Chapter 3: Ashes of Yesterday Part 1
583 Words
The morning sun filtered through the broken window of the schoolhouse shelter, painting weak golden lines on the cold concrete floor. Aarav sat beside Meera, who was still asleep with her head resting on their mother’s lap.
The room around them was filled with soft murmurs, groans, and the sound of someone coughing in the corner. It smelled of damp clothes, ash, and the sour scent of soaked grain.
Everything was broken—people, homes, routine, trust. And yet, morning had come.
Aarav stood up quietly, walked past rows of sleeping villagers, and stepped out into the open. The outside world was no better.
Rubble and ruin spread in every direction. A small fire crackled where some men had begun boiling water over a dented pot. Smoke curled lazily into the sky, blurring the lines between earth and heaven.
He walked slowly, surveying the damage again. His own house was little more than three standing walls. The eastern side had collapsed completely. Their few belongings—utensils, old photos, blankets—were now soggy and buried under rubble. He tried pulling out what he could, placing bent utensils into a bag. When he reached for a wooden box tucked beneath a fallen beam, he found his father’s old radio—cracked and silent.
Memories hit like a slap.
His father, sitting on the veranda, fiddling with that radio during quiet evenings. Cricket commentary. Old songs. News of the outside world. And now? Just dead wires and static.
Aarav sat down in the dust, radio in his lap, staring at the ruins around him. Not just of a home, but of a life. A sense of something final settled in his chest—not grief, not shock, but a bitter acceptance. What was broken could not be fixed. Not in the same way.
He heard footsteps and looked up. It was Rajan, his childhood friend, carrying a sack of dry wood and some torn plastic sheets.
“You okay?” Rajan asked, his voice hoarse.
Aarav shrugged. “As okay as anyone can be, I guess.”
“They say help will come in two or three days. Maybe from the district headquarters. But we can’t wait. We’re planning to dig trenches for drainage. More rain is coming.”
Aarav nodded. “Count me in.”
But his mind was elsewhere.
Later that evening, after hours of digging mud, carrying bricks, and helping shift the elderly to safer spots, Aarav returned to the school shelter. He ate silently with his family—plain rice and salt—and then took a walk outside.
The sunset cast a red-orange glow over the ruined fields. Birds had returned, cautiously hopping over cracked rooftops. Life was stubborn like that—it returned even after storms. But it never returned the same.
He wandered to the edge of the village, where the old road began—the one leading to the next town, nearly 30 kilometers away.
It was there, standing under the faded milestone stone, that the decision planted earlier took root. This was not just survival. This was a chance to begin again. Not out of ambition, but out of necessity. He couldn't build a future here—not yet. Not in these ashes.
He would leave.
At least for a while.
He needed to see what existed beyond these burnt remains. Perhaps a job. Perhaps just perspective. But above all—hope.
He turned and began walking back, unaware that someone had been watching him.
- Writer
