Poki woke before dawn, the forty rupees crumpled in his fist like a talisman. His body screamed—blisters throbbed, muscles knotted from yesterday's scrubbing—but he ignored it, sitting up in the warehouse gloom. Mind first. Brick by blister. The words from last night echoed, not as inspiration, but as a chain around his neck. No more numb drifting. No more nithalla. He had to learn. Not bricks or dishes—something real. Something that built empires, not just survived the day.
The city stirred outside: distant honks, a stray dog's bark, the metallic clang of factory gates creaking open. Poki slipped out, stomach a hollow drum. Breakfast could wait; knowledge couldn't. He'd seen it before—those sharp-eyed laborers who barked orders, not pleas. They knew things. Systems. Angles. Watch them. Steal their secrets. No school for him, no rich daddy's books. But Bahadurgarh's streets were littered with scraps: discarded newspapers, torn ledgers from shops, even the occasional battered textbook flung from a rickshaw. Trash for others was gold for the desperate.
He started at the main bazaar, dawn light painting the shuttered stalls in orange. Dust swirled as the first vegetable carts rattled in. Poki crouched by a pile of garbage behind a paan shop, sifting through banana peels and cigarette butts. His fingers closed on a crumpled Hindi newspaper, yellowed but intact. Share market tips. Billionaire secrets. He stuffed it into his shirt, heart quickening. Next, a scrap of ledger paper—numbers, columns, debts tallied in precise ink. Learn this. Numbers don't lie. But as he pocketed it, a shadow fell.
"Oye, kachra chura raha hai?" A scrawny boy, no older than twelve, sneered from atop a cycle rickshaw piled with trash. The kid was a professional ragpicker, clothes ragged but eyes hungry, darting for value. Poki froze, shame flooding hot. Thief now? Even kids out-hustle you. "Bas... padhna hai," he muttered. Just... to read. The boy laughed, shrill. "Padhna? Tu? Ja, bheekh maang, nithalla. Yeh mera patch hai." He kicked a soda can at Poki's feet and pedaled off, bell jingling mockingly.
Poki's fists clenched, nails biting palms. Patch? This city isn't owned. But the laughter stung deeper than the blisters. He moved on, slinking toward the railway yard where goods trains idled, unloading crates under floodlights. Workers swarmed—muscular men in vests, barking in Haryanvi, directing forklifts with hand signals. Poki hung back in the shadows, silent observer. Watch. Mimic. One foreman, paan-stained beard and gold chain glinting, pointed at a stack: "Wahan shift karo, seedha! Time waste mat!" Straighten it. No waste. Poki noted the rhythm—point, command, move. Efficiency. Power.
He edged closer, pretending to scavenge dropped bolts. Up close, the world sharpened: sweat-slick arms heaving fifty-kilo sacks, no complaints, just grunts and glances at the clock. They're not stronger. Just know the dance. A dropped sack split open, rice spilling white across the dirt. Chaos erupted—shouts, scrambling. The foreman cracked a bamboo stick on a dawdler's back. "Jaldi, harami! Loss hoga!" Poki's gut twisted. Join them? Beg a corner? He stepped forward, voice low. "Bhai, madad karun? Load uthaun."
The foreman turned, eyes narrowing like a hawk's. "Kaun tu? Yahaan ka nahi lagta. Bhaag, chillar!" Skinny. Run. Laughter rippled through the crew, rough hands shoving him back. One worker spat betel juice near his shoe. "Roz aise aate hain. Kaam karte nahi, paise khaate hain." They come daily. Eat money, do nothing. Poki stumbled away, cheeks burning, the crew's jeers chasing him into the heat haze. Failed again. Transparent. Weak. Under a rusted water tank, he slumped, breath ragged. The newspaper slipped out, headlines blurring through hot tears he blinked away. Musk builds rockets. Ambani owns skies. You? Beggar of scraps.
Self-hatred coiled tight, a snake in his chest. Why try? You're broken. Lazy from birth. Memories surged unbidden: orphanage nights, huddled with other orphans, listening to tales of rich uncles who never came. He'd slept through lessons, preferring dreams to beatings. Streets at sixteen—first job shining shoes, quit after a day because the polish fumes choked him. Always quit. Always numb. But today, numbness cracked wider. Nothing to lose. They laugh because I'm invisible. Make them see. Force it. He punched the tank, metal ringing, knuckles splitting fresh. Pain sharpened focus. Observe more. Deeper.
By noon, sun hammering like a fist, Poki hit the municipal dump on the city's edge—a mountain of rot where Bahadurgarh buried its failures. Flies buzzed thick, stench clawing throat. Ragsorters picked through hills of plastic and cloth, but Poki hunted paper. Hours blurred: digging through monsoon-moldy stacks, rats fleeing his hands. Reward came slow—a dog-eared English primer, pages warped but words intact. ABC... One two three. He hadn't touched schoolbooks since fourteen. Another find: a torn management magazine, faded photo of a suited man captioned Mindset: The Real Capital. Poki sat in the filth, mouthing words aloud, voice hoarse. "Dis...cipline. Per...sist."
A shout shattered it. "Eh, madarchod! Yahaan se uth!" A hulking sorter, arms like tree trunks, loomed over him. The man wielded a hooked stick, face twisted. "Mera maal hai yeh! Bahaar phenk dunga!" This is my stuff. I'll throw you out. Poki scrambled up, primer clutched tight, but the sorter swung. The hook caught his shoulder, ripping shirt and skin. Pain exploded—hot blood trickled. "Sorry, bhaiya!" Poki gasped, backing away. No fight; he was no brawler. Just run, as always.
He fled the dump, weaving through traffic—cycles, autos, bellowing trucks—until lungs burned and legs buckled near a canal bank. Collapsing in weeds, he bandaged the gash with his torn shirt tail. Even trash fights back. Isolation pressed heavy: no friends to nurse wounds, no mother to curse fate. Just him, bleeding in silence. Doubt roared now, louder than jeers. Quit, Poki. This is madness. Die slow instead. But he opened the primer, tracing letters with bloody finger. No. The obsession rooted deeper, cold and unyielding. Read. Every night. Mimic the foremen. Numbers from ledgers. One page. One skill. Fail tomorrow? Fail again.
Evening crept in, sky bruising purple. Forty rupees bought two rotis and watery dal from a roadside vendor—no questions, no stares. Poki ate slow, under a banyan tree, watching families haggle at market close. Kids laughed, dragging kites; fathers counted earnings with pride. They have anchors. You have ghosts. He traced ledger numbers in dirt: add, subtract. Wrong. Erase. Again. Wrong. Slow. Stupid. But persistence gnawed—a quiet fury. By dark, he'd hidden his scraps in a warehouse nook, makeshift shelf from bricks.
Lying on cardboard that night, wounds pulsing, Poki stared at cracks tracing like veins. No breakthroughs. Just pain, dirt, blood. Day three. Zero progress. Self-doubt whispered surrender, but the snake coiled tighter. A man with nothing loses nothing. Build the mind. Obsess. Silence fell, broken only by distant trains. Tomorrow: dhaba again, but watch the owner—his haggling, his counts. Steal more. Endure more. The world wouldn't ignore a blade forged in shadow.
Doubt lingered at edges, but for the first time, it didn't numb him. It fueled.