"Y-Yes, sir. Right away."
The man breathed heavily, his body trembling, fear visible in every motion.
"I-I do. I'll connect him," he stammered—voice tight with fear and respect. With papers in hand, he bolted forward. His footsteps were quick but controlled as he ran down the red carpet toward the room. His eyes were filled with urgency, flicking between the paper and the path ahead. He knocked—fast, not hard, the kind of knock that carried weight.
"Come in, Sulak," a calm voice echoed from inside.
Instead of opening the door carefully, Sulak slammed it open—unintentionally, driven by pressure. Inside, a man sat at the desk, a document in front of him titled AstraCore.
"The contra—" Sulak began, breathless.
"The contract, isn't it?" the man interrupted—his voice formal, dry, and calm. He already knew.
"Yes. The 18-year contract ends in two weeks. AstraCore's been under CBI and IT surveillance for months. Officials claim their hands are tied. AstraCore wants to end it early—or on time. If not, just one small decision from the central government and it's a collapse—for them and for us." Sulak spoke fast, urgency laced into every word. His voice shook but didn't stop.
"Arrange a meeting with the officials. After the inauguration. In Delhi."
The man's voice was composed—command without noise.
"The inauguration is in three days. They're demanding you speak with them tomorrow. A video call. They want your face, your word. They want to end it sooner."
"I've got several priorities here. I chaired the CG meeting just two days ago—and now I'm expected to stay with him?" The man's response was firm, like he was explaining facts—not offering excuses.
Sulak's breath caught. His restraint broke.
"Then just die if that's your decision."
His voice cut, bitter and shaking.
"You're not just gambling with your legacy—you're letting them burn it down. Along with the contract."
Silence. No response.
Sulak seethed, eyes sharp, hands trembling. He turned to leave—steps heavy with anger. At the door, he paused.
"Think about your son and legacy. I'll do the rest," he said quietly. Then slammed the door behind him.
The man sat motionless, eyes on the desk. "It's for my grandson," he whispered—dry voice cracking the quiet, as if trying to convince no one but himself.
TWO DAYS LATER – A STREET IN A SMALL URBAN CITY:
It was a warm evening—one of those slow-burning hours between five and six, where the sun didn't blaze but lingered low, resting over the buildings like a blanket pulled halfway across the sky.
The street buzzed with life—voices rising in bursts of laughter and calls. Children weaved through the crowd with ice creams melting down their fingers, and families huddled together in the subtle chaos of everyday life.
The air was thick with humidity. There was something peaceful in the rhythm of it all—a kind of beauty in the noise. Then came a sound—faint but sharp—cutting clean through the blend of voices and footsteps.
"Waahh... waahh…"
A baby cried—soft at first, then stronger, more insistent. Down the lane, a small child clutched its mother's finger tightly, its tiny face scrunched in discomfort and fear. The mother paused, crouched beside the child, and whispered something gently into its ear, her free hand brushing softly across its back.
Still, the crying continued until the baby reached up with trembling hands and grasped her neck, pulling itself closer. Chest to chest. Skin to skin.
Just beyond them, in a showroom for utensils and home products tucked between two cement buildings, a boy watched through the window. He stood behind a stack of crates, hand frozen mid-wipe as he cleaned the dust off glass jars lined in uneven rows.
The boy had a lean, slightly slouched frame with untidy black hair and pale, tired eyes that rarely met another's gaze. He dressed in simple, dark clothes—mostly worn shirts and loose jeans. His presence was quiet, but there was a constant weight in his expression. A desire.
At the moment, he wasn't working. He was watching.
His eyes didn't move quickly away from them. He simply looked—with a quiet wonder. A soft smile tugged at his lips.
"It's lovely," he murmured, barely audible even to himself.
The child had now nestled into its mother's shoulder, completely at peace.
The mother stood, adjusted her bag, and began walking again—disappearing into the crowd like a fleeting dream.
And the boy? He kept staring. Until a sharp voice broke the moment.
"The work's right there. What you do next tells me everything."
He flinched, the smile vanishing as quickly as it had come. His boss stood near the door, arms crossed, frowning.
"Sorry, sir," the boy said, quickly turning back to the shelf.
"No time to be dreaming, Kasel. Don't you wanna go home?" said the boss. "Tomorrow we have an important person visiting the shop. I want everything cleaned and ready before you head out. Not a speck of dust, you hear me?"
