees. A start. Poki grabbed the sponge, hands screaming from blisters. Water splashed, grease fought back. Hours blurred—scrub, rinse, dodge abuses from impatient truckers. A plate slipped; hot chai scalded his foot. "Andhe kutte!" the owner yelled, docking ten rupees.
Evening fell. Poki pocketed forty rupees, limp toward the warehouse. Filthy, aching, but forty more than zero. One day down. Thousands to go. Doubt whispered as he lay on cardboard: Tomorrow you'll quit. Too weak. But he stared at the ceiling cracks, tracing patterns like battle maps. Silence settled, heavy with promise. No. I build now. Mind first. Brick by blister.