Fifth dawn broke colder, warehouse air thick with Poki's ragged breaths. Thirty-eight rupees weighed his pocket like chains—seed money from scrap yard grit. No more employee. Solo today. Prove. Treasures lined his brick-shelf: annotated ledger, foreman gestures scratched on newspaper margins, primer pages memorized to discipline. Last night's dirt-math replayed: buy low scrap (2₹/kg), sell high to yards (4₹/kg). Profit thin, but his. No Sharma-ji. No pity bonus. Command your patch.
Body protested—shoulder gash festered yellow, blisters wept clear—but he bound wounds with shirt rags, ate one roti dry. Fuel mind. Body follows. Slipping out, he hit the railway yard pre-rush, mimicking foremen: straight back, sharp eyes. Scavenged edges—rusted bolts, wire scraps, tin sheets discarded by loaders. No beg. Silent lift, pocket fill. Two hours yielded five kilos, sweat-blood mix. Perfect. Numbers right.
Bazaar next, under rising sun. Ragpickers swarmed alleys, but Poki veered to truck stops—drivers discarding fenders, pipes from repairs. He worked shadows, prying loose metal with scavenged lever. A burly mechanic spotted him. "Oye, chor! Yahaan se uth!" Thief! Get out! Poki froze, overthinking avalanche: Fight? Run? Explain? Mechanic lunged; Poki bolted, clutching sack, heart slamming. Lost one kilo. Still four left. Shame burned, but obsession snarled: Patch claimed. Next spot.
By noon, sack heavy at eight kilos total. Dhaba skipped—Sharma-ji's jeers still echoed. Instead, industrial scrap buyers lined a dusty lane off Rohtak Road: bearded men in sheds, weighing scales glinting. Poki rehearsed haggle: Low buy yesterday price. Counter firm. Walk threat. First shed: grizzled buyer squinted at his rags. "Kya laaya, ladka? Dikhwa." Show. Poki dumped sack—bolts clanged satisfying. "Aath kilo. Chaar rupaye kilo." Buyer prodded with stick. "Do rupaye. Yeh kachra."
Poki's voice steadied, foreman steel. "Teen. Quality dekh." Three. Look quality. Buyer laughed, tobacco breath foul. "Quality? Cycle puncture wala! Do final, le ya jaa." Two final. Take or go. Doubt clawed: Ledger said three average. Hold? "Doh rupaye pachas paise." Two-fifty. Buyer waved dismissively. "Bhaag, nithalla. Time waste." Poki grabbed sack, walked—heart pounding triumph-defeat mix. Held line. Next buyer.
Second shed worse. Fat owner barely glanced. "Ek rupaye kilo. Kahin bech dega?" Sell elsewhere? Poki countered two-fifty; man roared laughter, calling workers. "Dekho yeh! Scrap king ban gaya!" Look this! They circled, poking sack, mimicking his stance mockingly. "Haggle master! Kitna padha school mein?" Humiliation surged hot—faces blurring into ragpicker, foreman, Sharma-ji. Transparent again. He fled, sack dragging, jeers chasing: "Kal aaiyo, practice kar le!"
Third buyer, end of lane: old man with milky eye, quieter. Weighed sack slow. "Teen kilo clean bolt. Baaki ghatiya. Do rupaye saat." Poki nodded, deal done—sixteen rupees total. Profit? Eight after "buy" math. Win. Solo. But walking out, overthinking struck vicious: Luck? Pity? Real yards pay four. Sack lighter, spirit cracked. Eight hours, sixteen rupees. Dhaba paid forty.
Dusk loomed as Poki hit evening bazaar for "restock"—cheaper scrap from vegetable carts' broken stands. Spot secured under banyan: spread sack like vendor mat, yelled hoarse: "Scrap! Bolt, wire! Achha daam!" Good price! Foot traffic thick—women haggling sabzi, men chai-slurping. First customer: cycle repair boy. "Ek kilo bolt, kitna?" Poki flashed ledger confidence: "Paanch rupaye." Boy snorted. "Teen dega." Three. Haggle dance: four countered, three landed. Profit one rupee. Working.
Momentum built—three more sales, twelve rupees pocketed. Kids gathered, curious. "Bhaiya, tu naya vendor?" New? Poki nodded silent, observing their sharp eyes. Teach them? No. Solo. But dusk thickened trouble. Ragpicker gang rolled up—five boys, led by yesterday's cycle kid, hook-stick gleaming. "Yahaan hamara patch, madarchod! Bech raha kyun?" Our patch! Why sell?
Poki stood, sack guarded. "Mera maal. Jaao." My stuff. Go. Kid sneered. "Kal kachra churaya. Aaj bech raha? Hook le!" Yesterday thief. Today seller? They circled, sticks tapping palms. Overthinking paralyzed: Fight five? Run loses sack? Negotiate? "Saath bech lete. Split profit." Share sell. Kid laughed shrill. "Profit tera? Yeh le profit!" Hook swung—cracked Poki's wrist. Pain exploded white; sack ripped open, scrap scattered.
Chaos: kids dove for metal, stomping his spread. Poki lunged, grabbed three kilos, but blows rained—sticks on back, kicks to ribs. "Nithalla! Patch chhod!" Crowd watched, chuckling: "Bachchon se hara!" Lost to kids! He curled fetal, protecting head, till they tired, pedaling off with his haul. Left: two kilos mangled, body screaming—wrist swelling purple, ribs bruised fire, lip split bloody.
Poki crawled to banyan roots, world spinning. Sixteen rupees from morning gone in grabs. Zero. Worse. Isolation crushed absolute—no ally, no witness. Bazaar lights flickered on, families departing happy. He alone, bleeding in dirt. Self-hatred tsunami: Stupid. Weak. Solo? Suicide. Memories crushed: orphanage isolation, street quits piling. Always break. Always alone. Numbness beckoned sweet—curl here, die slow. Quit. Richest laugh eternal.
Tears came finally, hot silent rivers mixing dust. Nothing to lose? Lost everything already. Wrist throbbed useless; tomorrow impossible. Obsession flickered faint: Analyze. Gang weakness? Bigger sack? Weapons? But doubt devoured: Broken goods. No endurance left. He dragged to canal bank, dunked wounds in muddy water. Stars emerged mocking—billboard faces glowing distant: Ambani smiling, Musk conquering. They started somewhere. You? End here.
Hours passed in dark spiral. Rats sniffed close; he shoved stones. Survive night. One breath. Wrist bound with rag, he limped warehouse-ward, two mangled kilos clutched. No sell tomorrow. Heal. Watch gangs from shadows. Deeper mimic. But low point lingered, voice broken: Dangerous man? Bleeding boy. Sleep evaded till midnight, body wreck, mind fractured.
Dawn would demand rise. Obsession, tattered but alive, whispered through cracks: Fracture mends stronger. Forge. Silence answered, heavy with ghosts. Solo grind scarred deeper—no numb return. The nothing-man edged lethal, one breath from abyss.