A sudden shout came from the room behind the living room.
Uncle Shyam, sitting on the sofa, froze.
The TV played on, unaware. Morning news. Same noise. Same faces. His cup of tea was lifted halfway to his mouth. He had just taken a small sip.
That one shout was enough.
His hand jerked.
Hot tea spilled over his shirt and soaked straight into his lungi. The liquid spread fast, dark and ugly. Heat hit his skin, but he didn't react immediately.
He looked down.
Silent.
His face hardened as he stared at the ruined clothes. The tea was gone. The moment was gone. His shoulders tensed slowly, like something winding up inside him.
He didn't shout.
He didn't curse.
Uncle Shyam slowly turned his head toward the room behind him, eyes sharp, jaw tight.
"ek bar bolane per bhi.... Kuchh log nahin sudharta," he muttered.
Outside, a few neighbours glanced toward the house, already annoyed.
Inside, Uncle Shyam sat still.
But the calm was finished.
Uncle Shyam's day had actually started well.
At least, that's what he told himself.
For the last two days, nothing good had happened. Not one thing. He knew it. His body knew it. His mood knew it. Sitting on the sofa, staring at the TV, he counted silently in his head.
One.
Two.
Three.
From the corner of his eye, he saw movement.
Shanti.
She had heard the shout while cooking. Without saying anything, she wiped her hands and walked toward the room behind the living room. Her steps were quick. Purposeful. Uncle Shyam followed her with his eyes but said nothing.
A few moments passed.
Shanti came back out.
Uncle Shyam straightened slightly. Hope flickered, foolish and brief. He opened his mouth and spoke the moment he saw her.
"Shanti, meri chai—"
He stopped.
Mid-sentence.
Shanti looked at him.
Just two eyes. Angry. Sharp. Fully awake.
That was enough.
Uncle Shyam immediately turned his face back toward the TV. The news anchor suddenly became very interesting. His lips pressed together. His courage vanished on the spot.
Argue?
Explain?
Impossible.
His mind drifted instead to the incident from two days ago. The beginning of everything going wrong. The uninvited guest. The noise. The tension that hadn't left since.
His foot twitched slightly, as if he wanted to kick someone out of the house.
But he didn't move.
He couldn't.
So Uncle Shyam sat there, silently watching TV, tea forgotten, anger swallowed, doing the only thing he could.
Nothing.
The door of the back room opened after a while.
Krishna stepped out.
He stopped for a second, lifted his hand, and fixed his glasses neatly on his nose. Nothing else. No hesitation. No noise.
Then he walked straight into the living room and sat down right next to Uncle Shyam.
Uncomfortably close.
The TV kept playing. Morning news rolled on, loud and pointless.
Uncle Shyam kept his eyes on the screen, but his mind drifted back.
Two days ago.
Late at night.
This same boy had entered the house secretly, climbing over the wall like a thief. Uncle Shyam still remembered the anger he had felt then. He had been ready to throw him out that very night.
But Shanti had stopped him.
"Uske room ka darwaaza theek nahin hai," she had said calmly.
"Tab tak ghar mein hi rehne do."
For now.
Those two words burned in Uncle Shyam's head.
"For now" had already turned into two days.
His jaw tightened as the memory replayed. He glanced at Krishna from the corner of his eye. The boy was sitting quietly, watching TV, as if nothing unusual had ever happened.
Uncle Shyam's fingers curled slightly.
Today, he had decided, this boy would be kicked out.
Enough was enough.
Just then, the kitchen went quiet.
No sound of utensils. No movement.
A moment later, Shanti came out, holding a plate.
Roti aur sabjiyan.
She placed the plate in Krishna's hands without saying much. Then she gently rested her palm on his head, a simple, familiar gesture, full of care.
"Dhyan se khana," she said.
Krishna nodded. "Ji."
She turned and went back into the kitchen.
Uncle Shyam watched the entire thing.
Silently.
His own stomach tightened.
No plate for him.
Only Krishna's.
Krishna started eating, calm and focused, like he had been doing this all his life.
Uncle Shyam leaned back slightly, eyes fixed on the TV, irritation simmering under the surface. He waited. Not for food.
For time.
Under his breath, he muttered,
"Bakre ki maa kab tak khair manegi…"
Uncle Shyam leaned back on the sofa.
Arguing was pointless.
He wasn't in the mood.
And honestly, he had no energy left for it.
So he did the only thing available to him.
He watched TV.
The news anchor was still talking, confidently spilling useless knowledge about cryptocurrency. Charts, jargon, words that meant nothing to him. Uncle Shyam stared at the screen without really listening.
