Chapter 4: A Stranger’s Shelter Part 1
760 Words
The road that wound west out of Baksar was different from the path Aarav had known back home. There, the trees had been familiar, the fields predictable, the skies steady. But here, everything felt foreign. The air was cooler, with hints of eucalyptus and diesel. Distant hills shaped the horizon like the back of some sleeping animal. And the people? They walked faster. Spoke louder. Didn’t make eye contact.
Aarav walked with no destination.
His wages from the relief work were tucked safely into the inner lining of his shirt. It wasn’t much, but enough to survive a few days. Rafi had stayed back, content with the chaos and chatter of Baksar. Aarav, however, needed to keep moving. He wasn’t ready to settle—not yet. His soul still itched for something more, something unnamed.
By late afternoon, the sky turned a muted bronze, signaling evening’s approach. His legs ached. He hadn't eaten since morning, and the only thing keeping him upright was the steady rhythm of his feet. Step. Breathe. Step. Think.
He passed by sugarcane fields, then mango groves, until he finally saw it: a small dhaba by the side of the road. A faded blue sign read:
“Chandra’s Kitchen – Hot Food & Kind People.”
That last part made him smile, faintly.
He walked up to the front. A few truckers sat on benches, sipping tea and talking in low voices. A boy no older than ten was sweeping the floor. The owner, a round-faced man with a long mustache and white kurta, stood behind the counter wiping his hands on a towel.
Aarav hesitated, then stepped forward.
“Bhaiya… ek plate daal aur roti milega?”
The man looked him up and down, noting the dusty feet, the tired eyes, the nearly empty cloth bag. “Fifty rupees.”
Aarav pulled the money from his pocket and held it out. The man stared for a second longer than necessary, then nodded.
“Sit. Food will come.”
As Aarav sat on a low bench by the window, he watched the sky dim behind distant hills. The clatter of dishes, the crackle of a stove, the hiss of a pressure cooker—every sound reminded him of home, but at the same time, reminded him he wasn’t there.
The food arrived—simple, warm, and satisfying. Two rotis, a bowl of thin dal, and a small heap of fried potatoes. He ate slowly, savoring every bite.
Then, just as he was finishing his meal, he heard a voice behind him.
“You look like you’ve walked a long way.”
He turned.
A woman in her mid-thirties stood by the counter, holding a tiffin box and a packet of salt. Her face was weathered but kind. Her dupatta was loosely draped, and her hands bore signs of manual labor—rough, worn, honest.
“I have,” Aarav replied, unsure if she was simply making conversation or had guessed something more.
She sat beside him, not too close, not too far. “Where are you headed?”
“Nowhere in particular. Just away.”
She didn’t ask more, which surprised him. Most adults he met couldn’t resist asking about his parents, his village, his purpose. But she simply nodded and said, “There’s a storm brewing again. You shouldn’t be out on the road tonight.”
He looked out. She was right. The clouds were thickening.
The dhaba owner, overhearing, chimed in. “We have no room here, beta. But Mala here—” he gestured to the woman—“she runs a cowshed nearby. Keeps a few animals and lets travelers stay in the side room sometimes.”
Aarav looked at her. “I can pay.”
She waved the offer off. “I don’t do it for money. Only rule is you feed the animals in the morning.”
He blinked. “Why?”
She smiled. “Because anyone willing to wake up early to feed a stranger’s animals usually has some goodness left in them.”
That night, for the first time since the cyclone, Aarav slept indoors—not in a crowded shelter or under open sky, but in a modest stone-walled room beside a cowshed.
He lay on a rolled mat with a cotton sheet and an old pillow that smelled faintly of hay.
He stared at the ceiling, eyes wide open, the sound of cows breathing just beyond the door.
A stranger had offered him shelter.
And somehow, that warmth pierced deeper than the blanket on his chest.
- Writer
