Chapter 6: The Price of Light Part 1
648 Words
Aarav’s name had never been printed before.
It looked strange to him in ink—almost like it belonged to someone else. But each time he touched the small booklet, folded carefully inside his shirt, the truth echoed louder in his chest:
He had a voice. And now, the world could hear it.
The small press that published his story printed only fifty copies. It wasn’t sold in bookshops or reviewed in newspapers. But it reached the hands of other workers—men like Shyam, mothers in night classes, teenage girls stitching clothes for rupees a piece.
And when they read it, they didn’t say, “Nice story.”
They said, “This is us.”
One woman, after reading his chapter, wiped her eyes and said, “I thought only rich people wrote books. You proved me wrong.”
Aarav felt humbled—but also awakened. Until now, he had thought survival was the goal. But now, truth felt just as necessary.
And truth, he realized, came with a price.
The factory supervisors didn’t like attention.
When they heard that a worker’s story had been circulated in pamphlets, they summoned him.
“You’ve been writing about the factory?” one asked, tapping a finger on a desk.
“I wrote about my life,” Aarav replied calmly.
“The factory was only a part of it.”
The man leaned in. “Be careful. We give you work, shelter, and wages. Don’t forget where you come from.”
Aarav left that office with steady feet—but a storm brewing in his stomach. That warning wasn’t just for him.
It was for anyone who dared to be heard.
That night, he returned to class, quieter than usual.
Ramesh noticed. “They talked to you, didn’t they?”
Aarav nodded. “They think I’m dangerous.”
Ramesh didn’t laugh. “Because your truth threatens their silence.”
Aarav looked around at the chalkboard, the cracked window, the stack of books donated by people who’d once been just like him.
“They can’t stop me from writing,” he whispered.
“No,” said Ramesh. “But they can make you choose.”
Aarav frowned. “Choose what?”
“To stay invisible. Or to be seen and risk being pushed out.”
The next day, Aarav returned to the floor. The work was the same—hot, repetitive, thankless. But the air had shifted. Some workers avoided his eyes. Others whispered behind his back. A few, like Shyam, clapped him on the shoulder and said nothing—but it was enough.
He kept his head down, but his eyes open.
In the following days, his hours were cut. He was moved to the back of the warehouse, away from the main line. His ID card was flagged “temporary.” His name was no longer on the weekly roster. One night, his mattress in the dormitory was missing.
He slept outside.
No one said it out loud.
But the message was clear:
Speak truth, and you lose comfort.
But Aarav was no longer afraid of discomfort.
He’d faced worse—with no food, no roof, no shoes.
This was just another storm.
And he knew how to walk through storms now.
The final push came on a Monday morning.
A new boy arrived—skinny, coughing, barefoot.
The supervisor shouted at him for folding fabric too slowly.
Then he hit him. In front of everyone.
And no one moved.
Except Aarav.
He stepped forward, took the boy’s hand, and pulled him away.
The warehouse went still.
The supervisor’s eyes blazed. “You don’t give orders here.”
Aarav didn’t flinch. “And you don’t beat children.”
The room crackled with silence.
Then the supervisor said one word: “Go.”
Aarav turned to the boy. “You too.”
And together, they walked out into the daylight.
- Writer
