For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Manoj had the liberty to sleep in—not out of comfort, but out of exhaustion.
The antique wall clock in his small, dimly lit apartment ticked past eleven. A single ray of sunlight managed to sneak through the half-drawn curtain, resting on the cracked wall beside his bed. It was this light, not the sound of an alarm or the world outside, that gently stirred him awake. Yet, even as he opened his eyes, he remained lying still, staring at the ceiling. This morning did not feel like other mornings. There was no purpose pulling him out of bed. There was no reason, at least not anymore.
Usually, his mornings were painted in quiet discipline. He'd wake at six, regardless of how little he had slept. His limbs, weary from standing long hours at security posts, would stretch in a brief fifteen-minute routine—his only indulgence in self-care. He'd then wash up with a bucket of cold water—not because he preferred it, but because his apartment lacked a geyser, and warm water was a privilege not yet earned.
But the highlight of his morning was always the same: a cup of tea.
For Manoj, tea wasn't just a drink; it was ceremony. It was belief. Crushed ginger, two pods of cardamom, and just the right amount of strong leaves brewed slowly over a flickering gas flame. The aroma alone could calm his nerves. This tea was more than sustenance—it was his small rebellion against despair. It reminded him that even in poverty, even in loneliness, something could still be beautiful. Something could still be his.
"If I ever got a government job, I'd probably sell my soul for one cup of this," he muttered, allowing a fleeting smile to surface. But like all fleeting things in his life, it faded before it could take root. Deep down, his body ached—not just from fatigue, but from disappointment. A slow, creeping kind that didn't scream but bled him dry.
On regular days, he would head out post-tea to what he and Vinay had nicknamed "Manay Point"—the corner at the end of their street where they met daily and caught a shared ride to work. It had become ritual, a comforting familiarity in an otherwise unpredictable life. But today, there was no Vinay waiting. There was no job to go to. There was only silence.
He imagined Vinay leaving alone that morning. No phone call. No goodbye. No blame. Just quiet acceptance. Manoj turned to the metallic cabinet beside his bed—its edges rusted, its lock broken but still functional with a twisted piece of wire. Inside, hidden beneath a few neatly folded clothes, was a small tin box. He opened it slowly.
Fifty crisp notes of a thousand each. Fifty thousand rupees. Approximately six hundred dollars.
His life's savings.
Each note had a story—a shift skipped for illness, a meal forgone, a shirt worn beyond wear. This was not money accumulated from comfort, but currency bled from endurance. Every rupee had been earned under sun and rain, while standing guard outside malls, showrooms, warehouses—anywhere he could find work.
Now, that box represented his only security. Until a new job arrived, this tin box would be his ration. His calculator. His restraint.
"If a basic meal costs around $1.50, I'll spend $3 daily… that's $90 a month just on food," he whispered to himself, doing the math as if reciting survival instructions. His dreams, once vivid and ambitious, had now reduced to numbers. Budgeting wasn't about saving anymore; it was about breathing.
That afternoon, Manoj straightened his shirt collar and walked to the corporate towers in the city center. The offices of Mehk, a luxury fragrance brand, sat on the 18th floor, glimmering behind tinted glass and brushed metal.
He had an interview.
Mehk was not just another brand; it was aspiration bottled. People saved months to afford a single scent. Just uttering its name among friends made you feel sophisticated.
He had one pair of good clothes, ironed to perfection. A white cotton shirt and a pair of black trousers—both old but treated like sacred attire. His shoes, slightly scuffed, had been polished thrice the night before. Confidence, he knew, often lay in preparation.
Inside Mehk's reception area, he was swallowed by opulence. The air smelled of citrus and sandalwood. Marble floors gleamed like glass. Even the silence in the lobby felt curated.
The interview began. A man in a slate-gray suit asked questions—many in English. Manoj answered, not flawlessly, but with composure. His grammar may have limped, but his dignity never did.
His English wasn't learned in classrooms. It was shaped in service, refined through watching foreign films with subtitles, listening carefully to tourists, and mimicking every polite phrase he had ever heard. What he lacked in polish, he made up in humility.
For a moment, the interviewer seemed convinced. Hope flickered in Manoj's chest. And then—as his name and ID were entered into the database—the screen flashed red.
Rejected.
He didn't move.
Then he understood.
Mehk was a subsidiary of the Vanshaj Group.
And Vanshaj… was where everything had begun to fall apart.
Once, Manoj had worked as a security guard at the main showroom of Vanshaj Clothing—a sprawling glass-walled boutique showcasing fashion lines curated by none other than Kiara, the group's CEO.
One night, KD, Kiara's younger brother and a known mischief-maker, had landed in trouble at a nightclub. Manoj had stepped in, pulling him away from a brawl, saving him from humiliation—or worse. But misunderstandings are cruel.
The next morning, Manoj was summoned. Without hearing his side, he was blamed, blacklisted, and dismissed. From that moment on, every company under the Vanshaj banner refused him work. His name might as well have been stamped "Untouchable" in corporate ink.
He bore no grudge against Kiara personally. But he knew her pain.
She had lost her parents in a road side quarrel caused by the homeless drunken poor and dirty people. The culprits were men who looked, dressed, and spoke like Manoj. It was planned or someone gave them money for this work, they can do anything for the sake of money .Since then, perhaps every working-class face triggered something defensive in her.
Maybe she didn't hate him.
Maybe she just saw danger in his poverty.
She was wrong. But her pain was real. And somehow, that made things worse.
Twenty days passed.
Then came a small offer: a local jewelry store in the outskirts needed a security guard. The pay was low—just about $110 a month—but it was a lifeline.
When Vinay found out, he was ecstatic. That evening, his wife, Meena, invited Manoj for dinner. He hesitated—pride held him back—but finally accepted.
Their apartment was tiny, but filled with warmth. Meena served roasted vegetables, buttered bread rolls, and hot soup in mismatched bowls. The food was simple, but every bite carried comfort.
Halfway through the meal, Meena teared up.
"People with money… they only care about themselves," she murmured.
Vinay leaned closer, but it was Manoj who reached across the table and touched her hand.
"Please, Meena Didi. Don't cry for me. I'm okay. I have to be."
Vinay grinned. "The past is a shadow. Let's focus on the sunrise."
That night, Manoj stayed over. In a small corner room on a thin mattress, wrapped in a borrowed blanket, he slept soundly—as if sorrow had finally loosened its grip.
The next day, he reported to work. No uniform. Just a black shirt, pressed trousers, and his quiet dignity.
The store had no seating for guards. Manoj stood the entire day, shifting weight from one foot to another. He didn't complain.
In the afternoon, the door chimed.
A sharply dressed woman walked in—Kiara's personal assistant. She was there to pick up a custom bridal set. Rumors had it, Kiara was engaged.
Their eyes met.
The assistant recognized him instantly. Manoj's breath caught.
If she tells Kiara I'm here… I'll lose everything. Again.
But as she turned to leave, she paused.
She looked back and said gently, "Don't worry. I won't say anything."
She hesitated.
"I've seen how you treat people. Always respectful. Maybe madam never noticed, but I did. I'm sorry."
Manoj lowered his head, not in shame, but in gratitude.
Sometimes, kindness from a stranger weighs more than justice from the world.
But fate wasn't done yet.
Manoj had survived storms. But another one was forming—just beyond the horizon.
And this time, it wasn't just his dignity at stake.
It was everything. A proper impulse of death to experience is on way .....