Chapter 3: One Dog, One Biscuit, and Two Lives
Sleep didn't break; it just 'expired'.
The sunlight streaming through the window was sharp, like someone shining a torch and asking—"When will you pay the rent?" Arin straightened his stiff back. His bones cracked—the background music of poverty.
Nainu was still asleep, his belly rising and falling slowly. Arin didn't wake him. Perhaps in his dreams, he was getting a full meal; disturbing him would be a sin.
Arin looked at himself in the broken mirror hanging on the wall.
"Today, no drama, no emotion. Today, just Grind."
He stepped out. The city air smelled of a mix of smoke and stale flowers.
As soon as he reached the shop, he was reminded of his status. The shopkeeper (the owner) was sprawled across his counter like a python resting after swallowing its prey. Without looking, he slammed a bag onto the counter. Thud!
"Goods worth five hundred. Biscuits, matches, soap," the owner said while chewing betel leaf, his voice possessing the metallic clink of iron. "I want the accounts by evening. If it's short, I'll skin you alive."
Arin picked up the bag. It was heavy. Heavier than expected.
"Cool. See you in the evening."
He didn't say thank you. It was an equal deal—his labor, the owner's goods. Arin slung the bag over his shoulder like a warrior slinging his sword.
(Narrator)
"Battles are not fought only on the field.
The greatest war is the one you fight
Between your self-respect and your hunger."
Level 1: The Taste of Rejection
Arin thought selling would be easy. You smile, people melt. Wrong.
First doorbell. A woman came out.
"Don't want anything, brother. Move on."
Door closed. Thuck! There was a final decision in that sound.
Second doorbell.
"Ruined my sleep early in the morning! Get lost."
Two hours later.
The sun was now directly overhead, burning like an executioner. Arin's T-shirt stuck to him with sweat, as if it had become a second skin. The weight of the bag was cutting into his shoulders, but the goods hadn't decreased by even a gram.
He stood leaning against a wall, panting.
(Arin's Mind)
"Damn, why does this world 'glitch' so much?
I came to help them, delivering goods to their homes,
And they act like I'm a virus.
Logic 404: Not Found."
Just then, while crossing the road—Zooommm!
A white sedan passed by like a gust of wind. Arin missed it by an inch. The screech of tires and the squeal of brakes numbed his ears.
The driver rolled down the window. A blast of cold AC air hit Arin's sweat-drenched face.
"You blind fool! Does the road belong to your father? If you want to die, go die somewhere else!"
The car sped off, leaving a cloud of dust on Arin's face.
Arin's heart was ready to break through his ribs. His hands were shaking. A curse was stuck in his throat, a very dirty curse.
But then, he stopped. He clenched his fist and slowly released it. He spat out the dust.
"Chill Arin, chill," he told himself, controlling his heartbeat. "These are all NPCs. Their code is written just like this—make noise and disappear. You are the Main Character. You play your game."
Suddenly, a light bulb went on in his mind. He saw a pattern.
People were shooing him away because they had 'options'. They were safe in their homes, they had time.
(Arin's Mind)
"A thirsty man knows the value of water,
Not the one living by the seashore.
I need to go where people have neither time nor options."
A map opened in his mind. A red dot blinked—The Railway Station.
The Hustle: The Crowd and The Rush
The atmosphere at the station was like a different planet. Here, the air smelled of diesel, rusting iron, and human sweat. People here weren't walking; they were running.
A train was crawling onto the platform, whistling. Chuk-chuk... chuk-chuk... Hissssss!
Arin dove into the crowd. Now he wasn't thinking, just reacting.
He went to a window where a man was looking out anxiously.
"Biscuits? Water? Snacks?"
The man didn't look at him, just looked at the packet.
"Give it quickly!" He threw a 20 rupee note and snatched the 10 rupee packet.
The train started moving. Arin had a 20 rupee note in his hand. No argument, no fuss.
"Oh..." Arin looked at the note. "So this is the real gameplay."
Nearby, an old vendor, whose face was caked with station soot, laughed. His teeth were red from betel leaf.
"Son," he adjusted his basket, "Here, the clock's needle is God. For someone missing their train, a 10 rupee thing is cheap even at 50."
Arin looked at the old man and understood a profound truth.
(Arin's Mind)
"Value is not in the object,
Value lies in 'Need' and 'Timing'.
A drop of water at the right time,
Is more precious than an ocean found at the wrong time."
Profit: The First Morsel of Victory
Evening was falling. The yellow lights of the station had turned on. The bag was empty; only air remained in it.
Arin sat in a corner, head bowed between his knees, counting the money. The notes were dirty, crumpled, but to Arin, they looked like the most beautiful paper in the world.
500... 550... 570!
70 rupees. This wasn't just profit. This was his 'Score'. This was proof that he wasn't useless.
On his way back, he stopped at a dairy.
"Brother, one milk and one bread."
While paying, he felt the remaining 40 rupees in his pocket with his fingers. That jingling of coins... it was no less than music. He saw his reflection in the mirror of a bike parked on the roadside and winked.
"Not bad, Hero. Not bad."
As soon as he reached the hut, Nainu came stumbling towards him, wagging his tail. Arin didn't pick him up; instead, he sat on the ground to be at his level.
He broke the bread, dipped it in milk, and placed it before Nainu.
"Eat up, brother," Arin put a dry piece in his own mouth too. The bread was dry, but he could taste 'victory'.
"Listen to today's tutorial: If the world says 'No', don't change your product, change your 'Location'."
Nainu looked up while drinking milk, milk smeared on his whiskers. Arin laughed. In that laughter, the fatigue vanished.
He looked at the sky visible through the torn tin roof. A star was shining.
"Life is tough, I admit. But I am not a 'Trial Version' either. I am here to play the full game."
Time Skip: Level Up
Days turned into weeks, weeks into months.
Arin had now become the 'Pro-Player' of that station. His skin had become slightly tanned and tough from the sun, and a sharp glint had appeared in his eyes.
He knew everything—which train would arrive on which platform, when the policeman's shift changed, and on which passenger's face 'hunger' was written. He flowed through the crowd like water—without colliding, without stopping.
One day, a new boy stood there, nervous, his goods not selling. Arin went to him, placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Don't take too much load, brother," Arin said in his signature calm voice.
"If the goods didn't sell today, consider that the market is on 'Maintenance Break' today. Server is down. We'll log in again tomorrow."
The boy smiled. Arin picked up his empty basket and looked towards the track where a new train was arriving.
Arin had now learned one of the most important lessons:
"To be rich, it is necessary to have money in the pocket,
But to be a King, you just need to have your 'Vibe' under control."