Chapter 3: Ashes of Yesterday Part 3
739 Words
Inside the relief center, the air was thick with humidity and tension. Families clung to their belongings, children cried softly, and volunteers moved quickly with metal trays and medical kits. The floor was lined with mats, newspapers, or nothing at all—people just slept where they could find space.
Aarav was assigned a spot near the corner, beside an old man with a torn shawl and a woman holding an infant wrapped in a blue plastic sheet. He laid his backpack down carefully and sat cross-legged. He hadn't spoken in hours, and his throat ached from thirst and dust. A young volunteer passed by offering small steel cups of water.
“Thank you,” Aarav said, his voice barely audible.
The boy nodded and moved on. For a moment, silence took over again.
Then someone behind him spoke.
“You from the east?”
Aarav turned. The voice belonged to a boy not much older than him—maybe 20—with sharp eyes and a scar across his forehead. He wore a half-buttoned shirt and sat with his legs stretched out.
“Yeah,” Aarav said. “Baragaon.”
The boy whistled softly. “That place was hit hard. I saw it on the news. Satellite images. Flattened.”
Aarav didn’t reply.
“I’m Rafi,” the boy said, offering a hand.
“Aarav.”
Rafi leaned in. “If you’re staying long, get up early for food. Lines go crazy. And don’t trust the government to fix anything fast.”
Aarav raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been here long?”
“Five days. I came from Sonbhadra. Same story—floods, lost home, no one to blame. Now we wait for help that may never come.”
That night, Aarav lay staring at the tin roof, lit by a flickering bulb. Somewhere in the room, a child whimpered. Another coughed violently. His body ached from walking, and his mind raced with unanswered questions.
He thought of Meera—of how she used to ask questions about the stars and how she made up songs from nothing. Of his mother—quiet, steady, full of unspoken strength.
He missed them more than he could bear.
But he couldn’t go back yet. He had nothing to bring them.
The next day began before the sun. As Rafi predicted, the food line grew chaotic. Aarav managed to get a plate of flatbread and watery lentils. He sat by the gate to eat, watching workers unload supplies from a truck—water cans, medical kits, sacks of rice.
A loud voice barked from the steps of the building. “Any able-bodied men here willing to work? One-week contract. Food, shelter, small wage.”
Aarav stood immediately.
So did Rafi.
“What kind of work?” Aarav asked.
“Clearing debris. Distributing aid. Loading trucks. You’ll work under local NGOs. No papers needed.”
“I’ll do it,” Aarav said without hesitation.
That week, Aarav carried crates, distributed food to villages still underwater, helped move elderly people onto boats. His hands blistered. His shoulders burned. But for the first time since the storm, he felt useful.
He wrote a letter to Meera and his mother using a volunteer’s pen and notebook. He told them he was safe, working, and that he missed them. He included a few rupees in the envelope and handed it to a post officer in town.
Rafi worked alongside him, cracking jokes and stealing mangoes from a nearby orchard when no one was looking. “You know,” Rafi said one afternoon, “you’re not as quiet as I thought.”
“You talk enough for both of us,” Aarav replied.
They laughed. The first real laugh Aarav had let himself feel in weeks.
On the final day of work, Aarav was paid a modest wage—enough to buy food, clothes, and send money home again. He sat alone near the riverside, watching people bathe, children swim, and birds fly low over the water.
He realized something important then.
He was still broken—but not hopeless.
There were ashes behind him, yes. But maybe ahead, there was more than ruin. Maybe there was the beginning of something better. Even if he couldn’t see it yet.
He stood up, dusted off his clothes, and looked west—toward the road leading to the next town.
Aarav took a breath.
Then he began walking again.
- Writer
