Sunlight in Mumbai's old university district really doesn't have it easy, let me tell you. It's out there every morning, fighting to squeeze through those tight cracks between buildings that have more history (and, honestly, more dust) than some textbooks. It's like the city's playing hard to get with the day itself.
Inside one of those tiny apartments, Arjun Mehra woke up not to an alarm clock, but to the distinct cough of his mother from the next room—kind of like a sad, real-life ringtone that never lets up. He's twenty-one, but with all the stuff on his plate, you'd think he was at least twice that. There's this invisible boulder of responsibility sitting right on his chest, and honestly, it's a miracle he has any space left for his own dreams. Most days? He doesn't.
His apartment? Calling it "cramped" is being generous. The kitchen's so small you could probably reach the stove, the sink, and the fridge without moving your feet. The stove is a relic, barely hissing out enough gas to boil water for a couple of sad-looking eggs. Breakfast is always quick and basic—eggs, bread, nothing Instagram-worthy. He made sure his mom's pillbox was set out, because the last thing they needed was another trip to the doctor. Her face, all creased and pale, was enough to keep Arjun going when everything else felt like it was falling apart. There's a kind of stubborn hope in him, the kind you only get when you've been knocked down about a hundred times and still get back up.
Now, being a university student sounds impressive, right? But Arjun's life is nothing like the Netflix version. His books are as worn-out as his sneakers, borrowed and battered, and his clothes have more patches than actual fabric at this point. But hey, at least they're clean.
Even with all that, there's something about Arjun—a quiet kind of strength, like he's carrying a secret nobody else knows. Maybe it's just resilience, maybe it's sheer stubbornness, but it shines through in his eyes, a flicker that says, "Not giving up today."
Once he'd gotten his mom sorted out for the morning, he'd grab his backpack (which was practically held together by hope and safety pins) and step outside into the Mumbai madness. If you've never experienced a Mumbai morning, imagine a circus with more honking. Street vendors yelling over each other, rickshaws darting like they're in a video game, the air thick with chai steam and the smell of exhaust. It's chaos, but it's home.
First stop: the local café, his home away from home (and not in the cozy way). He'd been there for almost a year now, pouring coffee for people who barely even noticed he existed. Some would give him a polite nod, others just stared at their phones like they were allergic to human contact. But the job paid for his mom's meds and kept the lights on, so he wore his worn-out apron and just got on with it.
University was just down the road, but for Arjun, it felt worlds away. The other students seemed to float through life—designer clothes, fancy gadgets, not a care in the world. Their biggest problem was probably running out of data. For Arjun, every step forward was a battle. Doors didn't open for him; he had to practically break them down.
But oh, the library. Now that was his sanctuary. Between those dusty shelves, he could almost pretend the rest of his life didn't exist. He'd dive into textbooks, sometimes losing track of time until the librarian had to kick him out. He believed—like, actually believed—that knowledge could get him and his mom out of this mess. Professors loved him, said he was a genius, but praise doesn't pay the rent, right?
After his café shift, he'd hustle to his next gig—parcel deliveries. Mumbai's streets are wild, especially on a bike. You've got potholes, puddles left over from the last monsoon, and drivers who seem to think blinkers are optional. Still, Arjun had this knack for weaving through it all, balancing packages and calculations in his head. Every delivery, every tip, it all mattered.
Evenings, he'd come home to his mom sitting quietly under their one working light, looking all worried but trying not to show it. He'd make her a simple dinner, help her with her stretches, do whatever it took to make her day a little less hard. She tried to hide her pain, but Arjun could see it—sometimes just in the way she looked at him. It was all there: fear, hope, longing for something better.
You know those rare moments when the world outside just fades away? That's when Arjun would let himself imagine a different future. One where his mom didn't have to worry about medicine or rent, and he could finally chase his dreams without all this weight dragging him down. Sure, it seemed far-fetched most days. But honestly, hope's the one thing he's got that no one—not the city, not the bills, not even fate—can take from him.
And that's Arjun's life. Messy, exhausting, full of small victories and big worries. But underneath it all, there's this relentless, stubborn hope. Maybe that's what makes him a hero, even if nobody else sees it yet.