Chapter 4: A Stranger’s Shelter Part 3
692 Words
Aarav awoke the next morning with sore arms and oil-streaked fingers. The old bicycle frame was coming together—still crude, still far from perfect—but it was progress. And progress, after weeks of surviving, felt like power.
After breakfast, Mala handed him a list scribbled in pencil on old notebook paper.
"There's a repair shop three kilometers east, past the canal bridge. The man there—Sikander—owes me a favor. Show him this. He might give you some spare parts."
Aarav nodded, folding the list carefully and tucking it into his shirt pocket. The walk was longer than expected, with the sun already high and insects buzzing along the canal path. But it felt good to have a destination again.
The repair shop was a modest setup—rusted metal signs, grease-stained rags, the familiar scent of iron and sweat. Sikander was a tall man with oily hair and suspicious eyes.
"You're Mala's boy, eh?" he said gruffly, inspecting the note. "She helped my daughter when she was sick last year. Fine, take what you need—but don't expect miracles."
With a small cloth bag full of chain parts, bolts, and a dented tire rim, Aarav made the journey back. His shirt clung to his skin, and his legs ached, but there was a new kind of determination in him now—a hunger for momentum.
Over the next few days, his routine settled like breath:
Mornings with the cows.
Afternoons fixing the bike.
Evenings sipping tea with Mala, speaking little, sharing much.
Each night, he lay on the mat beside the shed and closed his eyes knowing, at least for that day, he’d moved forward.
He began to notice the world more.
The way Mala hummed while cooking.
The way the old cow nudged her leg every morning.
The sound of jackals howling from the distant forest at night.
The rhythm of life—quiet, but pulsing—like a second heartbeat.
One afternoon, as he tested the bike's balance down the road, Mala stood at the gate with her hands on her hips.
“It still squeaks like a dying rat,” she teased.
“Progress squeaks sometimes,” Aarav replied, grinning.
She laughed—a sound rare and honest.
Then, quietly, she said, “You could stay, you know. Help run this place.”
Aarav looked down the road. A strong wind stirred the grass, tugging gently at his shirt, as if pulling him toward something else.
“I could,” he said. “But I don’t think I’m meant to stop yet.”
She nodded. She didn’t argue. That was the kind of woman she was—offering shelter, never chains.
That night, he fixed the last bolt and wiped down the frame. The bicycle wasn’t beautiful—but it moved. And sometimes, that was all that mattered.
At dawn, he packed his things: a folded shirt, half a loaf of roti, a torn notebook Mala had given him (“For your letters,” she said). He touched the cows’ heads one last time, whispered a goodbye, and wheeled the bicycle to the front gate.
Mala stood waiting, arms crossed, eyes a little misty.
“Where to now?” she asked.
Aarav looked at the sky, then at the road.
“North. Maybe Indore. Maybe beyond.”
She stepped forward, reached into her blouse pocket, and pulled out a small silver coin.
“It was my husband’s. For luck,” she said, pressing it into his palm. “But I think you need it more now.”
He held her hand for a moment. “I’ll return. One day.”
“You better,” she replied, smiling with a firmness that masked how much she’d miss the boy who had walked into her life like a storm and left like the sun.
As Aarav pedaled away, the wind rushed past his ears. The road stretched ahead—long, uncertain, full of dangers and dreams.
But for the first time, he felt ready.
The storm had taken everything.
But in the shelter of a stranger, he had found the courage to begin again.
- Writer