Then the tone changed.
"Breaking news," the anchor announced.
The graphics shifted. Red banners flashed.
Uncle Shyam's eyes focused slightly.
"Raigad district ke Container Yard mein police ne badi raid ki hai," the anchor said.
"Is operation ke dauraan pehle container se 10 kilo afeem aur heroin baramad ki gayi hai."
Images filled the screen. Police jeeps. Containers sealed with metal locks. Officers moving fast.
The anchor continued, voice firm.
"Dusre container se 20 ladkiyon ko rescue kiya gaya hai. Sabhi ki umar 20 se 25 saal ke beech batayi ja rahi hai. Inhe Dubai, Thailand aur anya deshon mein supply ke liye bheja ja raha tha."
Uncle Shyam sighed.
"Saala, subah subah yeh sab," he muttered.
He shook his head slightly and reached for the remote.
"Aur mujhe kharab nahin karna din ka," he said, irritation slipping into his voice.
Click.
The channel changed.
Some loud music show replaced the news instantly.
Uncle Shyam turned his head slowly.
Krishna sat beside him, completely relaxed, plate in his hands. He was eating properly. Enjoying every bite. Fully focused on his food, not the TV, not the news, not the world falling apart outside.
Uncle Shyam stared at him for a moment.
The boy didn't notice.
Half an hour passed.
The house slowly returned to its usual rhythm.
Krishna came out of the back room, now properly dressed. Shirt tucked in. Bag slung over one shoulder. Glasses fixed firmly on his nose. He checked his phone while walking.
It rang.
He answered while moving toward the door.
"Haan… haan," he said quietly.
"Tumhara shukriya, Vivek."
He paused near the door, listening.
"Aur main tumhara ahsaan zaroor chukaunga."
The call ended.
Krishna slipped the phone into his pocket and turned toward the kitchen.
"Shanti aunty," he said calmly, "aaj interview hai. Thoda late ho jaaunga."
Shanti looked at him.
She nodded once, said nothing.
Krishna bent slightly, touched her feet quickly, and without waiting, stepped out of the house.
The door closed.
Shanti walked toward the window and stood there quietly. She watched Krishna walk down the street, his figure slowly getting smaller.
There was something in her eyes.
Not worry.
Not fear.
Just a soft sadness that didn't need words.
From behind her, Uncle Shyam's voice came, loud and impatient.
"Arre, mera khana kab milega?" he called out.
Shanti didn't turn immediately.
Uncle Shyam noticed that.
He looked at her standing near the window, silent, still watching outside. His expression changed slightly. Thoughtful. Calculating.
He didn't say anything.
After about an hour—
Krishna stood outside a tall building.
News 24 Channel.
The logo shone above the entrance. Cameras moved in and out. People hurried past him, busy, important, loud.
Krishna adjusted his glasses once more and looked up at the building.
This was the place.
The interview awaited.
Krishna was sitting inside a small interview room.
The room was quiet, almost stiff. A rectangular wooden table stood in the center. Two chairs on either side. A thin glass window on one wall looked out into the newsroom, where people moved quickly, phones pressed to their ears, papers in hand. The hum of the office leaked in faintly, controlled, distant.
A file lay open on the table.
Krishna's CV.
Across from him sat Kapil Sharma, senior editor.
Kapil was in his early forties. Clean-shaven. Sharp eyes. He wore a light blue formal shirt, sleeves rolled neatly up to his elbows. A dark grey waistcoat sat perfectly over it. His tie was loose, not careless, just experienced. A wristwatch rested on his left hand, expensive but not flashy.
This interview was already halfway done.
Kapil leaned back slightly in his chair and tapped the CV with a pen.
"Krishna," he said calmly, eyes scanning the paper,
"tumhare CV par tumhare paas kaafi alag tarah ka experience hai."
He looked up.
"Jo hamare field mein directly required nahin hota."
Kapil stopped talking.
He waited.
His eyes stayed on Krishna's face, searching for a reaction. An explanation. An excuse.
Krishna sat straight. Hands resting calmly on his lap. Expression neutral. He didn't rush. He didn't fill the silence.
He said nothing special.
Kapil observed him for a moment longer. Then, without pushing the point, he nodded to himself and quietly moved on.
He closed the file halfway.
"Chalo," Kapil said, changing direction,
"ek aur baat batao."
He leaned forward now, elbows resting lightly on the table.
"Tum apni purani company mein proof reader," he said, voice steady.
"Phir tumne woh company chhodi kyun?"
Kapil paused, then added,
"Iski wajah batana chahoge?"
END OF THE CHAPTER