They told Aarav not to go.
“It’s too far.”
“It’s too late.”
“No one there will listen.”
But silence was where he always found the truth. And so, once again, he packed his satchel with notebooks, voice recorders, and water—and left.
His first stop was the border town of Jharia.
Not for the fire-lit coal pits, but the people who still lived above them. Underground blazes had stolen homes, jobs, and lungs—but the stories? They still burned.
He met Ramvati, an old woman who used to sweep coal dust from hospital hallways. She’d never been paid fully, but she had kept a ledger—every hour, every injury, every name.
She opened it with shaking hands.
“Who’s going to care about this now?” she asked.
“I will,” Aarav said, and began transcribing.
Next came Bhuj Jail.
He wasn’t allowed insi
