Every rotation of the pedal reminded him of the things he tried to bury — his expulsion, the humiliation, the disappointment in his mother's eyes if she ever found out. He had promised himself he'd make her proud one day, that he'd lift her out of this endless cycle of poverty. But life, he realized, rarely cared about promises.
Halfway through the route, a throbbing pain started behind his eyes. Another headache. The stress had been frequent lately, and though he tried to ignore it, his body was beginning to give signs of exhaustion.
He stopped by a small roadside pharmacy — one of those dimly lit ones crammed between a tea stall and a pawn shop — and bought a strip of painkillers for his mother. He also took one for himself, swallowing it dry.
By the time he reached his colony, the city lights had dimmed behind him. His neighborhood was one of the poorest in the area — narrow alleys, overflowing drains, the faint smell of kerosene and cooked rice lingering in the air. Small children played barefoot, their laughter echoing through the darkness, while women sat outside chatting about grocery prices and illnesses.
Fortunately, John and his mother didn't have to pay rent. The house they lived in — though small and cracked — had belonged to his late father. It was a single-story structure with peeling lime paint, a broken front gate, and a slanted tin roof that rattled during storms. But to John, it was still home.
He parked his bicycle near the rusted railing and walked in, calling softly, "Mom, I brought your medicine."
Inside, a dim bulb hung from the ceiling, flickering now and then. The room was neat but sparse — an old cot by the wall, a wooden chair, a small shrine with faded pictures of gods, and a sewing machine that hadn't been used in months. On the cot lay his mother, Tara.
She looked up slowly. Her face broke into a weak smile. "You're back, John. You must be tired."
Tara was forty-five but looked sixty. Years of physical labor had carved deep lines into her face. Her hands, once strong and swift from stitching garments in the factory, now trembled slightly as she reached for the medicine. Her body had grown frail, but her eyes — soft and caring — still held the same love that had carried their small family through storms.
John felt his heart tighten as he watched her. No matter how many times he saw her like this, it never got easier. "I'm fine, Mom," he said gently, handing her a glass of water. "You take this first."
Tara took the pills obediently, then leaned back on her pillow. "Did you eat anything at work?" she asked, her voice weak but steady.
John nodded, even though he hadn't. "Yes, they gave us some leftover pizza."
"John, don't waste your time on this part-time job, focus on your studies. Go freshen up, lunch is ready," said his mother, resting feebly on the worn-out bed. Her voice was soft, yet it carried a quiet strength—a remnant of her past vigor that the illness hadn't yet stolen.
Although they still had a little bit of savings left, John insisted on continuing his part-time job. But Tara was against it, believing that the long hours would distract him from his studies. John had somehow managed to convince her by saying that it was important to develop professional skills early if he wanted a good job later. It was a half-truth—one that weighed on him more with each passing day.
John's heart warmed at her concern. He sat beside her, holding her thin hand gently as he said, "Mom, I've already given you money to hire someone for the house chores. Why are you being so stubborn and doing everything yourself?"
Tara smiled faintly. "It's alright, son. It's a small thing. Anyway, cough, cough… I don't have much to do at home. And besides," she paused, catching her breath, "I don't like food cooked by someone else."
Her smile was weak but genuine, the kind that could still melt John's heart no matter how many times he saw it.
"In that case," he said, forcing a grin, "I'll cook for you. You just rest."
He knew words were not enough. His mother's condition was worsening, and each cough felt like a dagger to his chest. He needed money—fast. The medicine, the doctor visits, and the nutritious food she needed were beyond his means. He had already applied for a small loan using his meager salary slips as proof, but the bank's response was slow. Too slow.
"Son," Tara said softly, "I know you're worried about me. But our hard days will end soon. Cough… cough… Once you finish your studies and get a good job, I'll rest peacefully. Then you can marry a beautiful girl, and I'll spend my days playing with your kids." Her eyes shimmered with hope. "But for now, study hard. Don't waste your time on small things like this job. If I had the energy to work a few more years, I'd never let you go through this."
Her voice broke, and she turned her face away, ashamed that her body had failed her.
John's throat tightened. His eyes blurred with unshed tears. He wanted to confess—to tell her everything—that he had been expelled, that his so-called "studies" were a lie, and that his dreams had already crumbled like dry sand. But one look at her frail figure and trembling hands, and he swallowed the truth.