"Yes, sir," Kasel said.
Yet he didn't react immediately—his eyes wandered, not to his boss, but beyond him, as if quietly waiting for space to return.
The boss lingered, gaze heavy—a silent demand. Then, with a grunt, he turned and walked off.
Kasel let out a quiet "Tsk" under his breath—barely even audible—and turned back to the shelves.
He resumed cleaning the glass jars in silence, each one catching a shard of his reflection and quietly staring back. As he wiped them down one by one, he kept glimpsing his own face—tired eyes, an unwilling expression, and something buried deeper beneath it all.
He paused again midway. The rhythm broke.
The image of the mother and child from earlier drifted back into his mind—soft, persistent, like the reflection itself wouldn't let him forget.
Then, his boss's words echoed back—flat, sharp, like a command to bury it.
He lowered his gaze and returned to the work.
It wasn't clarity. It was just survival.
By the time he was wiping down the last shelf, the moon had begun to rise behind the buildings, casting a pale glow that turned the sky a deep blue-grey. From the ground floor, laughter and loud voices erupted—his co-workers, most likely. A TV buzzed faintly in the background, then came the yelling.
"Come on, crack his nose!"
"That's it! Hit his head, man!"
"Let's gooo, I bet my wage on this guy!"
The cheering grew louder, sharper. Probably one of those underground wrestling broadcasts they streamed online after work. Betting and trash talk followed like clockwork.
He finished cleaning, locked up the room, and stepped down the stairs toward the group to place the key on the nail embedded in the wall. As he signed the log sheet, ready to leave for the day, a guy turned toward him.
"Hey," the guy called out, waving lazily.
Kasel turned slowly.
"Why don't you grace us with your presence, huh? There's seven of us here—arguing over who's gonna win. If you hop on their side, maybe it'll finally be fair. We're just one short, genius."
Kasel's face stayed still and unreadable. For a moment, he hesitated—because of the way the guy worded it and the way he said "it'll be fair."
His lips pressed faintly together, then parted. Kasel shook his head lightly, left and right, hesitantly. He didn't say a word. Just turned to leave—quiet. He walked away. The moment he stepped out the door, the room filled with smirks and sideways glances.
The guy watched him go, raising an eyebrow, then turned to his friend and laughed awkwardly, making the others laugh.
"That's not the way you call someone if you actually want it fair." A voice cut the guy's laughter mid-way—calm and sharp enough to sting.
The mocker turned toward the voice.
The guy who interrupted was sitting beside them, leaning back in his chair, watching the exchange without moving much.
The mocker quickly looked away. He couldn't hold the guy's calm and sharp eyes.
"Sorry, Rohan," he muttered, voice lower now.
Everyone looked at Rohan for a moment. His expression shifted—sharpness fading into casual ease, like he hadn't said anything at all.
Rohan smiled. "Alright, guys. It's his decision, so let it be. Strange. Distant. It's just him, but no need to mock him for that."
"Yeah… yeah, whatever," another guy muttered.
"Now come on! Elbow him, right in the jaw!" they casually changed the topic.
..........
As Kasel stepped out into the fading streetlight, the world outside felt louder around him. He walked alone.
The wind grazed his collar. His fingers repeatedly flicked open and shut the flap of his small, worn-out wallet. The snap of the metal button sounded louder than the traffic horns. It echoed a kind of monotony—click, open, close, click—again and again, as if that small motion could distract him from the noise of the world.
Two thousand rupees. A week's worth of effort, sweat, and silence folded into a thin rectangle of currency notes.
His eyes barely lifted from the pavement. He navigated the streets like someone half-awake. The glowing lights of city shops blinked in his periphery, street vendors shouted their evening calls, and the aroma of fried snacks tugged lightly at his hunger.
His steps slowed near a snack shop—glass walls glowing with the warmth of indoor light. Laughter spilled from inside. He watched the shop, hesitation in his eyes. Then, suddenly, he started walking toward it.
He climbed the two steps and paused, standing still for a moment at the entrance.
His eyes met his own reflection in the glass door first, then shifted to the people inside the shop. He hesitated in the doorway. A group approached behind him. He stepped aside, letting them pass, silently watching as they walked in.
