Chapter 4: A Stranger’s Shelter Part 2
821 Words
Aarav awoke to the soft bellows of cows and the rhythmic sound of someone sweeping. Morning sunlight filtered in through a crack in the stone wall, painting a golden stripe across his chest. For a moment, he forgot where he was. The air was cooler, the earth smelled of hay, and there was no sound of distant voices, no coughing, no crying—just peace.
He sat up slowly and stretched his back. It ached from walking and working, but this time the pain was tolerable. A welcome reminder that he was still moving forward.
Outside, Mala was already awake. She stood beside the cow shed, tossing hay into the trough while speaking softly to the animals.
“Morning,” Aarav said as he stepped outside, his voice still rough from sleep.
She turned and smiled. “You sleep well?”
He nodded. “Better than I have in days.”
Mala handed him a metal bucket. “Feed the smaller ones and change the water bowls.”
He took the bucket without hesitation and got to work. The cows eyed him with mild curiosity but didn’t resist. Aarav moved slowly, carefully. He’d never worked directly with livestock, but his village life had taught him respect for animals—especially those that fed you more often than people did.
As he poured water and cleaned troughs, Mala watched from a distance. She didn’t instruct or hover, just let him do the work.
“You’re patient,” she said eventually. “Most boys your age rush through it.
Aarav shrugged. “I don’t have anywhere to rush to.”
She said nothing in return, and they finished the chores in quiet partnership. Once the animals were fed and the yard swept, she led him into the house—a small, two-room structure with a tiled roof and faded blue walls. The front room was a kitchen, the back held shelves of books, a woven cot, and a clay water pot.
She handed him a glass. “Drink. Then eat.”
The breakfast was simple—flattened rice mixed with jaggery and coconut, and a brass cup of warm milk.
Aarav hesitated as he looked around. “Do you live here alone?”
Mala stirred the pot on the stove. “Since my husband passed two years ago, yes. We had no children. I was never the type who wanted to be taken care of, anyway.
“You run all this alone?”
She turned slightly. “The cows don’t need conversation. Just kindness.”
Aarav smiled at that. “And strangers?”
She looked at him for a long moment.
“Sometimes, they need it even more.”
Later that day, Mala gave Aarav a task—collecting firewood from the nearby orchard where dry branches often fell after storms. It was a two-kilometer walk through fields and scattered trees. Aarav welcomed the solitude. The walk helped clear his thoughts.
The orchard was quiet. Dried leaves crunched underfoot. Birds chirped in the upper branches. As he began gathering branches into a bundle, he noticed something glinting under a bush—an old rusted bicycle frame, half buried in soil.
He pulled it free and stared at it.
Old. Broken. Left behind.
But maybe not useless.
When he returned with the bundle of wood, he also brought the bike frame. Mala raised an eyebrow. “Planning to ride it to the city?”
He smirked. “Not yet. But I think I can fix it. Might come in handy.”
That evening, after chores and another shared meal, Mala brought out two mugs of tea and sat beside him under the verandah roof.
The sun was setting behind the hills, turning the sky a soft amber.
“Why did you leave?” she asked, gently.
Aarav sipped his tea. “My village was destroyed. A storm. We lost our home. My sister and mother are safe, but… rebuilding takes more than hope.”
She nodded, as if she already knew the rest.
“I want to send them money. Give them something. I don’t know what, but… something that makes it feel less like we’re just trying to survive.”
Mala stared out into the distance. “Everyone who comes here carries ashes with them. Of homes, dreams, memories. But sometimes, something grows out of the ashes. Stronger. Wiser.”
He looked at her.
“Like you?”
She smiled faintly. “Like the cowshed. It was my husband’s idea. I wanted to burn it down after he died. But I didn’t. And now… it shelters me. And others.”
That night, Aarav worked by lantern light on the rusted bicycle frame. He found a few old tools in Mala’s storeroom and spent hours loosening bolts, sanding rust, fitting parts.
As he wiped grease from his hands, something in him stirred.
It wasn’t just about fixing a bike.
It was about fixing himself.
- Writer
