Chapter 6: The Price of Light Part 2
769 Words
Outside the factory, the street pulsed with life—buses honked, vendors shouted, rickshaw bells rang in the distance. But to Aarav, the city had fallen silent. He stood beneath the crumbling factory gate, the boy still clutching his hand, and felt the weight of a thousand unspoken rules he’d just broken.
The boy, no older than fourteen, looked up with wide eyes.
“Will they come after us?” he asked.
Aarav knelt and loosened the boy’s hand gently. “They’ve already taken too much. They won’t take your voice.”
The boy didn’t understand the full meaning.
But he nodded. Sometimes, hope didn’t need explanations—just a face to believe in.
Aarav took him to the same community center where his own nights had been transformed.
Ramesh looked up from a stack of papers and blinked. “What happened?”
Aarav gave a short version of the story.
The teacher sighed deeply. “They’ll blacklist you from every warehouse in this block.”
“I know.”
“You could have just walked away.”
“I did,” Aarav replied. “But I walked with someone else this time.”
Ramesh didn’t argue. Instead, he handed him a piece of paper. “You’ll need this.”
Aarav unfolded it. It was a pamphlet—handwritten, hand-folded.
“Worker Voices: Real Stories, Real Change”
Issue 1: The Road Beyond the Storm – by Aarav Sharma
“Printing costs money,” Aarav said quietly.
“Someone’s already paid. An old student. Now working in Delhi, sending funds back.”
Aarav ran his fingers over the cheap ink.
This wasn’t a bestseller.
But it was more powerful than any bestseller he had ever seen.
Over the next few days, Aarav spent his time not working—but organizing.
He helped print more copies of his story. Then others joined in. Shyam wrote about unsafe machines. A woman named Priya wrote about being underpaid for months. A teenager described being hired and fired without ever seeing his own name on paper.
They didn't just complain.
They documented.
They named dates. Described faces.
Recorded hours and wages.
Their silence had become sentences.
The small classroom became a newsroom.
And Aarav became its quiet editor.
But truth has enemies.
One evening, as Aarav was walking alone through a dim alley behind the printing press, he was stopped by three men in leather jackets.
“You’re the writer?” one asked.
Aarav didn't answer.
Another man pushed him against the wall.
“You think you’re a hero? You think your little papers matter?”
Aarav clenched his jaw. “I think they scare you.”
A fist landed in his gut. The second came across his cheek. He dropped to one knee, blood in his mouth.
But he laughed.
He couldn’t help it.
“Truth hurts, doesn’t it?”
The men froze for a second. Then one spit on the ground. “Leave town. Next time, it won’t be words that bleed.”
They walked off.
Aarav stayed down for a while, breathing slowly.
Pain throbbed in his ribs. His vision swam.
But inside him, something glowed stronger than pain.
Ramesh patched him up. “You need to be careful,” he said, dabbing antiseptic gently.
“I am careful,” Aarav replied. “But I’m not quiet anymore.”
Two nights later, the community center hosted a small reading.
Thirty people showed up.
Workers. Volunteers. Even two women from the press union.
Aarav stood at the front of the dusty room, holding the newest pamphlet in his hand. His fingers trembled, not from fear—but from the weight of it.
He began to read.
“I was not supposed to survive.
I was supposed to be quiet.
I was supposed to be cheap labor, forgettable hands, a number on a shift list.
But the storm gave me a gift—
it stripped away the walls,
and in that wind, I found my voice.”
The room listened like it was breathing with him.
When he finished, no one clapped.
They simply sat there—changed.
And that was louder than any applause.
Later that night, Aarav stood on the rooftop of the center, bruised but unbroken. The city glowed beneath him—millions of lights in chaos.
But up here, the stars were visible.
He whispered to them.
“Ma, Meera… I don’t know if you’ll ever read what I write. But I hope one day, you’ll live in a world made a little better by it.”
And with that, he picked up his pen.
And began again.
- Writer
