The monsoon in the city was never romantic for Akash. It meant leaky roofs in his hostel, damp clothes that never dried, and the constant fear of his only pair of shoes falling apart. But for Sara, the rain was a backdrop for poetry.
As Akash walked into the mansion, his trousers were soaked up to the knees. He tried to wipe his feet on the plush rug at the entrance, feeling a sting of humiliation.
"You're late," Sara's mother, Mrs. Khan, said coldly. She was draped in a silk saree, her gold jewelry catching the light of the chandelier. She didn't look at Akash; she looked through him, as if he were a piece of furniture that had been misplaced.
"I'm sorry, Ma'am. The buses were stalled due to the waterlogging," Akash murmured, keeping his head down.
"Try to be punctual. My daughter's time is expensive," she snapped, before gliding away.
Akash stood there for a moment, his fist clenched tight. The "expensive" time she spoke of was something he was selling his soul for, just to buy a meal.
When he entered the library, Sara was waiting. She saw his soaked clothes and immediately stood up. "Akash! You're shivering. Let me ask the help to bring you some tea and a dry shirt of my brother's."
"No," Akash said, his voice hard. "I'm here to teach, Sara. Open page 142."
"But you'll get sick!"
"People like me don't have the luxury of getting sick, Sara. We just endure."
The tension in the room was thick. Sara sat down slowly, her eyes searching his face. For the first time, she realized that the man sitting across from her wasn't just a teacher; he was a warrior fighting a war she couldn't even imagine.
"Why are you so hard on yourself?" she whispered, ignoring the book.
Akash looked up, his eyes weary. "Because if I stop being hard, I'll break. My father sold his last piece of land to send me here. If I fail, an entire generation of my family fails."
Sara reached across the table, her fingers grazing his hand. "You won't fail. I won't let you."
"You can't stop the world from being what it is, Sara. You live in a palace, and I live in a room smaller than your walk-in closet. There is no bridge between us."
"Then I'll build one," she said, her voice filled with a sudden, fierce determination.
That evening, as the lesson ended, Sara slipped a small envelope into his bag. Akash didn't notice it until he reached his cramped hostel room. Inside was a hand-written note and a pressed jasmine flower.
"The bridge doesn't have to be made of stone, Akash. It can be made of words. Don't give up on us before we've even started."
As Akash held the flower, the scent of jasmine filled the damp, musty room. For the first time in years, he didn't feel the hunger in his stomach. He felt a different kind of ache—a longing for a world he knew would eventually destroy him.