Chapter 2: The Station, The Hunger, and The First Loyalty
The sun rose in the morning, but for Arin, dawn had not yet broken. There was a void in his stomach—that piercing emptiness that rings louder than any alarm clock.
The air still held the chill of last night's rain. Arin's T-shirt was damp on his shoulders, clinging to him like a cold memory. He ran his hand over his ribs. Hunger... it isn't just a bodily need; it's a 'reminder' that you are still alive, even if the world has forgotten you.
(Narrator)
"The city wakes up with hopes,
But a hungry man wakes up with only a question—
'What about today?'
Hope is a luxury of the rich,
For the poor, merely breathing is a 'task'."
Nainu lay nearby. His sleep was light. His ears were perked up; perhaps even in his dreams, he was listening for the sound of bread.
Arin placed his hand on Nainu's head. A slight shiver ran through the dog's skin.
"Get up, brother," Arin said in a dry voice, "It's time to 'reboot' the system."
He stepped out onto the road. The noise of vehicles, horns, and people rushing—everything felt like a blurred movie. Arin's gaze was straight. He had learned that if you don't look into people's eyes, you become invisible to them. And right now, that was exactly what he needed—Invisibility.
He stopped near a grocery store. The pungent smell of turmeric and coriander wafted from inside. This scent churned his stomach into knots.
Nainu was wise; he stopped right at the threshold. He knew his world ended there.
Arin went inside. There was a hesitation in his gait, but he hid it well.
"Uncle..." he cleared his throat, "Is there any work? Lifting goods or cleaning..."
The shopkeeper looked up from his ledger and scanned Arin from head to toe. Wet clothes, messy hair, and need written all over his face. There was no hatred in the shopkeeper's eyes, just boredom—as if he saw ten boys like this every day.
"Work?" the shopkeeper said as if Arin had asked for his kidney. "Have you seen your condition? Customers will run away seeing you. If you want to beg, go to a temple."
An invisible slap struck Arin's cheek. But he made no sound. He just blinked for a second, took a deep breath, and smiled—a very faint, cold smile.
He walked out. Nainu wagged his tail, asking a question.
Arin looked up at the sky.
"Forget it, Nainu. Their 'server' itself is down. They can't get a network."
Just then, the wind changed direction. A sweet, savory aroma arrived. Poori-Sabzi.
He looked across the road. There was a crowd. Large cauldrons. Steam rising in the air, as if a prayer had been answered. A Bhandara (Community Feast).
A glint appeared in Arin's eyes—like finding a 'Health Kit' in a game. He walked briskly towards it.
But as soon as he reached the line, the atmosphere changed. A woman clutched her purse tightly to her chest. There was no fear in her eyes, only disgust. As if Arin wasn't a boy, but a virus.
A volunteer, wearing a white kurta (which was perhaps cleaner than his heart), stopped Arin with a hand gesture.
"Hey! Where are you barging in? And this dog... is not allowed here. Move, step aside."
"Brother, he is hungry too," Arin said very quietly. His voice held no plea, but logic.
"Rules are rules. Don't spread filth here."
The crowd didn't push him, but they turned their backs on him. This silence was louder than a shove. He had been told that he didn't fit into this 'frame'.
(Narrator)
"Water is enough to extinguish the fire of the stomach,
But the fire ignited by 'insult',
Burns a human to ash from the inside.
And ash... no one can burn ash again."
Arin stepped back. He ran his tongue over his dry lips. There was a heaviness in his throat, which he swallowed down.
"Crying is for the weak, Nainu. And we have to become 'Pro-Players' now."
He went to where the real truth of the feast lay—near the dustbin. Where people were throwing away plates. Some plates still had half-eaten food.
Arin picked up a relatively clean discarded plate. The rice was cold, a little smeared with dirt.
"Sharing is caring, right?" He placed half the rice on the ground for Nainu and put a morsel into his own mouth.
The rice was cold, tasteless. But as the food went down his throat, the noise in his head quieted a little.
"Son..."
A heavy, trembling voice.
Arin was startled. An old man, on whose face time had drawn a map of wrinkles, was looking at him. In his hand was a steaming leaf plate and a black plastic bag.
"Don't eat there."
The old man handed the hot plate to Arin. "And this is for the evening." He gave the black bag too.
Arin's hands trembled. The warmth of the plate traveled through his palms straight to his heart. He didn't say thank you, just bowed his head. Words would have fallen short.
At night, in his tin hut, Arin looked at that black bag. It was silent outside, just the sound of crickets.
"You know, Nainu," Arin said, staring into the darkness.
"There are two types of people in the world. Those who live by reading the 'manual', and those who know how to smack the machine to make it work."
Nainu rested his chin on Arin's leg.
"We were too innocent, man. The more innocent you are, the more people will treat you like a 'doormat'. If we want to clear the level in this game, we'll have to become a bit of a 'glitch'."
He clenched his fist and opened it.
"From now on, no more Mr. Nice Guy. People will see exactly what they want to see."
The next morning, the color of the sun was the same, but Arin's gait had changed.
He went to another shop. This time his shoulders weren't slumped. He had fixed his hair looking into a dirty mirror.
The shopkeeper was about to open his mouth to shoo him away when Arin's voice echoed.
"Uncle! Do you need a salesman or someone who can clear this old stock of yours in an hour?"
The shopkeeper stopped. This wasn't a 'begging' tone. This was a 'business' tone. "What do you mean?"
"You sit here waiting for customers," Arin gestured outside the shop, "I will go amongst the public and create demand. Give me goods worth five hundred, get five hundred back by evening. Anything above that is my commission."
The shopkeeper laughed. "You will sell? You're just a kid from yesterday."
Arin rested his elbow on the shop counter. There was a strange glint in his eyes—perhaps of hunger, perhaps of victory.
"I am small, that's why people don't suspect me. Trust is earned quickly." He gave a slight wink. "Your risk is zero. I am right here. Give me a chance, otherwise your shop is running anyway... at the speed of a tortoise."
The shopkeeper's laughter stopped. He looked at Arin closely. He didn't see helplessness in the boy; he saw 'material'.
"You talk big," the shopkeeper slid a box forward. "Take it. I want the accounts by evening."
Arin walked out of the shop. He picked up Nainu in his arms. There was a new freshness in the air.
"See, Nainu? When you spread your hands, people show you your 'place'. And when you shake hands, they make a 'deal'."
He walked towards the crowd; now he wasn't a part of that crowd, he was its player.
"Until yesterday we were surviving, from today a new season begins."