Dawn clawed through warehouse cracks, painting Poki's brick-shelf of treasures in weak light. The newspaper lay open to a faded stock chart, lines like veins he'd traced a hundred times last night. The primer's letters danced in his head:
D-I-S-C-I-P-L-I-N-E. Management scrap screamed Mindset: Real Capital. He'd mouthed foreman commands till his throat rasped: "Seedha! Jaldi! No waste!" Sleep had been shallow, haunted by the dump sorter's hook and the ragpicker's laugh. Apply it today. Or you're still nothing.
Poki pocketed two rupees from yesterday's forty—enough for a single chai, fuel for focus. The rest stayed hidden, seed for something bigger. Count it. Don't spend blind. He scratched tallies in dirt: 38 left. Simple math from the ledger, practiced till fingers cramped. Endure the burn. Limping to the dhaba—shoulder wound stiff—he rehearsed. Watch the owner haggle. Mimic foremen. No begging. Command space.
The dhaba squatted on the highway fringe, tin roof rattling under morning trucks. Owner Sharma-ji, pot-bellied with a perpetual paan bulge, scrubbed counters as steam rose from simmering kadhai. Poki approached straight-backed, no slouch. "Kaam, uncle. Bartan aur madad. Kal jaise." Sharma-ji glanced up, grunted. "Aa jaa. Pachas rupees. Giraya toh kaat lunga."
Poki nodded sharp—mimic the foremen—and dove in. Dishes first: grease thick as tar, hot water scalding blisters raw. He gritted through, whispering Jaldi. Seedha. Stacks grew neat, no slips today. Triumph flickered small. See? Learning sticks. Mid-morning rush hit: truckers bellowing for parathas, chai, dal. Sharma-ji juggled orders, barking at a helper boy. Poki watched, silent predator. Haggle like him. Count like ledger.
A vendor rolled up with vegetables—wilted onions, dusty potatoes. Sharma-ji leaned out: "Biis kilo tamatar, kitna?" Twenty kilos tomatoes, how much? Vendor grinned sly: "Saat rupaye kilo, bhaiya." Sharma-ji spat red. "Paanch! Yeh saste daam, warna leke jaa." Five! Take it or go. Back-and-forth sharpened—six rupees landed. Poki absorbed every jab, eyes locked. Price low. Hold firm. Walk away threat.
His chance came noon, dhaba thick with smoke and sweat. A chai supplier, wiry man with stained teeth, hauled a crate. "Pachas packet doodh chai patti, tees rupaye." Fifty packets milk tea leaves, thirty rupees. Sharma-ji waved him off. Poki saw the hole—owner distracted, flipping rotis. Apply. Now. Heart hammering, he stepped up, voice low but steady, foreman steel. "Tees zyada. Bees kilo ka kaam nahi. Pachis de." Thirty too much. Not worth twenty kilos. Twenty-five.
Supplier blinked, laughed rough. "Tu kaun? Sharma-ji ka naukar? Chup reh, bacha." Who's you? Shut up, kid. Heat flooded Poki's face, but obsession clamped jaw. Hold. Mimic. "Pachis. Ya leke jaa." Twenty-five. Or take it. Supplier's eyes narrowed, sizing the ragged nobody. "Pagal hai kya? Tees hi final." Crazy? Thirty final. Poki froze, overthinking crashing: Wrong number? Ledger said bulk discount. But what if— Sharma-ji whirled, face purple. "Poki, saala! Yeh tera kaam nahi! Bhaag yahaan se!"
Humiliation exploded. Truckers guffawed, slapping tables. "Nautanki kar raha hai ladka! Haggle master ban gaya!" The supplier snatched his crate, shoving past. "Time waste. Dusre dhabe jaunga." Sharma-ji grabbed Poki's collar, breath foul. "Kyun beech mein aaya, kameena? Aaj ka paisa gayaa! Nikal!" No pay today. Out! Poki stumbled back, world spinning. Failed. Worse than begging. The laughter drilled deep, reopening every wound—ragpicker, foreman, sorter. Invisible to dangerous in one breath.
He fled to the roadside, collapsing behind a parked auto. Chest heaved, tears hot but unshed. Stupid. Overreached. Knew nothing real. Self-doubt roared, a storm in his skull. Ledger numbers lied. Foremen have muscle, chains. You? Skinny ghost. Isolation crushed heavier—no one to vent to, no brother to curse with. Just echoes of jeers in Bahadurgarh's dust-choked air. Quit. Back to numbness. Safer.
But the snake twisted, cold voice cutting through. No. Analyze. Fix. He pulled out crumpled ledger scrap, retracing columns under the auto's shadow. Addition wrong—twenty kilos at one rupee profit per? No, bulk loss. Stupid math. Vendor had markup room; he'd jumped too aggressive. Observe deeper next. Wait for real chance. Obsession bloomed darker, fueling through pain. They laughed? Let them. Fuel.
Afternoon dragged brutal. No dhaba meant hunt again. Poki slunk to the scrap yard—same foreman from days back, gold chain glinting. Mimic better. No talk first. He hung at edges, watching loads shift. Trucks rumbled in, drivers haggling rates: "Pachas tonka, do sau." Fifty tons, two hundred. Foreman countered low, walked threats till drivers buckled. Poki noted hands—open palm for demand, finger jab for no. Steal the dance.
Emboldened, he edged to a side pile, heaving metal solo. No beg. Prove. Arms screamed, shoulder gash reopening, blood mixing sweat. A worker noticed, grunted. "Oye, tu? Kal bhaaga tha." You? Ran yesterday. Poki met eyes, silent, kept lifting. No words—observe said shut up. The worker shrugged, tossed him a lever. "Madad kar. Bonus milega." Help. Get bonus. Hours blurred: lift, stack, dodge forklifts. Sun baked skin raw, but rhythm locked—seedha, jaldi.
Pay time: foreman tallied. "Teen ghante, tees rupaye." Three hours, thirty. Poki nodded, pocketed it crisp. No jeers. Win. Tiny. But walking out, overthinking struck: Luck? Worker pity? Doubt gnawed edges. Prove alone next.
Dusk fell heavy, sky bleeding orange over factories. Poki bought four rotis with winnings, ate under banyan, watching laborers disperse—families waiting, cycles laden. Anchors. His ghosts whispered louder: orphanage echoes, street quits. Broken. But he traced haggle math in dirt: supplier cost, markup, counter low ten percent. Practice till dark. Back at warehouse, treasures grew—ledger annotated with blood smudges.
Night deepened, body wreck: wounds festered, belly half-full. Lying on cardboard, cracks mocked like fractures in his will. Day four. One tiny pay, one explosion. Doubt coiled for kill: Tomorrow breaks you. Isolation eats alive. Truck horns wailed distant, reminding of the world turning without him. But silence answered, obsession sharpening to blade. Mindset capital. Failures teachers. No numb surrender. Mimic deeper. Haggle solo tomorrow. Numbers perfect. They ignore? Force eyes.
For the first time, sleep came weaponized—dreams not escape, but blueprints. Discipline rooted, silent and dangerous. A man with nothing forged edges now. The richest would choke on it, slow.