He steeled himself and said the only thing he could. "Don't worry, Mom. You've worked enough. It's my turn to take care of you. When I get placed in the campus interviews, we'll move out of this house. You'll live comfortably, I promise."
Tara's eyes softened with pride. In that moment, she saw not a struggling young man, but a reflection of her late husband—honest, determined, and kind-hearted. Tears welled up as she whispered, "I'm so proud of you, son."
She knew the world was full of unfilial children who abandoned their parents or turned to drugs and crime. But her son was different. He was good. Even if life was cruel, she could die in peace knowing she had raised him well.
She smiled gratefully, hiding her tears behind her wrinkled palm. "Now eat, or the food will get cold."
John nodded silently. The guilt clawed at his heart like a beast. Every word of hers felt like a stab reminding him of his failure. But he smiled back, unwilling to let her see the storm inside.
After finishing his meal, John retreated to his small room. He locked the door quietly and leaned his back against it, sliding down until he sat on the floor. His chest was tight, his breath shallow. The air in the tiny room felt heavier than usual.
He clenched his fists and slammed one against the wall with all his strength. The old paint cracked, and blood oozed from his knuckles—but he didn't flinch. Physical pain was nothing compared to the one gnawing inside his chest.
"How did it all come to this?" he muttered under his breath.
He closed his eyes and saw it again—the day of his expulsion.
The examination hall. The tension. The paper full of unfamiliar formulas. His trembling hands as he tried to recall anything from the sleepless nights he'd spent pretending to study. And then, the moment he saw a folded cheat sheet on the floor beside his chair. It felt like a divine sign at the time—his last chance to save face, to not disappoint his mother. But fate had other plans. A single glance from the invigilator sealed his doom.
He could still hear the Principal's disappointed voice echoing in his ears: "We don't tolerate dishonesty, John. You've let down your teachers, your peers, and yourself."
No one had given him a chance to explain, and maybe he didn't deserve one.
That day, when he walked out of the college gates for the last time, he felt as though the whole world was watching his downfall. Some classmates whispered behind his back, others pretended not to notice him at all. That humiliation still haunted him.
It had been one and a half months since then. The new semester would begin soon, and he still had a slim chance to appeal his case to the Principal. But fear held him back—the fear of seeing those familiar faces, the laughter, the pity. So, he buried himself in work, convincing himself that the small pizza restaurant was his new beginning.
Maybe, just maybe, he could live a normal life away from his past.
He sat on the edge of his small bed, pulling out his second-hand phone. The cracked screen flickered as he opened a job portal.
"I need a better job," he murmured. "Something stable. Even Rs. 20,000 would be enough. Anything."
He scrolled through listings—security guard, delivery agent, store helper—but most required qualifications he couldn't prove anymore. He sighed, pressing his temples. "There has to be a way…"
Meanwhile, in the next room, Tara was watching her favorite TV serial on their old, second-hand television. She had turned the volume almost to zero, worried that the noise would disturb her son's "studies."
On the screen, the protagonist—a young businessman in a sharp suit—was stepping out of a luxury car. Tara's eyes softened as she imagined her son in his place. In her mind's eye, she saw John arriving home in a shiny car, opening the door for her, and saying, 'Mom, our hard days are over.'
Her frail face broke into a smile. "Soon… soon my son will also come pick me up like that," she whispered to herself.
The television light flickered against her tired face, reflecting both her dreams and her delusion.
Back in his room, John lay awake staring at the ceiling. He could hear his mother coughing faintly through the thin wall. The sound pierced him.
He closed his eyes tightly. "I'll fix this, Mom… somehow," he whispered.
The night was heavy with silence—except for the rhythmic creaking of the ceiling fan. John's eyes drifted toward the old photo of his father on the wall, the one smiling proudly in his uniform.
"Dad," he whispered, "you always said life tests us. But I think I already failed."
The photo stared back silently.
Outside, the street dogs barked in the distance. The moon hung low, its light slipping through the cracks in the tin roof. And in that small, crumbling house, two hearts—one broken by guilt, another sustained by hope—continued to dream of a better tomorrow.
Little did they know, tomorrow was already preparing a storm that would change both their fates forever.