His feet turned away from the shop, as if he gave up on entering. The glass door began to close behind them.
But just before it shut, he turned—hand reaching out to stop it.
He gulped quietly.
Then, with his head lowered, he stepped inside—hesitant, measured—walking a straight path to the counter. His shoes made soft sounds on the tile, barely audible beneath the low hum of music and scattered conversation. At the counter, a worker turned toward him, still smiling mid-sentence from a conversation with a coworker.
"Yes sir, what do you want?"
Kasel didn't look up.
That voice. "What do you want?" It echoed in his mind like a corrupted fragment.
"What do you want?"
He felt a ripple of fear—something uneasy, aching—like he had just seen something he didn't remember and didn't want to see.
And his voice—low, nearly a whisper—answered the memory:
"Mom... and Dad."
He didn't realize he said it. It just slipped out, as if a part of him unlocked for that moment.
"Huh? Sir?" the cashier's voice sharpened. "Can't hear you well. There are other customers, sir—"
Kasel blinked hard. Reality clicked back.
"Three cream cakes," he said. His voice was slightly nervous, trying to pass as casual.
The cashier nodded and passed the tray.
"You can sit, sir."
Kasel nodded, took his cakes, and walked to the far corner—a chair by the wall, partially hidden behind a support beam. It looked untouched. As if it had been waiting for him all along.
He sat, head still low. He didn't look around. The first bite was soft. Sweet. But no matter how comforting the taste, he couldn't stop thinking about what had just happened at the counter.
...........
Above Kasel, the TV with low volume flickered with a soap advertisement. One of the shop workers, wiping the counter, frowned at the screen.
"Ad again…" he muttered under his breath, reaching for the remote near the register.
With a casual press, the screen switched.
But instead of another random show, a news anchor's face appeared under a bold red ticker: BREAKING NEWS.
A female anchor's voice cut through the ambience, sharp yet composed:
"Karan Aroshi, son of Chief Minister Kavin Aroshi, will be inaugurated as the next Chief Minister of Tamil Nadu and carry forward the Aroshi legacy. The leadership transition is scheduled for tomorrow in a ceremonial event at Chennai Assembly Grounds, where stage preparations are currently underway. The decision, initially discussed in Aroshi party meetings and by Kavin Aroshi himself, a week ago, is now final, marking a generational continuity in the Aroshi political legacy."
Every table shifted. Elders leaned in, whispering with raised brows—some amused, others quietly skeptical.
"Same story every time. From fathers to sons to grandsons…"
"Let's hope this one has some spine."
A man's voice rose suddenly from the table next to Kasel—cutting across the chatter as he joked with his friends.
"All that effort just to keep the truth buried, huh?" he said, leaning in, voice louder now, clearly for the room to hear. "Just wait, A2's gonna drag all their secrets to light."
Everyone turned to look at him—some confused, some amused, and a few with that glance people give when they think someone's lost it.
"Yo, what the hell—don't shout. Everyone's staring," one of his friends whispered, leaning in half-laughing, half-worried. "Most of them don't even know what A2 is. Everyone's looking at you like you've gone mad."
Suddenly self-aware, the man looked down, grabbing his plate, pretending to eat.
But under his breath—quiet, proud, almost like a fan defending a hero:
"Soon… they'll know."
..........
The man's voice had burst suddenly—Kasel flinched, like everyone else. It cut through his thoughts circling around why he'd behaved so strangely at the counter just moments ago.
Kasel took a small, casual glance at the TV before moving to pay. His eyes shifted toward the screen, catching a flash of the news and Karan Aroshi's image on the bottom corner.
He walked to the counter.
"I've had three cakes," he said, with the same polite, nervous tone.
"Yes sir. That'll be forty-five rupees. Fifteen each."
Kasel nodded, handed over the amount, picked up his wallet again, clicked it shut, and walked out.
Evening slipped into night in what felt like a single breath. The air cooled. Streetlights flickered to life as he took the narrow lane that led home. His thoughts wandered—uninvited.
"Wha… why did I say mom and dad?"
His steps slowed slightly.
"What was that? Why does it ache?" Kasel muttered to himself, confused and frightened.
His face hung low, eyelids slightly lowered.
"It's not the first time either," he whispered—just loud enough to convince himself.
He walked silently through the narrow lane, each step drawing him closer to home.